Written By: Christina Irvin

The meeting of sun and ocean. It was a simple phenomenon, deceptively so. The boat rocked beneath my feet as I watched, testing my balance, and it left me nauseous. The bright orb sank lower and lower, setting the sky aflame. Oranges, reds, swathes of pink; the sight was beautiful. The waves, they sparkled, and, at this, I let out my sigh.

My love laughed. “It's only a sunset,” he said from his urn. 

Clasping the ghost tightly to my breast, I knew what would’ve followed, had he been here, “You've seen one sunset, Althena, you've seen them all,” he’d have said. I laughed, as if he had. I sniffled. I wiped stray tears from my cheeks; a harsh breeze had already snatched most of them away, adding their salt to the mist that surrounded this disembodied voice and I. A deep purple then appeared, separating day from night, and I shook my head. 

“Only, only, only,” I replied—or, I wished I could’ve. Yes, this was only a sunset; this was only a reliable flow from dawn to twilight. Come morning, twilight would become dawn—only dawn. “And, the sun?” I said to the ghost. “That was only a simple star, just as the planet had simply rotated. The dance had only been played for eons, long before words were created to paint this scene…” The sarcasm, the teasing, the love—this was once our language, and he’d have understood; yet, I sobbed. The sound was pitiful, and the words on the urn were simple. Too simple. Too plain. Too nondescript. Tracing the inscription, I could see the template they had used:

John Doe

Born: 01-01-2000

Died: 01-01-2000

It was likely called: “The Industry Standard.” 

On some level, the idea hurt. “He was a person!” I wanted to say. “He was loved! He deserved much more than the ‘standard!’” The voice in my mind was loud and proud, the indignation proper, and, gripping the top, my fingers trembled. I was tempted to take him home, to keep him. “And, I could,” I thought, “I could just turn around and pack him back up. Into the luggage he would go, and onto the fireplace, and then, I wouldn’t have to give him up.“ With this last thought, a gust sent my hair flying. It felt like him, like his touch, like he had just placed a kiss upon my forehead: one last kiss, and said, “It’s only dirt.”

I disagreed, but I kept my silence. This was what he had wanted, and so, clenching my jaw, I endeavored to stay steadfast in my assigned mission. The wind was in a lull. And, clutching onto the baluster, I heard the top fall to the deck with a heavy clatter. The waves below were calm. And, tossing his ashes overboard, I battered down the instinct to follow after him. 

The breeze was faint, and, for a moment, he just swirled, floating on the air. Then, drifting downwards, down into the ocean, he landed on brassy-orange clumps of seaweed. The depths below—below him, below me, below us—they were dark, unexplored. And, as he sank to the bottom, he was swallowed whole. Watching this, I was reminded of its vastness. “Less is known of the ocean than the stars,” they say. Who were they? There’s no telling, I think. And, was it true? I wasn’t one to say. I knew that. But, right then, I’d have believed it. Standing mere feet above the ocean, the idea should have frightened me. But I wasn’t—not at the time—because, while contemplating the below, the above had grown lighter, slowly; degree, by tiny degree. 

“Breathe,” I said aloud with a faint stirring in my chest. “Just breathe.” Inwardly, however, I was far less calm. The world has crashed, I thought—my world, that world, it was crashing. Now, right now. Right before my very eyes. Tiny, secret worlds, I knew, they tended to do just that. Every day, they collapsed. Still, I talked to myself. The sky brightened, and I just repeated myself, “Breathe. Just breathe,” I said. It turned golden, the heavens flaring to life before me, and somehow I still spoke. “In, out,“ I managed to say, “out, in,” I repeated. Squinting against the light, a horrid shriek then rang out.

Serenaded by these peculiar notes, I covered my ears. They were seemingly sung from everywhere, yet nowhere. They reached a high note, and the bulbs flickered around me. The glass shattered. The power failed. The hum of the engine faded. Still, I didn’t see the end. Couldn’t. Not yet. My loss was so fresh; my mind was so close to completing its journey. “The sun must’ve decided to unset itself!” it now said to me. Burnt-red tendrils filled the sky, and it shouted, “Just for me!” The tendrils unraveled upon themselves, and crisscrossing, they then captured the world—just scooped it up, as if it were nothing but a butterfly—but still, my eyes lied, and, for the briefest of moments, the universe had possessed sympathy.

