I'm trying out a new format for the next few weeks, where I share a prompt, and then the following week share a piece of flash fiction inspired by said prompt. I'll also be sharing any submissions that you've sent me for the week!

Learn more about the process here.

Read what others have written in response to I think I left the iron on:

• I think I left the iron on — giacomo catanzaro

• I think I left the iron on — @mrb1618

Next week's prompt: destination wedding

Slag

She parts her waters and embraces the hordes of unruly and bloodlusting bodies like new loves, tender, tentative, and sweet, as she carries them off to war. She once held me in much the same way, speaking in the smooth rhythms of love as I dipped my oars beneath her surface, my head bowed, my back strained against the forces of her desire. But no longer. This bear body has gone grizzled and soft, its faded strength folded beneath a papery veneer of skin. The spring settles on my shoulders as I return to the furnace and the forge.

The sea, she's beautiful, she is. I spy her between the curls of steam and smoke from my smithy, every stolen glance shattering this battered beating heart of mine. I temper my longing with the steady metallic clank of hammer hitting steel. I drown my ardor in the hissing and churling of hot metal thrust into buckets of stolen seawater. It is all for naught. The sea she swirls and sings and tempts this heart of mine. I would forgo Valhöll to die wrapped in her mercurial waves. 

The sun creaks over the horizon as I bend low upon the meadow, plucking flowers from the dew. I fill my arms with a bouquet of ochre, lilac, and lace as I make my way to her shores. Gulps of the cool morning air buoy my heart with hope. Surely now the sea, the sea she will see me.

Striding towards the shore, I scatter the wood anemone, the saxifrage, the buttercups and globeflower across the glassy green-gray of her morning veil. The blossoms float and bob across the surface, their tapestry a testament to my love. But the sea, the sea she laughs at me. One by one the blossoms, fragrant and frail just moments ago, return to me, crumpled and torn as they wash upon the shore. Spurned, I return to work.

Day after day I separate the slag from steel, contemplating my shame. Head bent low, I beat the hammer against the anvil, sending my sad refrain out into the sky, a hopeful apology. She responds with her waves, licking the shore in an incessant laughter that follows me to my dreams. I lay in bed and berate myself. How foolish I have been! She is the sea! The creator of storms and the claimer of men! My gift of flowers was nothing more than a juvenile demonstration of my own unworthiness.

I wake with renewed purpose and know what I must gift her. By noon I am waist-deep in her salted waters, the swirling seaweed a comforting caress across my thighs. The sea, the sea she is curious. Her gentle undulations lap at my sides, pulling me deeper towards her before she pushes me away, blushing and proud. I hear her gasp as I unsheath my blade, and I feel her anticipation as I carve my runic love for her into my chest. The blood beads and gathers in a moment of hesitation before spilling into the sea.

And then the sea, the sea she licks the blood from my body. I am sated, and close my eyes as she reclaims me for her own. In my bliss I do not notice that my blood has gone sour on her tongue. I do not notice the tempest that has stirred. Raising her waves into a frothy rage, the sea, the sea she screams at me. I bleed for her, and she does not care. She throws me down and recoils with the promise of violence, allowing me a brief moment to clamber to the shore.

That night I drink. I drink and I drink until I cannot see. Through the flames of the cooking fire the old bear skin of my berserker days taunts me with its crooked grin, its maw grown ragged from decades of disuse. But it is a reminder that once I was fierce, that once I commanded legions of men, that I have prevailed in more battles than there are years that I have lived. I will tame this sea! I will make her see me!

Naked but for the bear skin I stumble beneath the moon. The pelt slaps against my back in tired ragged strips. The bear's head sits atop mine, askew and ridiculous. The rage shooting through my veins propels me forward. I stomp into her vicious waters and do not stop until I am up to my neck and threatening to go under. Roaring and screaming I slap the waves with my fists. I rail and I rage and I demand that she love me as she hits me with wall after wall of water, drowning my exhortations. Snot streams down my face as I throw myself at her surface, only to be tumbled and toyed with and spit back up. She casts me out on the shore, a broken plaything. I pull my legs to my chest, sobbing, and ask the moon where I went wrong.

They find me like this, curled in the seaweed on a bed of stones, half-dead at low tide. The sea, the sea is as far away as she can be, whispering "I had nothing to do with this."

They bring me back. They push broth and ale down my throat, and when they think I am ready they hand me my tools and remind me of who I used to be. Not the warrior. Not the leader of men. But the blacksmith. "You are helpful," "You are kind," their eyes say to me as they nudge me back to work. There is no joy. I move slowly now, as if every limb were weighted down. The days pass in a watery haze for the sea, the sea she has rejected me.

It starts small, a tiny flicker of hope. An idea. A possibility. I ignore it until I cannot, and then it consumes me. I forget the swords and the nails and the work for the village and instead set myself to this final act of devotion. If she will not choose me willingly then I will force myself upon her. In this manic state I hammer and smelt and shape and seethe and then in the damp chill of an autumn morning I am ready.

I leave the iron on, the slag and bloom left to blossom and boil as I make my way to shore. The weight of my creation weighs heavy in my arms; my love keeps me light. I stop where her lines of froth have left a delicate line of white along the sands and stare at her immense beauty. There is no point to rushing, not anymore, for we will have forever soon. I want to taste this moment, to slide it across my tongue and savor it before I swallow.

Reaching down I gently place the manacles first around one ankle, and then the other. The soft clink as each one locks around my ankles sends a delicious shiver through my soul. I slide the iron belt around my waist, its cool surface sending radials of gooseflesh down my arms and legs as I close the clasp over the metal loop protruding from just below my navel. Through that metal loop I draw up a chain, secured to the one between the manacles at my feet. To the end of this chain I attach a block of iron, heavy enough to bind me to her sandy floor.

She stretches out before me, a cool, impassive blue. Clear-eyed and grinning, I wade into her waters, clutching the iron to my chest. My heart thrums with possibility. The waters rise with every step. A lifetime of ecstasy passes through me as the water climbs to my waist. I push aside the urge to lay down and surrender to her. The water inches ever higher until it is at my shoulders. The scars where I have bled for her, sharp lines of alabaster beneath the water. I am out far enough now to drink her in, to take her fully into my mouth. She cannot reject me now.

Beneath her surface I can no longer breathe.

And the sea, the sea she smiles, she smiles at me.