————
—— -10 000, Karaisi——
We sit around the campfire, on the warm, dry grass and dirt of the prairie. The night is dark all around us. And the campfire casts a warm orange glow on all of our faces. Everyone looks like they are coloured with the dye of the filli flower. And everyone looks up at the pristine glory all around us.
All around us, there are millions of stars, magnificent against the black-blue of the night sky. They tell stories, each of them, and they are filled with spirit, filled with secrets, filled with a wonder that they instil on whoever gazes upon them. The stars belong to no-one, they have never belonged to anyone, and they will never belong to anyone. And yet they are the stalwart stewards of the nighttime, shifting in ever-true patterns and teaching us the mysteries hidden deep within our souls, within their souls, within all of our collective souls.
And, as the guardian of all guardians, as one of the two Sky Mothers, the moon casts her calming serenity and mystical brightness over the whole land, coating the grasses and shrubs with the faintest traces of silvery light. The moon is a promise for our people. A promise that we will always feel the wonder of all the lands deep within our souls. A promise that we will always see the secret spiritual energies that connect us to the people, the lands, the fire, the water, the sky.
There is something deeply tragic about this scene. But I don’t know what it is.
“So the great bear joined the bilbil bird singing their song,” grandmother Mathasa continues, gazing at all of us, gazing at the sky, gazing at all of us gazing at the sky. “The great bear told the bilbil how the first man had conducted a great disrespect against her, and that he had killed her cub in order to make a second coat, one that he didn’t need.
“The bilbil then added the story of the great bear to their song. And the whistling tune carried out into the night.
“The scuttling crab found the bilbil, and he told them of the injustice he had suffered at the hands of the first man. The first man had stepped upon his brother, for no other sin than daring to get too close to the first man.
“The bilbil sang of this story in their song as well, along with the stories of all the other animals that they had heard. And it carried out across the night.
“And so it was that one by one, all the animals came to the bilbil and told the bird of their complaints against the first man. And the bilbil sang of them.
“But the first man could not hear the bilbil’s song, for he was too far away, trekking through the wild lands, taking all he could, leaving chaos and destruction in his wake. The animals travelled long and far but they could not find the first man. They could only find the remains of the destruction he caused.
“One night, the Moon Mother saw what was going on, and saw the animals trying to track down the first man. And she saw how the animals could not have their voices heard. So the Moon Mother invited them to come to her, so that they could sing from the moon and their voice would be heard.
“All the birds carried the fish and land animals through the sky to the moon, and the fish brought their magic water with them so that they could be sustained. From there, the bilbil began singing.
“The first man heard the bilbil’s song and he understood the plight of all the animals. He saw the injustice of what he had been doing and saw all those that he harmed. And he repented, and promised that from then on he would never be greedy, and he would never take more than he absolutely needed. He promised that he would never be prideful, and think himself above the other inhabitants of the world. And he would respect all that was around him from then on.
“The Moon Mother saw his change of heart and decided that it was time for humanity to take its place in the world, for the first man was now ready to be a good father and husband, and to honour his family and the greater family of the world.
“The Moon Mother bid the first woman to rise from the ocean where she had been hiding, from where she had been watching with revulsion all that the first man had done. The Moon Mother asked the first man and the first woman if they would like to start a family together. And they said that yes, they were ready to start a family together.
“And they had children. Boy children and girl children and children who were in between and children who were both and children who were neither. And their children had children. And their children had children. And eventually, all of us were born, and we inherited this vast and unending world so that we might take care of each and every part of it, so that we might live in harmony with it.”
There is hushed cheering all around me as the story is finished. The children beg grandmother Mathasa for another one, and she obliges, for she can never turn down the sweet young ones.
————
—— -5 000 Macia——
I am exhausted, my bones are exhausted, my flesh is exhausted, my heart is exhausted, my soul is exhausted. It’s been a long day in the fields, and I am worn from all the work. My baby sleeps in her lisan, wrapped in warm furs, next to my breast. Thank the gods that she is sleeping now, for it is a lot of trouble working in the fields with a fitful, wakeful baby.
The sun is setting over the horizon as I reach my hut. My two children rush out the door in order to greet me. Kalil, who is six summers old, and Malika, who is three summers old.
“Mommy! Mommy! I waited so long for you to come!” Malika exclaims.
“I’ve waited a long time to come as well,” I tell them, the sky a burning shade of orange.
“Why did you take so long?” Kalil asks me.
“There were so many weeds, young ones. They were just growing everywhere.”
“Did you get all of them?” Malika asks.
“No, not even close, but I did what I could.”
“Yeah,” Kalil echoes, “you did what you could.”
“Is daddy back yet?” I query the children.
“No,” they both reply sadly.
“Were you guys with Mama?” I ask.
“We were!” Kalil announces.
“She came home before the sun was all orange,” Malika explains.
“Oh good.”
I go into my hut and set my baby down, and I give my wife, Amali, a kiss on the lips as I meet her.
“Long day?” she questions.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
“I figured.”
“The kids want to go to the village circle.”
“That sounds lovely. We should wait for Kailon to come back though.”
“We should.”
“Let’s go watch the sunset,” Malika suggests.
“Sounds wonderful!”
We go outside and gaze up at the sky. It’s magnificent, the bright fire that turns everything into brilliant raging. There is something liminal about the sunset. Something subversive. It brings in a new time, a time when everything can be questioned and nothing is for certain. A time of secrecy, mystery, and protection.
And the moon, lighting the nighttime sky with her soft glow, that moon is the steward of the night time, the time when we can be at rest, the time when we can be together, the time when we can share and keep each other’s secrets.
Our husband, Kailon, comes just as the sun slips past the horizon, and he hugs the kids and ruffles their hair, and I embrace him in the twilight.
“Sorry for being so late, Jailen fell off a tree and broke his arm.”
“Oh no. How?” Amali’s eyes are wide with worry.
“He was all the way out in the thin branches, trying to get fruit. We told him he shouldn’t go out so far, but he didn’t listen. The branch fell with him on it.”
“That’s horrible,” I reply, “will he be alright?”
“I think so, we got him to the healer as fast as we could.”
“Good for you guys,” Amali comments. “Anyways, the kids want to go to the village circle.”
“Let’s go then, we’re all together.”
In the village circle, there are lots of other families. The kids go running to the other children and I follow after them, since Kailon has the baby.
“Hi, Aunt Macia, how are you?” Maki asks me.
“Better now that I see you. How are you doing?”
“I’m alright.”
“Were you in the fields today?”
“I was. Not fun.”
“I’m sorry. Well at least you get to play now.”
“Aunt Macia, run!” Akala calls to me, “the monster’s coming to get us!”
“Oh no! I’ll hide myself with leaves.” I make a show of putting leaves on myself.
The moon is high in the sky, watching over all of us, coating all of us in its soft silvery glow.
“We should have a sing-along!” A young voice suggests. There is agreement all around and I find myself voting for what song to sing.
“We should sing about the Moon Maiden,” a child suggests.
This eventually gets the most vote, though I don’t vote for it, but it’s a lovely song anyways.
“Forever watches over all the lands with secret eyes.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ14fOcoWfww
Forever turning lies to truth and turning truth to lies.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ5diOVQq2V
Forever hiding all the whispers that we whisper whisper to her.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8F5NnOnThQ
Forever turning lies to truth and turning truth to lies.”
There is something deeply melancholy about the song, but something deeply strengthening as well.
————
—— -2500, Jano——
I apply war paint to Aly’s face, my careful fingers moving in patterns to break up her form, to make her blend into the dark black of the night. Across from me Alai and Kona are practicing their forms, spears flying around deftly in their hands. The tension is tangible in the air. I’m terrified. We’re all terrified.
“We’ll send those Calon invaders back in pieces.” Yoma’s voice is dark and determined and as hard as an iron sword.
“We have to,” Ami replies, something defeated in their tone, something deeply concerned.
“We will,” Heman tells them, tells us all. “We have to.”
“Not to mention,” Joni starts, “we have the forest on our side. The forest fights with us. The lands fight alongside us.”
