A Boy and His Bone

A lifetime of work seems to matter little in the last few moments of destiny. At least that's what father would say; perhaps not. Thirteen years I waited, waited for this very moment when I would fulfill his prophecy.

The hinges nearly burs as bodies fling against the wooden portal. Memories resurrect from my youth: a scrap of paper with tight letter scribbled on its surface, writing and re-writing those words, the prophecy and the spell etched so far into my mind that it's no more separate from me than my flesh and spirit.

I stoke the flames. The molten liquid's ready.

"Flamma ad vitrum vitrum ad ossa," the words are surreal, painting the room in hyper-colors. I pour the liquid over the worn desk that's surrounded by jettisoned papers. Before the liquid glass hit the surface it's caught by an invisible force. It folds into the length of a radius and ulna, stretching down into joints and carpals. The glass arm takes form in moments and descends onto the tables surface.

The din of voices fade. Feeling was drains from my body. I watch as the mottled lump of flesh that caps my arm where my elbow should be thuds next to the crystalline skeleton. It lines up autonomously.

Mother's voice cut through the muted noise. What's she was saying? Never mind, she burned the scrap, she does't believe in me.
In a whirl of motion the door burst from its hinges. A pop sounds as the glass bone sinks into my flesh and fire pours through my marrow. My eyes widen as clear glowing flesh form around the bones.

In a flash bright light consumes everything.

Rubble shifts. A single clear finger peeks through.

The thing about prophecy is, you never know exactly how it turns out.