Grace Monroe paradoxically shuns artifice, despite wearing a mask of her own. Nine years ago, she stepped off the face of the Earth, and she hasn't looked back since. While Grace never chose a life on the Train, she revels in her quest to rescue chi...
TURNING skyward, Grace's wishing-well eyes became a vessel for the stars. A mere vanilla slice of moon hung overhead, juxtaposed against the chalkboard ubique of space. Grace's father had a telescope; he could see farther than this. Grace had only eyes—dark brown and star-studded, but an unbroken, reflective gaze was all the sprawling Universe asked of her: that ever-encompassing god who existed just to be observed by the many denizens of its embrace. Unlike the ocean—a terrestrial, aggressive force, who fed us our breath as we poisoned its flesh—the Universe was so quiet. Pristine. Grace could not always hear the rolling turquoise tide, but the only thing that could obscure the heavens from her was the Earthly inconvenience of a ceiling; umbrella; or some other trivial distraction. And this was just as well, for she feared looking away—not for what she'd miss if she did (the occasional shooting star was honestly no spectacle to Grace) but rather the ensuing disappointment which the Universe would shower upon her. That which those taller people in her life—strict dance instructors; juliemollyjacobsusan; and Mother—never failed to administer at her slightest error, disobeyal, imperfection. But Grace knew the Universe was pure, and she felt no strain in her smallness this time, as if the sky were a mirror—as if it were herself whom she afforded this copious and unbroken respect (stargazing as self-projection).
Grace discovered this and looked away. And since that brief and reflexive betrayal, she'd never stopped seeking the sky's forgiveness.
Hers was a house of ceilings, but her bed was not unlike the trampolines in the Gymnastics Room she went to on Tuesdays. That too was a place that made her feel small, but she recognized its restrictions. When first walking into the Room, it seemed shallow-ceilinged [confined] and trophies from other people lined the walls (mocking her), but upon stepping into the fluorescent maw, Grace discovered a stifling distance between herself and the structure (artificially infinitesimal). She was intimidated by the prevalence of white, and the way it juxtaposed against the gaudily colorful every-shaped cushions which shone the light back in her eyes as a synthetic sheen, but didn't bother the so-many-eyes of the cartoon characters looking down at her, on the fuzzy blue floor, from above. She jumped very high on the trampoline, as if attempting to meet their level. Her favorite part was the bars, when she'd turn upside-down and they'd be underneath her for once.
As I was saying, Grace practiced temporal aviation on her bed, but she didn't reach nearly as high, nor were there eyes to impel this incessant propulsion. She even turned herself upside-down, once, on her silky pillows, but got lost in fantasizing about what it would be like to walk on the ceiling. Grace tried this method again at ballet class, when she was bored and the instructor was late. Holding onto the bars which ran the length of the wall, she leaned backward diagonally and then turned her face "up." What she didn't account for was the mirror behind her, and something went terribly wrong when she saw her visage on the opposing side of the room. An out-of-body experience. She lost her balance / fell into the sky.
Grace Monroe forgot the Universe; ceilings and eyes became her new starscape. And yet her dark irises had retained those celestial sparks; it was in them she sought fleeting comfort—a glance into Infinity in the face of a mirror. She didn't recall the origins of this obsession, that night under Everything: lost in the film grain and VHS noise that corrodes us all as we grow. But what she did know: the mirror was her friend; her reflection, someone who loved Grace for herself, imperfections and all. This took time to realize, however, because for so long, the mirror's face resembled her Mother in certain respects (not the eyes, not the eyes; Grace had her father's telescope-worn eyes). Then a Train came along, and stole Grace away from her own reflection. And in its absence, that part of her closest to the sky took on Grace's likeness: long dark straight hair, cut short by her own hand, turned into locs over time, and the next time she looked in the mirror, her wishing-well eyes overflowed with love long overdue.
It was for this reason that Grace kept on her person a mirror at all times—a fragment of affirmation to carry always. That she existed / that these eyes loved her. Because in this volatile new world, there were no stars: only crimson clouds, bloodred sky. And those stars she did see on occasion failed to rival the ones which twinkled in her irises, for they were artificial, like all things in this hellscape. All things except the passengers, of course, who hadn't asked for this any more than she had; those whom she sought out to show them the potential of this place: a chance at individuality, at freedom. At power. She found this in the digits of her palm/wrist/arm. Those which climbed higher than she ever could jump on the Gymnastic Room's trampoline. Grace set her sights on symbolic ascent, and this was just as well, for if she ever pondered what lie behind that vermillion projection of a sky, she may discover the harrowing truth: that the Train was in fact underneath an Ocean, a terrestrial, aggressive force.
Mayhaps not terrestrial (nor an ocean) in the sense you'd presume, for you see, this was a different, distant planet from our own, whose people weren't much unlike us, for they made our mistakes, and set flame to the air (or so One would have you believe...)
Indeed, the depths of Replicator's Tide, as you shall come to call this place, harbored more than an infinite Train, and a girl named Grace Monroe. Lest you forget that the ocean turns too, and it—like us—is a creature, breathing/grieving/poisoning.
It pulls us all in, the Train, but what do you reckon it's hiding us from? The Tide of mechanical wrath is a likely contender, but it could just as well be the Stars...
For this was a planet of ceilings, and mayhaps if the abyssal creatures on the Ocean's floor were to traverse the shallower [DEADLY] waters unscathed, they'd discover the depths of Space are not so different from the place they left behind, and that they are not unlike the stars, for their bioluminescent bodies echo the light of so many Suns.
But, as there is no fisherman on the moon who may hope to reel us into enlightenment, we ought to rely upon alternate interference: a starlet ambassador, perhaps, could descend into the sea—extinguish into a modest, familiar form—and meet the bioluminescers where they are.
As surely as this planet turns, Grace Monroe will remember the sky.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