“And the nighttime all around us. And the darkness. And the sky.” Yoma’s words are awed, are confident. I look up to see the stars all around us, the stars that we emulate in our war paint, since there are no clouds this night. I look up to see the faint sliver of the new moon, a crack of light from the heavens.
“We have to fight. For our people. For our forest. For our freedom. This ambush has to go well.” My words are tinged with adoration.
“If Mosa’s plan goes well,” Cali begins, “then we should have the invaders out of our lands before the end of the summer. If the plan goes well. It has to go well.”
“It will go well,” Aly reassures, “as long as we fight with all that we have. We have to fight with all that we have.”
“And we have to be ready to die,” Johan adds. “We love our people. We love our children. We love all our descendants who will come after us, who will deserve to live free, and we have to be ready to sacrifice anything and everything for them.”
“But we have to be ready to kill as well,” Lysa pipes up, voice like a sharp sword glinting in the sunlight.
“We will,” I proclaim. “We’ll make them pay for every tree that they cut down, every child that they stole, every bit that they extorted from us.”
There is cheering all around me, quiet in the nighttime. We keep ourselves hushed, so that the Calons don’t hear us, although the travelling army is yet rather far away.
“They will pay,” Aly declares. There is yet more cheering as we apply our war paint. At this point I can barely see any of my friends. They blend so perfectly into the shadows, as if they are the night itself. The Calon soldiers will never see us coming. They might have their armour, their shields, their perfectly-practiced formations. But we have the night and we have the forest.
“We need to pray to the moon now,” Yoma’s states, “it’s time for war.”
We all gather together and whisper the hushed words of the warrior’s prayer. For it is important that we give our respect to the moon. For the moon takes all the dead. It takes them up to its bright lands, so that our spirits may shine across the sky each night, watching over our descendants and giving hope to the people.
We are warriors. We will die. We are expected to die. And we have to pay our respects to the place who will welcome us when we die, and to the ancestors across generations and generations who will welcome us as well, who watch over us now, who will watch over us as we battle, ensuring that we can kill as many of the enemies as we can, and that we do not suffer more losses than we have to.
“Holder of the ancestors,” we speak, “please accept our sacrifice of our lives for our descendants. Please welcome us when we become ancestors, so that we may watch over our descendants. Please guard our battles and guide our hands, and thank you for guarding us and guiding us for all of these infinite years. Thank you for sheltering and protecting our souls when we come to you for our final rest.”
“Ancestors,” we continue, “thank you for all your efforts and your sacrifices to make our lives better. Thank you for all that you did in the past in order to safeguard our present. And thank you for all you continue to do to safeguard the future. Thank you for guarding us with your spirits and thank you for watching over us every night from your place of eternal peace. May we honour you with our sacrifice, and may we fight with all of your strength. May we pass into your realm with grace and with bravery.”
We walk through the shadowed forest, lit by the faint sliver of the silver moon. Though the forest is dark, we still know it like the back of our hands. This is the forest that we grew up in. This is the forest that we spent our whole lives in. This is the forest that our ancestors spent their whole lives in, and their ancestors before that, and their ancestors before that, all the way throughout eternity. Of course we know it in the dark.
And thank the gods that the Calon soldiers do not know it, not in the light and especially not in the dark.
We find the small forest trail that Mosa will take the army of Calon soldiers through. It is a small path, but it is the largest path through the forest. The soldiers in all of their bulky metal and leather armour will not be able to walk in a formation through it. They will have to walk two by two. And everyone knows that without their formation, the soldiers are not as powerful. They’ll be the perfect targets for our strike.
We find bushes and shrubs to crouch down under, so that we are completely not visible to the people who will be on the path, not visible at all. This is very easy, as many shrubs and large bushes spot the underbrush of the forest. I look around and I cannot see any of my comrade warriors. But I know that they are there, hiding. I can sense their presence in my heart.
I keep alert, watching for the imperialists.
————
—— -1500, Desani——
Amina is holding hands with me. We are in the city. We are outside. We should not be holding hands here, not where prying eyes could see us. See us being so intimate. See us being so close. But I feel safe. We are here in the nighttime, and all the people are asleep. We are alone. Just her and me and the stars and moon above us.
The night sky is beautiful. The night sky is the one bit of beauty that we have in this dusty city.
The city is usually teeming. Teeming with bustling merchants selling their wares. Teeming with people buying all sorts of things. The people like us would be buying grains, the people who worked in the houses of the rich would be buying spices. The rich people themselves would be buying fine jewellery and other things. There would be people headed to and from work. There would be children trying to find a space to play in all the chaos.
But right now everything is quiet. Right now, everything is still. And right now I can be free with Amina, no pressure holding any of us down.
“It’s beautiful, getting to share this moment with you,” Amina whispers, head tilted up to watch the sky. I bring her hand up to my mouth to give it a kiss.
“If only I could give you all the beauty of the world. You don’t deserve this swarming city.”
“You give me yourself. And that is enough.” Her words are as soft as the night air all around us.
“But still. I hate this destiny we’re trapped in.”
“I do too. But when I’m with you I feel free.”
“Freedom. Do we even know what that is?”
“It’s the way that the moon shines in the sky, every night. A beacon, a guiding light, showing us everything that there could be.”
“You’re so poetic. You make everything beautiful. And … you help me, help us all, express everything that we have inside.”
“Thanks. You help me express everything inside me too. You help me understand everything inside me. You help me understand what I want. You help me understand I deserve more.”
“You deserve so much more,” I echo her, “and I don’t even know what more is sometimes. I don’t even know if there’s anything beyond all of this, beyond this need and this drudgery and this constant aching.”
“There’s the opposite side of it,” she tells me, “there’s the lives that the rich live. They have so much fun.”
“But I don’t want that either.”
“Me neither. It sounds just as bad, or maybe even worse, than what we live through.”
“But I want something. I don’t know what I want.”
“I know what I want,” she tells me. “I want you. And I want you to be happy. And I want you to know that you are loved beyond infinity.”
“I … I have no words. Thank you. You’re loved beyond infinity too. There’s no words for how I love you. It is beyond number, beyond size, beyond form. And I wish it was enough. I wish it was enough to save us.”
“It’s given me this moment and for now that’s all I need.”
“The stars are beautiful tonight.” I look up to the light and the darkness shining all around us. And I feel it pouring into my soul.
“They really are.” Her voice is hushed and reverent. Her eyes are awed and entranced. Her mouth is soft and unguarded. Like she has nothing to fear here. Like she has nothing to guard herself from here. And she doesn’t. Not with me. Not with the night sky. Not when it’s just the two of us.
“And the moon,” she whispers, softly to me, her voice flowing with the wind.
“What about the moon?” I ask her after a few seconds.
“She almost feels like, like she’s here with us, like she’s another person here with us, and she’s walking with us too.”
“She does, doesn’t she? But she’s not like a chaperone. She’s more like, like another lover.”
“That’s so true. Like she can hear all of our secrets but she’d keep them.”
“She does hear our secrets. Everything that I’m telling you, I’m telling you under the light of the moon. And she’s a party to all of them.”
“She’s so silent but she speaks so much despite her silence. Or maybe because of her silence. The way she communicates is so, so different from the way people communicate but it’s so similar all the same.”
“I think, all communication happens in silence.”
“What do you mean?”
“We speak. And we hear each other’s words. But what we focus on isn’t the words. What we focus on is how we feel, how the other person feels, and how we’re sharing our feelings together. And feelings cannot be translated into words or anything else, they can only be felt and shared.”
“That is so profound. You’re so right. I feel like, that’s one of the most profound yet most fundamental things of our lives. We live in feelings, and we communicate in feelings, and we express ourselves in feelings. And it’s how we connect to each other, and how we connect to the world.”
“It feels so right, walking under the sky with you.”
“Right. That’s exactly it. It feels right. If you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulder as we keep on walking.
————
—— -500, Maci——
I have to get as much space between myself and the police as I can. I have to find a river. If I find a river, they won’t be able to trace my scent. I would be somewhere so far downstream and they would not find me.
The forest is thick around me. It cloaks me. Envelops me. Like armour it surrounds my body, shielding me in shadows. I always hated the idea of being in the shadows. Because, metaphorically, that’s exactly where us slaves have been for all our lives. But these shadows, these shadows hide my soul from the masters, and from the police, and they keep me safe.
