A Collection of Short Stories

The Heart is Beating; The Life is Gone

I'm falling. I'm reaching out. They reach out for me, eyes wide, full of panic, fear. But I'm not falling down. I'm falling up, reaching down to them, screaming. My tears of terror roll up my face, some getting caught in my hair, but the rest falling up with me. The general public ignores us, not even giving us a single look, walking past, jogging, driving away, never stopping to investigate. I grip my chest with one hand, feeling it try to beat its way out of my chest, and join those who I care the most about. I tumble in the air, and let out a scream of pain that erupts from my chest, and blossoms out into the air in the form of a voice.

They are dots in the distance. I've stopped screaming, but taken to sobbing. I'm leaving them behind, and they are unable to follow. I am alone up here, among the puffy clouds that threaten rain, the frigid air that bites my skin, and tears. I clutch my hair in both hands, tugging that the black-bottle hair, and fading blue. This wasn't supposed to be like this; flying. I was supposed to fly, with them, not fall into oblivion without them. This isn't right. Why isn't this going right? This wasn't supposed to happen.

The world is in view, the large, blue bodies of water holding the masses of land, lights visible, scars blatant. My eyes widen. I've gone silent-everything has gone silent. What have we done to our world, our home, our only home? Even now, I should know that the air surrounding the blue and green should be clearer, cleaner. Why can't we fix it? Why aren't we fixing it?

The moon now leaves me breathless. Its surface rocky, and dusted with grey, and white sandy particles. I want to run my fingers through them, feel the cool, and coarse texture that will leave my skin feeling like I've just touched chalk. I bring my knees to my chest, watching it calmly, eyes still red and puffy, head still pounding.

The arm of our Milky Way makes me feel empty. We are so, so small. There are so many bright specks of light, signifying another star, another sun to another planet elsewhere. We feel so important, like we were meant to be, and only us. We haven't even scratched the surface of how small we are, and how much vast space we've yet to explore. Humble. We need to be humbled.

Light shines so brightly, I have to cover my eyes. It comes from the very center of the Milky Way, and I can just barely make out the vast, swirling bodies of stretches stars and planets as they spin around the large, invisible black hole that brings our Milky Way in, and eats at it. How strange, that our preserver will also be our ultimate end. End. Is there ever really an end? Or is there a spot where things just stop for a moment, suspended in nonexistent time?

I've closed my eyes. I don't want to see the small speck of light that signifies home, and the home that creates our home. I don't want to see the other specks of light that represent other homes for other beings. I don't want to see. I don't want to know. I don't want to remember those I've left behind, whether by choice, or otherwise. Everything is so dark, and the only sound comes from my slow beating heart, echoing in the eternal blackness of space. I place a hand to my heart, curling my body, as if to preserve it. I don't want to lose the one thing that keeps me tied with home, with the grass, ocean, sky, sun, animals, and everything else that makes me feel alive. Because out here

I am nothing