* * * * *

Hunkering down and huddling together, we passed the night in dread. There were shadows and—with every eye, ear, and mind straining against the silence—our collective willpower kept them away. 

Then, dawn rose, and the arguments began: “Decisions!” and “Plans!” and “Actions!” Day one: our disagreements filled the room. 

Day three: the food spoiled. And, as tension grew, forgotten pantries were searched. 

Day five: the water soured. The halls weren’t just dark, but filled with hospital smells. 

Day eight: our spirits had fallen, and so, we raided the liquor cabinets.

Day ten: land was spotted, and we set boats adrift. Those, however, were snatched up in a whirlwind. We learned then that the tendrils were floating above us, just out of eyesight, surveying us at all times. 

“To what ends?” I had asked. 

“Armageddon!” one person had replied. 

“No, no,” the second said, conspiracies compounded upon, “This is weather control!… Those are skin-walkers!” 

Within the suspicions, I had sequestered myself. For this, somebody had called me a coward. And, in this way, I suppose I am a coward. But, for how many days have I been cowardly? When did I become so afraid? At which hour, which minute, which second? What was the date? The month. The year? Time, I have discovered, trapped in this room, is a desolate wanderer. And, just like this prison, she goes on an unseeable distance. 

Time, she floats, and, at the thought, people have jumped. The splashes they made were soft. I prefer that, however, I think, to the screams. The cries are hoarse as they echo. The scenes they left behind were bloody. Once, long ago, others had inspected them with me, but now—on whichever day it is—I’m alone now.

Everywhere. Every deck. Every room. Every inch is empty. Yet, from the corners of my eyes, creatures chitter everywhere I walk. I turn at the sound. Yet, I find nobody. I know they’re here, however, whoever they are. I’ve heard them. Every night, they’ve dragged their nails across my door. The doorknob has jiggled at all hours. So, I know they’re here, somewhere; playing with me, and calling my name. 

“Forget the past, and embrace the future,” they say. 

Tonight, there is a full moon, and the wind that beckons is fresh, and they sound like my love. I sighed aloud, just as I talked aloud, and I laughed wildly.

“What future?” I asked him. “The world is gone, and, in the ashes, my story has ended.” I walked through narrow passages as I asked him this question. It was dizzying to my senses. The boat creaked and groaned. The staircases were moist, and spiralling upwards, I found the sky. 

My senses cleansed by a sharp breeze, I twirled. I looked to the constellations, and I wished they were my maps; just as I wished my story was written in a different time, so that these stars were my maps. Were it, these dark waves would’ve crashed against wood, not lifeless metal. These horizons would’ve held mysteries. Men would’ve bent over tables, squabbling amid jewels and pearls and cursed doubloons.

“Your world isn’t gone,” said my love, “not yet.” 

The wind had carried the sound, and following his voice, I turned around—twirling as I had to see the stars—and found him behind me, aglow in otherworldly light. 

His complexion was gray: the color gifted by the sea. Knobby joints, slick flesh, rubbery texture, nails darkened and filed to sharp points; he is just like any other creature from those deepest depths.

His body was altered—irreversibly so. Left sexless, his ears had been removed. The head they had once adorned was now elongated and oddly shaped. I mourned their loss; I mourned him. His nose was flattened, and still, I embraced him. It had once given him a distinguished look. 

Now, it was just gone—he was just gone. 

Gone, gone, gone…

Taken. 

Replaced. 

There were just two little holes left for him to take in air. The change was cruel. Somebody had stolen the man he once was, and what was left was gruesome. I should’ve shied away, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought, and so, I was pulled close to him. 

Dark, glimmering pits filled the space where his eyes ought to have been, and the only thing I could do was stare into them. Silently, I longed for comfort with the chaos; I longed for him. His gaze met mine then, and far-flung nebulas filled his irises. I was left blinded. There were moons, and planets, and stars—and there was nothing else I needed to see. 

Past? Present? Future? Forgotten. I was no longer lost, and tears filled my eyes. These—my tears—my love wiped these away. Clutching onto him, his grip tightened until drops of blood trickled down my arms. They left puddles at my feet, and I was shushed. Just as he had once sunk to the bottom: I sunk. Just as he was swallowed by the ocean: I was swallowed. Water rushed in. “Your story has just begun,” he said—he promised —and, wrapped in his arms, I stand within the void, and I know his words are true. 

Wife. Mother. Contributing member of society.Christina Irvin is a pen name, and she enjoys creating worlds all her own.

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