The forest has given me much more than just cover. It has given me berries, both sweet and sour, to fill my belly with, and it has given me good, clear stream water to drink. It has given me soft pine needles to hide my tracks and it has given me large, sturdy branches to tie myself to when I needed to sleep. I am beyond grateful for the forest and I am beyond grateful for all the grandparents who have taught me how to survive in the forest.
Because without these thick woods, I would not have been able to escape. And I need to escape. I’ll be damned if I let the child I’m carrying within me grow up in chains just as I did. I have to give them a better life. I have to give them a life where they can be seen as, understood as, and treated as a human being. A human being with dignity and equality and rights just like anyone else has. I have to give them a life where they are more than a servant, more than a thing to be used and discarded, more than an object to be exploited as the masters see fit. Because they will be a whole person. And they have to grow up knowing that they are a whole person.
I am exhausted. I am cold. I have been walking nonstop for hours, at a desperate pace, and my feet hurt, my legs hurt, and I so very desperately want to sit down by a fire, I so very desperately want to rest. But still, I have to keep going on. I have to keep going on. Because, no matter how gruelling this journey is, it’s better than slavery, it’s so much better than slavery. And I have been tired before. I know how to feel weary, how to feel absolutely exhausted, and how to power through it anyways.
Because the rewards will be beyond worth it.
If I can just find the secret village, where many other runaway slaves have formed a community, then I will be safe. I will be safe, and I will be able to start my new life. And I will be able to start my child’s life. Hidden away, deep in the forest, much deeper than in this forest, where the masters and their hound dogs and their slavecatching police officers will never find us, and we can build a society of our own, a society that is the way that we want it to be, a society that is equal.
So I cannot stop walking. I cannot slow down. No matter how bone-exhausted I am, I cannot stop walking or slow down. Because, for the first time in my life, I’m using my energy to help the people I care about.
I am overcome by a sudden feeling of dread. It seizes my heart and almost makes me double over with how sick I am. My mind goes into high alert. There is something behind me. I can hear the faintest whispers of feet upon the ground. I turn around. Off in the distance, there, there are shadows. There are shadows. There are shadows. I am being pursued. I have to outrun them.
I break out into a run, trying to be as quiet as I can. My heart thuds in my chest, thuds in my ears, thuds in my throat. My mind is screaming at me to go, go, go. And there is some faint part of me that is absent, that thinks this is all a strange dream. But this is not a dream. It’s all too real. This is the realest that anything in my life has ever been, ever. And the stakes right now are the highest stakes that I have ever had to deal with, and considering that I have lived my whole life as a slave, that is saying a lot.
My legs burn, my feet burn, my throat burns, my lungs burn. Everything inside of me is screaming at me to stop. Everything inside of me is screaming at me to go. And I feel so terrifyingly human, so human and fallible and capable of messing up. I gasp with each breath, taking in as much air as I can possibly get. And I ignore the burning everywhere inside me, I ignore the heaviness, the weariness, and everything that is telling me to stop. The only thing that matters right now is the life growing inside of me and all the alarms in my head telling me to go.
There are shouts behind me, and thudding feet. I let it sink into me with its many hot needles, sending a fresh wave of panic flooding through me, panic that merges with the panic that is already pulsing with my heartbeat, coursing through my blood flow. They are gaining on me. With each desperate step that I take, I can tell that they are gaining on me. I can tell that they are going to catch up to me, unless some type of miracle occurs. I am not giving up yet. Even if everything is against me, I am not giving up yet.
I pray for a river. As I thud through to forest, as I almost fly like the wind all around me, I pray for a river. And, in a handful of steps, each more frenzied than the last, my prayer is answered. There, in front of me, rushes the only black outline of my only hope for deliverance.
But the river is much more daunting than I ever hoped it would be. I come to a stop just within its waters, still near the banks. And I cannot make myself go on.
It’s black. It’s black. It’s so only black. But even in the blackness I can see it rushing, I can see it frothing and foaming with how fast it’s going. The full, barely-there glow of faint white foam, gray in the nighttime, is scattered across the river. The water is dead cold. So cold that it steals my breath away. And the current, even here in the edges, where I’m standing right now, is rushing at an unbelievable pace. I cannot imagine how fast the river will be in the middle, where there is no ground to slow its flowing. I have learned to swim before, but it has been in secret in the pond on the estate. I have never swam in anything like this.
I will die. I will die. I will die if I go in there. My mind is screaming at me to go in there. I would rather die than bring a child into a life if slavery, but I don’t think I have the strength to save myself.
I look up. The moon shines in the darkness, among the bright stars. Just a tiny sliver of glowing silver. Just a tiny smudge of hope across the darkness all around.
I take a deep breath. And I rush into the river. The strong current, the frigid waters, they almost take me. They leave me struggling, leave me gasping, but they leave me alive on the other side, soaking wet and unpursued.
————
—— -100, Nessie——
People talk all around me, chatting about random subjects that I’m too busy to pay attention to. They are all dressed in finery, bright silken colours and intricate embroidery, sequins sparkling in the firelight of the torches all around us. I’m dressed in a simple black shirt with matching black pants that fit loose on me. I am busy, very busy as the people around me relax and enjoy themselves. And it’s so, so deeply exhausting, being here, doing this, smiling as I get ordered around from place to place.
I want to get out of here, out of this fire lit hall full of tapestries and carvings all over the walls. I want to get out of here and I want to go back home. But I can’t go home. I haven’t been home in years. And I haven’t been able to get out of anywhere I wanted to get out of in years either. I suppose that I was never really free. I suppose that I was always meant for this. It’s the price of being alive, the price that my people have had to pay for years.
“Boy! Over here!” I follow the sound of the rough voice, my dutiful, diligent steps moving swiftly and soundlessly. I carry the tray of drinks in my hands, the many cups of thick, sweet milky fluid in their cool, gilded metal cups with many stylized dents hammered into them.
“Yes, sir,” I reply to him as I get there. He takes a drink from my tray, and sends me off again.
“Come here!” A woman barks at me. I obey.
The rest of the night drones on, just like this. I do not have a moment to myself, I do not have a moment to even take a breath as I am pulled this way and that, called by person after person after person after person. Some of them are a bit gentler. Most of them are rude. All of them demand my attention whenever they seek it. Though I suppose it’s not my attention they demand. I suppose it’s the drinks in my hand. I stay silent, stay obedient as the people relax and talk all around me. I have to.
I go to fill up my tray with drinks, many times, rushing into the kitchen where other servants are busy preparing food and drinks for the party. We exchange glances, but we do not have the time to do more than exchange glances. They are frantic. Busy. Deeply in concentration. Just as I am. There is a strange sort of solidarity in sharing our suffering together, there is a strange sort of solidarity that comes from all of us hurting in similar ways, being hurt by the same people. And for the slightest moments amidst the ordered chaos of the party, I feel seen.
As the night goes on, I feel myself fading away. Fading away and fading away and losing touch with who I really am. Losing touch with who I’m really meant to be. The self alienation sinks down deep into my bones, leaving me hollowed and aching. I feel as though I’m not a person, I’m not a person, I’m not a person at all. I feel as though I am just a vessel for the fulfillment of these people. I am just a vessel for them to get the shallow thrills they want. I know, I know that there is more to me than that. But I don’t know what. I used to know what, but I’ve lost contact with it over the course of this night.
I work and I work and I work until I am exhausted. But finally, after what feels like an eternity to the power of an eternity, I am finally able to rest.
It’s four in the morning, and all the guests have left. I don’t have to clean until tomorrow, and I can leave the hall a giant mess. And so can all my comrades. I trudge out into the night, the cold air leaving me shivering. It’s summer, so it’s not actually that cold, but it’s nighttime, so it’s cold enough. I don’t mind the cold though. It makes me feel some semblance of alive, as if this life of constant serving is not what my blood was born for, as if there is a force within me that is stronger than all of the world.
The moon is out tonight. The moon is full tonight. It casts its eerie, serene glow over the whole world, a clear eye that is looking on the world, on the many people gathered below. It makes the scene in front of me look like it’s not of this world, it makes it look like it’s in a different world. And the world that it’s in is a world that the rich people cannot touch. They may think they can touch it, with all of their midnight carousing. But they cannot touch it truly, because though it is in plain sight, it is hidden. It is hidden and lying beneath the veneer of the surface, waiting and healing all that truly love it.
The dirt path stretches out in front of me as I keep walking, through the night, through the many buildings of town, and towards the forest at the edge of town. I feel at peace there. Even in the middle of night time, when I know not what creatures are lurking in the treed depths, I feel safe there. Because it’s secret. And it’s mine. And it’s ours. And it’s mine. And it’s ours.
I reach the edge of the forest, a forest flowing with moonlight. And there, I am astounded by what I see.
Alicia, my coworker, who like me carries food throughout the parties. She is standing at the edge of the forest, one arm on a tree. Her entire form is bathed in moonlight. And she is beautiful, she is beautiful, she is so so beautiful. Not physically beautiful. Not beautiful in the way that all the rich people in their expensive clothes and jewelry are beautiful. She is beautiful in another way entirely, in a way that is entirely, incredibly better than the garish beauty of the rich. All of her beauty comes straight from the soul, and it reaches from her soul to meet the moonlight, to melt into the moonlight which is itself reaching down to meet her soul. They are two parts of the same whole, her and the moon. And, seeing her, I understand now how much there is that we have, that we are, that they will never have, that they will never be.
“Hi, Alicia,” I say to her, awed.
“Hello.” There is the faintest hint of joy in her surreptitious smile.
————
——0, Felicity——
It’s so exhilarating. I am on the edge of my seat. Well, not really. Really, I am sitting back on the plush, soft cushions of this velvet recliner. But figuratively, I am on the edge of my seat. We are going to the moon. We are going to the moon! I cannot believe that we are going to the moon. Us, the Baylians, the most advanced civilization that has ever graced the earth as of yet. And the first civilization that will grace the moon.
My mother and father, as well as my two younger brothers, and my boyfriend are all sitting on different couches in the living room, all gathered around the television. It is a large television, the screen is as wide and tall as the length of one of my arms. It’s brand new. We bought it just for this special event. It even shows colours. My dress is also new, made of taffeta and patterned with pink and red roses on a white background. The shoes I’m wearing are new, and match my dress. And my lips are painted soft pink in commemoration of this day.
We are all awaiting eagerly to see what will happen. We have our Baylian flags in our hands, the small, shining things made of metallic paper, in the beautiful - if somewhat garish - red and purple and white of our flag. Our flag. Our flag. Our beautiful flag is going to be put up on the moon, it is going to be waving on the moon for all the world to see, a testament to how we have conquered space.
The maid walks in with the drinks, her dark skin like a smudge of dirt against the softly textured wallpaper and the plush carpet. She is so different from us, with her dark skin and her broad nose and her thick hair. It’s marvellous.
“Thank you, Macy,” my mom speaks coldly as the maid sets them down.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Her voice is polite, as it always is. She leaves the room in silence, going back to the kitchen to make us a nice dinner. The family looks at the TV, in awe.
There is an image of a rocket, so great and grand, reaching up for the sky. It has a round body and a thin, pointed nose. It is flanked on either side by metal columns. There are so many people scurrying around this way and that, trying to get everything ready for the liftoff. It’s so immersive, I feel like I am there, with all the scientists and engineers and technicians, preparing with them.
Finally, the rocket jets off, emitting great red, orange, and yellow flames from its tail, and releasing a great roaring sound, like a beast that is on the war path. This is glorious. This is so incredibly glorious. The sound fills up our entire living room, even though it is a spacious room, and the flames from the rocket dance across my eyes. The rocket gets higher and higher and higher, until you cannot see it in the sky anymore.
The television feed then cuts to the camera on the rocket. The windows are currently shut on the spacecraft, so we cannot see the sky as it whizzes by the astronauts, and we cannot see space from a point of view beyond the atmosphere. But we can see all the astronauts, sitting in their small compartment, excitement evident in their eyes.
It is at this point that we decide to go get our dinner. The trip to the moon will take five days. And even though we will have the TV on for that duration, we won’t be watching it for five days straight. So we dig into the meatloaf with a side of hash browns, all deliciously seasoned. The meatloaf is soft and the hash browns are firm. Everything is still warm.
For the next four days, we watch the TV on and off, often reading comic books and magazines in front of it while glancing at the progress of the astronauts. The television is slightly grainy, but of course it is, it is a television after all. If it wasn’t slightly grainy, that would be weird. Even though it’s the latest technology. For these five days, nothing much happens. The astronauts get ready for their trip out to the surface of the moon. And we watch them, since it’s a national holiday right now. A special national holiday commemorating our lunar achievement.
But on the fifth day, something truly amazing happens. They land. They land! The head astronaut, Garmin Hamelstead, holds up the camera as he takes the first, momentous steps on the surface of the moon. The space suits of the astronauts make them look like they are strange, alien beings. And the eeriness of the extraterrestrial surface all around them only adds to this sensation. Their faces are hidden with large, dark, fishbowl-like helmets. Their arms and legs are thick. The moon all around them is a shining, blinding, stark white. And the spacecraft around them is a shining metal behemoth.
“One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” Mr. Hamelstead declares.
They walk through the surface of the moon, leaving footprints as they go. The footprints that they leave are large, their metal boots being heavy. There is no wind on the moon. These footprints will be here forever, a testament to all that we have accomplished. A testament to our country. To how we are breaking barriers even in space, the final frontier.
But what will leave an even more everlasting mark on the moon, what will mark it for all of time as ours, will be the flag.
And oh, what a sweet and great moment it is, watching the three astronauts plunge the sharp metal tip of the flagpole into the yielding ground of the moon, the fourth astronaut filming the other three. The flag stands proud and erect, a carefully-coloured rectangle of metal on a metallic pole. Red, white and purple, with a great eagle in the middle, symbolizing our great country.
42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzDratE4SQm
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——0, Iskayander——
Hunger burns through me, ravaging everything in my body, in my mind, in my soul. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much. But it’s not a type of pain that is flamboyant, it’s not a type of pain that is bombastic. It’s a type of pain that is deeper, and more far reaching than any other type of violence. Though no-one classifies this pain as violence. They simply classify it as not their problem.
“Could you spare some change?” I ask the passing men and women who are going off to do their shopping. They do not look at me, instead looking straight towards the shops that they are headed towards. Their indifference cuts deep into me like a poisoned blade, but it is a poisoned blade that I have grown deeply accustomed to over the years. Their indifference sits heavy and choking in my chest, but this heaviness, too, I have grown accustomed to over the years.
There are beggars all around me, forming a line, leaning against the edge of the hard, rough wall of one of the shops in the plaza. I am well acquainted with all the beggars here. They are nice people. They are weary people. Empty people. Aching people. People with death in their eyes and death lingering behind them with each breath that they take. Yet, despite all of their crippling poverty, they are rich in spirit. They are much more rich in spirit than the people going on their daily shopping trips are.
I am aching too. I am empty too. Death waits close by for me, ready to carry up my soul in the first opportunity that it gets. But honestly, I am waiting for my soul to be taken up as well. This life is not a life. It’s an open wound that is constantly in the process of bleeding. In death I could be reunited with my boyfriend, who I miss more than I’ve ever missed anything before. I’ll be reunited with all the people who have passed on. But nevertheless, I have people I need to take care of. I cannot die right now. And so, I have to keep begging.
“Will you spare some change, please?” It’s hard to hold my hand up constantly. But it’s not nearly as bad as what most other people have to do to make their income. I don’t envy the factory workers, or the servants, or the farmers. They have more money than us beggars, sure. They can get more food for that money, more water. But at the end of the day they don’t have nearly enough and we don’t have nearly enough and all of us are on the same boat, a boat that is being completely sabotaged by forces beyond our control.
They look us in the eyes, sometimes, these shoppers. They meet us in the eyes for the briefest of seconds, out of curiosity or out of boredom or even sometimes out of a perverse sense of pleasure, of schadenfreude. They also meet us in the eyes by accident sometimes. But whatever their reason for meeting us in the eyes is, whatever they are doing it for, they never hold eye contact with us for a long time. They always avert their eyes as quickly as possible. I would say that they are horrified by what they see in our eyes but they’re not. They’re not horrified. They’re disgusted.
Every once in a while I will get the odd shopper who does not ignore me, but rather politely declines giving me anything. Every once in a while I’ll get words that seem apologetic, a voice that is almost sympathetic. I would feel bad for them. But I don’t. I don’t feel bad because, even as they say that they are sorry that they can’t help, I see them with bright paper shopping bags in their hands. I see them with shining stones adorning the rings on their fingers and the necklaces around their necks.
There are also those who rebuke me harshly, sneering at me with their hateful mouths and eyes. They call me filth, they tell me that I am dirtying up their streets and I am a burden to society. Their words cut deep. Of course their words cut deep. But what cuts so much more deep is the fact that they are saying it around all my friends, who are hearing it too. They are saying it to all my friends, who are having to deal with it too. And what is even more horrific is that they’re saying these things in front of their own children, who are having to learn and grow up on such hatred.
But anyways, no matter what happens, I have to keep begging. And all my friends all around me have to keep begging. There is a horrible cacophony of desperate voices all around me, all begging for any scraps that the middle class can throw our way. We all sound desperate, all sound broken, all sound hollow. We all are desperate, all are broken, all are hollow.
But at the end of the day, when the streets are clear, we pool all of the money that we made together, and redistribute it so that everyone gets an equal share. This way the people who did not make much today will not have to go without having any food at all. It’s more fair, this way. And, even though it hurts to come back with less money than you had at first, this is one of the many ways that we all take care of each other.
“Do you know that people have gone to the moon?” a girl with a withered arm named Malia asks us all, as we gather together in the street, keeping an alert eye out for the police.
“What?” a blind person named Ali asks.
“Humans. They’ve gone to the moon in a giant metal cylinder with a pointed top,” Malia answers.
“How do you know that?” a man named Koro asks her.
“A girl told me,” she replies. “She was rich. She sad that if they can send people to the moon, someone will invent a way to help us too.”
“Do you believe they’ll help us?” A teenaged girl named Isa asks earnestly.
“No,” Malia replies.
“I don’t think so either,” a man named Faroko echoes.
I look at the moon, visible in the darkening sky. It’s so beautiful. But now people know how to get up to it. Now the middle class knows how to get up to it.
A deep feeling of dread overwhelms my heart.
————
——80, Salem——
It’s been a long day. It’s always a long day. That’s a huge understatement. The days are always unbearable, and each moment feels like an eternity. Work, work, work, work, work. Faster, faster, faster, faster, faster! Better, better, better, better, better! I don’t feel like a human. I don’t feel like a human after work is over. I don’t feel like a slave even, I feel like something worse. I feel as though my life is something worse than slavery, worse than death.
I exist in a limbo that even the most wretched souls cannot access. Even though my lungs still breathe. Even though my heart still beats. I cannot convince myself that my lungs still breathe. I cannot convince myself that my heart still beats. Each breath feels like breathing twisted, poking wires. Each beat of my heart feels like instead of blood, my heart is pumping ashes. My veins are filled with ashes. I don’t know how I’ll keep going.
But at least I’m not alone. Or maybe, curse the world that I’m not alone. If I was alone, I would be the only one going through this hell, day in and day out, every single day that I’m alive. If I was alone, no-one else would be suffering. But because I’m not alone, we can all stand in solidarity together, all the billions of people who are working like me, who are trapped under the heavy weight of factory work like me. Because I’m not alone, we can all understand each other, we can all help each other, and we can all be enraged together. And I appreciate that. I appreciate that a lot.
There are crowds of people all around me as I walk. They are all bone-weary, blood-weary, soul-weary. This weariness is so much greater than humans can hold inside them, so much greater than humans can express through any medium at all. Human emotion can never be expressed, only felt and shared. But this is beyond even our understanding, even our conception. It is enough to drive anyone mad. Humans were never meant to feel this ache.
And, despite walking home with my paycheque, my stomach is empty. My stomach is always empty. Not completely empty, my job prevents it from being completely empty. But it’s empty enough for it to hurt, for it to ache, for it to pierce and grate inside me. I hate this constant hunger, this constant, biting emptiness, this constant, screaming need. I hate it but I can do nothing about it. I don’t get paid enough to do anything about it.
I walk with the throngs of the masses. And we all exchange soft, sweet words to each other as we go, striking up conversations despite our weariness. Actually, no, because of our weariness. We all want to pull each other back to life. We want to get our blood flowing again, get our eyes shining again, even if it’s just a little, tiny fraction of a bit.
“Hard day, huh?” the man beside me asks, already knowing the answer but searching anyways.
“Isn’t it ever?” I reply. “Isn’t it always? What about you?”
“Yep,” he tells me. “And I’m so enraged about it. I want to kill someone.”
“I want to kill someone too,” the person beside us chimes in. “I want to kill so many people.”
“How do you think this happened?” I ask. “How do you think everything ended up like this?”
“Greed,” the person responds. “The owners and buyers always want more, want more, want more. They don’t care how many people they crush and how many lives they step on in their constant quest to get more. We’re not anything to them except machines. And so, why would they care about us? Especially if we’ve outlived our use.”
“I know,” I reply. “But still, why can’t things be different?”
“Because society allows people to indulge in their most antisocial desires,” the man replies.
I then make a horrible mistake. I look up into the dark, winter sky. I look up and I see the moon. The moon that we all know to avoid looking at. The moon that we all spend a good portion of our time looking at anyways. The moon that never fails to make us terrified, never fails to make us maddened, never fails to make us scream.
On the bottom right corner of the moon, there is a small, black scar. A dark, desolate line that jaggedly cuts a piece of silver-white from the rest of the silver-white. A crooked, curving black line that has many spindly, hair-like slivers reaching from it to grasp at other parts of the moon’s surface. It is a malignant, malevolent parasite, more than a scar, an ever-growing wound on the surface of the moon. And it serves to show us that not even the moon, not even the moon is safe from the conquests of the rich, from the violence of the cushy and comfortable.
The moon is not meant to be like this. The moon is meant to be pristine, untouched, unmarred. The moon does not want to be built on, to be cut up into pieces by black lines that the comfortable call progress. I know this in my very soul, in all my organs, in the marrow of my bones. I know this because each time the moon brushes against my eyes, and my spirit, it says that it cannot live like this, as a resource for the cushy to use, just as we cannot live as resources for the cushy to use. The moon is meant to shine down on us, untouched by the hands of human colonization, greed, and destruction. It is meant to shine down on us and our spirits are meant to rise and shine back up at it. We are not meant to twist it into something so different from what it was created to be.
If the moon cannot protect itself, then what in this whole universe can protect us?
————
——150, Ayalia——
My mind is a swirling whirlpool of emotions, as it always is. It’s a dark, deep, stormy sea in the middle of a starless night. I know, logically, that things might get better one day, that I might have an actually happy life one day, but I don’t believe that in my heart. My emotions tell me otherwise.
I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.
But still, it feels good sitting here, along with my brand new friends, friends who want to die just as much as I do, friends who know what it is to feel the jagged, clawing edges of life just as much as I do. They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve it at all. They don’t deserve any of what I’m going through. And they don’t deserve anything but for the happiest of lives. I hope I can make their lives a bit happier, as they are making mine. They are my beacon in the inky black poison dark. They are my stability in the middle of a hurricane. I am so glad that I have met them.
“What stories do you guys like?” Nova asks us all as we sit around the table of the congregation room of the hospital wing. It’s nice here. Much nicer than what I’m used to. The room is big, and there is a large hallway connected to it. There isn’t anything very technologically advanced, but there are absolutely gorgeous pieces of art up on the walls, and the whole place has a quaint yet elegant feeling to it. Too bad that we’re locked in here.
Nova is so kind. The world has given her barely anything. It hasn’t given her acceptance, it hasn’t given her understanding. It hasn’t given her company, it hasn’t given her belonging. It hasn’t given her freedom or unconditional love. It hasn’t given her purpose, but she has found her own purpose by herself, she has wrest it from the world, from a world that has always been so happy and satisfied to give us/her nothing. We are her purpose, and she is ours, and that is beautiful.
“I like old stories,” Camden replies, something wistful in their voice. They are bright, are cheerful on the outside. Even though they are bright and cheerful on the outside, I know they are barely holding on to their crumbling pieces on the inside. I can see it in their dark eyes. I can see it in the frozen deepnness behind their voice. They try to be cheerful to make the rest of us cheerful. But I can see through it, we all can. They are sweet.
“I like old stories too,” Miochol agrees. “There is something, something just magical about them. Though I can’t really put my finger down on what. Old stories, they, they just have this element to them, that makes them feel transcendent.” Miochol has an old soul, despite not being very old. There is just something about the way that he interacts with the world, there’s something about the way that he looks at everything and really tries to look, really tries to understand, that makes him somber and mature beyond his years. It’s a hard life, living like that. But it’s so important, to have people like him in this world. It’s so important to have people who go so deep into everything, who always try to see beyond the surface. I’m glad that he’s an old soul.
All the people in this hospital wing are younger than me. Some of them are just teenagers, sixteen or seventeen years old. Some are in their twenties, are just exploring adulthood for the first time. Some are in their thirties and forties, and even though society expects them to have a grip on life by now, they do not in fact have a grip on life by now. And it’s not their fault. Not their fault at all. Society has just made things far too hard for people like us. At fifty-three years old, I am the oldest person here, and I suppose that makes me a sort of mother figure to all these people here.
“What’s your favourite old story?” Davelen asks all of us. His eyes are dark. They’re always dark. Everything about him is dark. But not dark in a bad way. Dark in a glorious way. Dark in a beautiful way. Like a warm, rich, smokey night, covered in clouds and reaching out in every direction. Dark like the rich, life-giving, nurturing forest earth after a rainstorm. Dark like the womb filled with water and blood, the beginning of all life.
“I love the story of the girl who fell in love with the captured god,” Kaycen replies. They are a hopeless romantic. And, far more importantly, more importantly than them being a hopeless romantic, they care so very deeply for the people of the world who are othered, who are pushed down, who are told that they are less. They hate it when people are hurt, they feel it so deeply, so intensely, as if it is they themselves who are getting hurt. And they always love it so deeply whenever anyone who is being hurt, being othered, being pushed down, when they rise up and reclaim their strength and they reclaim their power. We need far more people like them in this world. We can’t have them leave us. We can’t have any of us leave us.
“I like the story about the animals and the moon and the first man,” Nova tells us.
“Oh yes, that’s an amazing story,” Miochol agrees. “Too bad I can’t remember it completely.”
“I remember it,” I tell them.
“Can you tell us?” Davelen begs, eyes wide in excitement.
So I tell them. I tell them about the first man, who was selfish and greedy. I tell them about the songbird that gathered all the animals, and the moon who let them project their worries from her, so that the first man could hear. I tell them about the change of heart that the first man had, and the wife that he met. I tell them about each of the heartbreaks and injustices that each animal faced, and how they all came together to speak their grievances. I tell them about how ashamed the man felt, and how much he vowed to do better.
“That was amazing,” Camden whispers as I am done my story.
“The moon was so powerful, so strong,” Davelen breathes out, “now it’s so …”
“Hurt,” Nova finishes, “hurt just like we are.”
I look out of the window to see the moon in the crowded nighttime sky. It has a long, twisting black scar reaching across it, and a splotchy pink bruise. In the story, the moon represented power. And the moon still has power now, I can still feel it. But I can also feel rage, I can feel horror, I can feel desolation, I can feel death. It can’t save us anymore, like it used to do in the stories long since gone by. It can’t give us its strength, its courage, its wisdom, its protection. All it can do is cry with us, grieve with us, and show us all that we have lost.
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——250, Izzador——
The moon is absolutely marvellous. It looks so much more interesting, so much more colourful than it did before. Before, the moon was but a small, white circle. Now, though. Now it has splashes and splotches of colour all over it. Now it has lines all throughout it, twisting and curving and reaching out to embellish the moon in meandering patterns. It’s so much more interesting to look at now. It adorns the blank black night sky with so much pep and glamour.
Of course, the materials that we are mining from the moon are also incredibly valuable. We have precious metals to make valuable electronics out of, to build our circuits and projectors and holograms and batteries. We have precious elements to make fuel and energy out of. We have ancient rocks to build with. We have strange pigments to make colours with. We are prospering, prospering more than we have ever prospered before, and it is all thanks to the many gifts that the moon is giving us. And in return we are beautifying it so that it may be a treasure to look at.
Some of the environmental activist type people are mad at us, say that we’re hollowing the moon out. But the moon exists to give to us. The earth exists to give to us. The whole universe exists to give to us. And it is not our fault for taking. It is not our fault for taking all that we can, for taking all that we need. For, we need to have resources in order to live a good life. We are used to this life. We are used to this life of constantly having more. And we would not be able to live without the gifts that we take from the moon.
Though the environmental activists would say that we are stealing, not taking. Taking, stealing, it doesn’t matter. The moon is ours. The whole solar system is ours. The whole universe is ours.
I ponder all these truths as I sit on my air chaise. It is made of air that blows up, holding me in place. The air is the perfect temperature, some jets warmer or cooler than others, all of it coming together into a beautiful cacophony. The air is carefully aligned to not only hold me up, but to massage me as well, and oh my lord, does it feel good, reclining here. The air is coloured, so that anyone looking at me would see swirling colours mixing and joining and separating and dancing in all kinds of ways.
Wrapped around me is a blanket, made from synthetic furs that are far softer than any real fur from any real animal ever could be. The blanket does not do much to keep me warm. It is not made to keep me warm. I have my personal temperature regulating system flowing around me in order to do that. No, instead the blanket keeps me comfortable. It keeps me comfortable with how unbelievably soft it is, and I am beyond grateful to have this blanket here, with me, as expensive as it was.
I am also grateful for the beautiful city view that I can see from my giant windows made of reinforced crystal. The windows, which are so clear that they feel as though they do not exist at all, tower up above me and out in every direction, being four or five times larger than a movie screen from back during the days when movies were on screens. From this window I can see the city sprawling out below me. Rows and rows and rows of spaced-out buildings, all in different, artistic shapes and all lit-up and shining in different neon colours. There are lights coming from the marble streets below us, a sea of light shining up in a grid. And there are lights on all the enormous cars rolling by, far beneath me. The streetlights are all different lights, and the cars that hover through are all decadent, lit-up with fantastic colours and twisted into fantastic shapes.
And of course, sitting in this position that I am in now, taking in the enormous city far underneath my enormous window, I can see the moon. And the moon is not quite as fantastic as the scene below me, it is not as fantastic as that scene by far. But it is fantastic nonetheless. It is fantastic and beautiful and colourful, full of a sort of strictly-ordered, finely-wrought chaos that matches the strictly ordered chaos of the city underneath it. The moon is the perfect decoration to the city. And I know that as time goes by, it will get more adorned.
I have been to the moon before, on vacation. Of course I have. I’ve been to the many resorts that have popped up on the moon. I have played sports on the low-gravity surface. I have floated in moon pools. I have watched the stars the way they look without an atmosphere. I have gone to amusement parks at the moon. It was all so very beautiful, it was all so very fun. I am very glad that we have been able to make it to the moon.
But anyways, I am not able to stay here looking at the nighttime city forever. I am supposed to be getting in my car and going to an upscale bar. So, I get my servants to get me dressed. I wear the most expensive synthetic fabrics found on the market, and a fibre optic, colour-changing jacket that shines and highlights my shoulders. I let the robots put on a coat of masculinizing makeup. And I take my personal temperature regulating system and my wireless cube, and I go.
Inside my car, the city shimmers and glows around me. I let the car drive itself as I lean back and look through the crystal skylight, to the buildings stretching up to the heavens above me, catching glimpses of the moon as I keep looking up.
I am smiling. I am always smiling. I am always happy. I love my life.
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——250, Karaisi——
I am hungry. I am so hungry. It hurts. It hurts in my stomach, in my chest, in my throat, in my bones. But not just that. It hurts in my soul. It hurts at the very centre of my very being, and I cannot take this hurt.
My papa lost his job. A week ago. It’s only been a week, but the hunger is already setting in. Thank the gods that my mama still has her job. But actually, no. I’m not going to thank the gods that my mama has to go spend most of her day every single day at that unbearable factory. I don’t want her to be hurt just to help me. I don’t want her to have to keep sacrificing herself, sacrificing something worse than her life, sacrificing her dignity, just to help me.
We were hungry even before papa lost his job. We were still hungry. We were still hurting. We were still aching. I have been hungry all of my life, I have never known anything besides hunger, I have never known anything except for hunger. And, no matter what the rich say, hunger is not something you can get used to, it is not something anyone can get used to. But still, with our income halved, this hunger that I feel right now is more desperate. Not worse. Not deeper. But more desperate.
My papa is not with us all day, though he does not have to go to work. He says that he misses my three younger siblings and myself. I know that he misses my three younger siblings and myself. But he has to go out to look for another job. And looking for another job keeps him out all day, only letting him return after my mother has already returned from her job.
He feels ashamed. I know he feels so deeply ashamed that he cannot provide for us, that he cannot put food on the table for us. My mama puts food on the table, but still, with only one income the food is not nearly enough. And we never even had a table to begin with so this idiom is only an idiom really. We have tried to tell papa that we understand him, we forgive him, it’s not his fault that he got fired, but still, he hates himself for it.
I am filled with hatred too. Not hatred against my father. But hatred against his bosses for firing him. Hatred against this horrible situation. I look at my younger siblings, I look at Aleka and Marisa and Donno. And I see the hunger in their eyes. And it makes me feel rage in my heart, makes me feel hatred in my heart. I’m their older sibling, I should be able to save them from this. I know that hatred against papa is misdirected. I love him immensely and he loves us. But still, my hatred swirls and splashes in me, and I hated everyone who made or sustains this horrible system we live in now.
My hatred and my hunger gnarls and snarls and prowls, each beast mixing with the other, each beast wrecking havoc on all my insides. I cannot sleep, as my heart aches, my mind aches, my stomach aches, my whole body aches. It’s pure torture what I am going through. But it’s pure torture families like mine have to go through every once in a while anyways, as punishment for our family members not listening to the bosses perfectly enough.
My grandmother told me, years ago when I was just a small child and she was still alive, that I could look at the moon when I was having trouble falling asleep. That looking at the moon would help soothe me, help me calm down. She told me that her grandmother’s grandmother had told her grandmother, and her own grandmother had told her. They were all eldest children like me, tasked with passing knowledge on to their generations. She said that so far it hasn’t worked for her, but maybe it could work for me, if I ever needed it to.
And I have never needed it to work as much as I do right now.
I turn my head to the small window on the small wall of our small hut. I have to shimmy around a little, moving quietly and slowly so that I don’t wake up the others sleeping on the floor around me, but I manage to get into a position from which I can see the moon. The moon that is peeking through the window, in the blank darkness of the sky.
The sky is not dark. Not really. And it doesn’t feel dark either. So many artificial satellites are in the sky, emitting tiny bits of light. You cannot see the stars because of the artificial satellites. You cannot even see the satellites themselves. You can only see a not-darkness which is deeply disturbing and terrible. But still, I try to get used to this darkness anyways. I try to focus on it so that I have something else to focus on besides the hunger. It does not work. I am still hungry, so hungry. I am still so full of hate. I am just deeply disturbed on top of all of that now.
And looking at the moon does not help either. It is deeply scarred. It is deeply scarring. It is cut through with dark metallic lines that twist and writhe. A face with the mouth sown shut. Unnatural, fractal tendrils reaching out, ever-hungry for more. Besides the dark lines, there are many splotches of colour, misshapen and garish. They stretch across the surface of the moon like bruises. Like many bruises. Like many, poisoned bruises. The moon is just as aching as I am, if not more so.
This doesn’t give me peace. It doesn’t give me peace to look at this. All it does do is, it sends me screaming inside. As if I am witnessing a massacre. I suppose, though, that I am witnessing a massacre. A massacre that nothing in the human mind has ever been prepared to witness. A massacre that none of us were made for, none of us were evolved for.
I try to turn away, but I cannot turn away. I can only cry and pray to the gods that somehow the people and the universe can survive all of this. I still believe in the gods, no matter how much the penalty for being caught as a believer is. The authorities won’t be able to find me anyways. I still believe in them, because it’s impossible to not believe. It’s impossible to let myself not believe. But can the gods save our people? Can the gods save the moon?
————
——270, Rodhi——
42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡttAmgBNgyP
I stand hand in hand with my boyfriend, the two of us young men in a sea of other people. In a sea of people who are all fighting for the same thing. Who are fighting for something that the powerful in society deem as unimportant. We are fighting for the moon.
“Stop mining her! Stop mining her!” the crowd all around me is shouting, and I am shouting too. My boyfriend is shouting. We’re all shouting at the top of our lungs. We have power. We have power. We can all gather together, we can all demand that the government hears what we’re demanding, what we want, what we need. We have the power to make our voices heard. And maybe, just maybe, we have the power to change things. We have the power to change the way that society is being pushed.
We don’t actually need to stop mining the moon, at least that’s what the companies who are profiting from the destruction of our natural satellite are saying. But I’ve seen the moon. I’ve seen the dark gray scars, the giant metallic scars, that are all over her surface. I’ve seen them, and I’ve seen how much she is hurting.
It was not meant to be like this. Nothing was meant to be like this.
And of course, the mining of the moon is affecting the earth as well. All the elements gotten from the moon take up space on earth. They take up a lot of space. That space is carved from the ecosystems that we desperately need for so many reasons. That space is made of blood and excess and toxic pollution. The many, many spacecrafts that carry things and people to and from the moon also create lots of pollution, as they use dangerous chemicals as fuels.
The scientists who are speakers in this rally have said about as much, standing on the crystal stairs of the large, looming monolith of shimmering, faded colours that is the government building. We are all in front of the government building, about ten thousand of us, crammed in within the large space in front of the structure. This space is usually for leisure, for people to spend their time relaxing. But now, it’s empty save for the thousands of protestors. The electronic floor is turned off. As is all the other tech.
It’s ugly here, all of us with our protest signs projecting from our communication devices. It’s ugly, but it’s beautiful.
“Hands off the moon! Hands off the moon!” The chants all around us change, and our chants change alongside them. And then it’s time for a speaker to take the stage.
“Hello, everyone,” the teenaged girl greets us. “It is an honour to be here in front of you. My name is Kakami McLarsen and I am a member of the Fakili people, one of the many, many groups who hold the moon in high honour within our religion. We worship the moon as our sibling and as the provider of water for the earth. The moon is our protector and provider, and is much exalted to our people. To see the moon so desecrated, so built on and mined through and devastated, it is a spit in the face for everyone who holds our religion in high regard, who cares about our sibling, the moon.
“But our culture is not the only one who exalts and relies upon and respects the moon. In the olden times, every single culture on earth held the moon in high regard, and they held the well-being of the moon in high regard. We must all respect our ancestors. We must all respect all of our ancestors. And we must respect the moon that they so cherished!”
The crowd around me cheers. High, shrill, rageful sounds full of power and threat. We could be an army. We could be an army. Could we be an army? I do not know. We have the numbers. We have the technology. But we might not have the courage, we might not have the heart.
“There are many of us,” the girl continues once the cheering dies down, “who still exalt the moon! There are many of us who are still in touch with the cultures and beliefs of our ancestors, with the cultures and beliefs that are part of all of human heritage, and there are many of us who have learned what we must from the old ways. We remember. And the moon remembers. And to honour our memory, we must honour the moon!” The crowd goes wild again.
She’s so right. The moon is a cornerstone of what it means to be human. It has been a cornerstone of what it means to be human for so many years, so many centuries, so many millennia. It has existed in its natural state for far, far longer than our species has existed. Every other species knew to admire and howl at the moon from a distance. It is only us who seek to reap profit and entertainment from the moon, only us who are changing it so drastically.
This is not right. This is not right. I know in my very soul that this is not at all right.
I grip my boyfriend’s hand tighter, and he grips my hand tighter in return. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel free.
I think, faintly, of all the privilege I have, of all the privilege all of us who are standing here have. We live in the home country, not the colonies. And as such, all the comforts and safety nets and products and services of the home country are available to us. All the wealth and the prosperity of the home country is available to us. There must be so many people who want to protest, but cannot, since there is so much police violence in the colonies, since protesting there means death.
It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all.
————42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiTSES4Xnai
——300, Lexia——
I spent the larger part of the morning looking through diagrams, solving equations, making sure that everything is ready for the next trip to mine into the core of the moon. It’s been busy, very busy, but I love being busy. I love using my mind and challenging myself and having something to take up my attention. It’s a buzzing, light sort of feeling.
But, as much as I like doing math, I have to take breaks. Which is why I’m taking one right now.
I walk out of my rooftop office, in the largest building in this district, and I lean over the twisting, whirling railing to see the many shapes and colours of the hap-hazardous city far underneath me. It’s beautiful, earth is beautiful. I think about how strange it is, that I’m on earth, but I’m preparing all the details for a project that is hundreds of thousands of kilometres away, on the moon. But everything is all connected now. You can work from anywhere, wherever the project is. And you can access information from anywhere too.
Underneath me the people and cars go by. The cars I can see, each one a hulking enclosure of creative design. The people on their hoverboards, I can’t see, since they’re so small, they’re so far away. Even in the daytime, the city is glowing with lights. Lights from the buildings, lights from the vehicles, lights from the roads. It’s like I am in a sea of brightness. It’s all so pretty. I get lost in the view of the city.
I love looking at the city, but I think I’m in the mood to hear a song while I do it. I think this thought into my embedded earpiece, invisible in my skull. It hears my thoughts, and scans my brain activity to determine exactly what type of song I’m in the mood for. This whole process takes only a few moments. The music then projects out of my earpiece, into the air. It hits my ears as if it is from the environment all around me, as if the earpiece is not there at all, as if I’m hearing music from the outside world.
The tune is simple. Not really what I was in the mood for, but I don’t mind. And soon enough, a mournful, melancholy voice is singing, not any words, just notes right now. I don’t know why my earpiece decided to project this music onto me. It must be malfunctioning. I’m not in the mood for a sad song at all. Oh well, I don’t want to look into it now, I just want to relax. I guess I’ll bear this song. I look back down at the city.
/You see me, see me, when my heart is shattered into bits42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡo8VmoavR9F
You see me at the end of my rope when I’m out of wit42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvVWXPS77tB
Everyone around me doesn’t understand my heart42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKE5vZud0CU
Yet you’re here beside me even when we are apart42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2yyBkQefqO
And there you stand42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiufH2mDWCZ
Melting into my soul42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN9f6azLAwv
And there you heal42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMz5sbjbgZt
Make me become more whole42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ44bkFTe5Ag
And there you are42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1rDd3lvajs
Forever shine unmarred42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡltd2GsmrUX
Up by the stars42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWZAnCmaUQM
So close though you’re so far42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGioG8mcYXo
You’re with me, with me, when I feel alone and feel unheard42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzRXVx4HUFq
You’re with me when I’m feeling so confused and so deterred42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnZlZP7TfZs
When I feel like nothing when I feel like just a thing42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3oDeflQDNz
I listen to the silent, flowing melody you bring42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4VgQvbI45s
And there you stand42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNh3SQD4fPa
Melting into my soul42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNfXdZ5Mmyi
And there you heal42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmdWwu8MbZm
Make me become more whole42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIO2CURqD7R
And there you are42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC4vCvIJlfm
Forever shine unmarred42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYm0Ir9cwzP
Up by the stars42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnPVHO15UyE
So close though you’re so far42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUTM6EP2TJC
Oh mother moon, you mother me42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1eSjPNfgxz
I am an echo of your grace42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡceXUWzkbT6
Oh mother moon, your beauty42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡejCVc1r192
Lets me know I have a place42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdYiSNPJOQJ
I have a place in your light42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaTUeHYfyK4
And we will set the world to rights42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxfn6NCBivt
With your adoring, stalwart flight42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡynmHIbePgV
You’re stronger than the wealthy’s might42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbmsT9hoqEY
Oh mother moon, you mother me42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9cEWI2tHSk
You mother me42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡohlvxL4Hfe
And there you stand42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdLggiA9yY9
Melting into my soul42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiE8aRn41iC
And there you heal42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJZU0iiUUPZ
Make me become more whole42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy7Z7hFXCff
And there you are42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPhkYX26w3w
Forever shine unmarred42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsOiHP91eh7
Up by the stars42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpYoYXafDe9
So close though you’re so far/
I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m crying. I shouldn’t be. It’s not even a good song. It’s not even well-written. But I can tell from the melody that it’s old. It’s really old. I don’t know how it’s gotten to end up on the Wavework, and I don’t know how it ended up being played for me. But there is a certain quality to it. A quality which I cannot put my finger on, a quality which I cannot define.
I don’t know why, but I tell my earpiece to play another song like that one, and I sit down along the screens that adorn the outside of the walls of my office, looking up at the blue sky. Another old song plays.
/You’re not beautiful42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfFlHKQT0gs
You’re not beautiful they tell you.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8F1tnvOoM8
But the way the moon42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh5aK4cr8h9
The way the moon shines on you42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF26Iyelre3
It casts a light42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ30niabpGvD
It makes my soul ignite42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ50CpIsjzIQ
The way it makes you glow42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHAHgB4DbSx
More glory than you know42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgnoa6um5XQ
She knows the true beauty you hold42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqiAc22hiMl
She sees the true glories untold42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSY6JOvaBrh
And so do I, boy, so do I42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC6jdV7uUHF
Without you I’d die, boy, without you I’d die/
I lose myself in the song. There are not too many instruments. The tune is not intricate, the notes aren’t that hard to reach. I can tell that this was a song made by a normal person, way back in history, when the people who wrote songs didn’t have much in the way of anything, weren’t professionals with long educations, were farmers and tradespeople and beggars. I can tell that it was composed with the instruments he had at hand. But the words. Oh, the words. I have no words.
They’re not even clever words, I don’t know why I like them.
But anyways, I let myself be taken away, by song after song after song after song. They’re not all about the moon. Some are about the sun or the stars or the sky or the water or the eagles. Some are about the rains or the snow or the sky. Some are about the trees or the animals or the lichen or the moss. Some are about the grasses or the wild berries. Some are only about other people, either other individual people or about whole groups of people. Some are about stories I have never heard, stories I have no clue about.
People used to be so poetic, in the times long ago, in the times long since passed by. They weren’t poetic at all, not really, but still, they had this quality to them that … I don’t know, it made everything so much more poetic. In a much more intimate way, in a much more human way. In a way that is unadorned and plain and gritty, yet so, so much more real.
I have no idea how long I have been sitting here. I need to get back to my work. And so I pull myself up off the roof floor. And I push myself back through my office doors.
I reach my schematics and diagrams and I look through them. But a feeling of deep, deep dread washes through me, sudden and unannounced.
It’s not right. It’s not right. It’s so, so, so very not right. I cannot tell why it is not right but it just isn’t. I just know that it just isn’t. I know it in a way I’ve never known anything before. I know it from a place inside myself that I have never investigated. It washes over me, this horrible realization that I will never, ever be able to explain to any of the people around me. Everything, everything that we are doing here, everything that I have done all my life, it is wrong. It is so, so deeply wrong. And we need to stop. We need to stop. We so, so very deeply need to stop.
I turn back towards the doors, and walk out, desperate to do the task that I have come up with, before I come to my senses. I reach the railing of the roof. And I throw myself over it. As my throat and gut sink, as I fall, my spirit flies.
————42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyAtxWI6mqT
——350, Klaro——
“We go?” Izza asks me, secretive and whispering, dark, deep eyes dead serious. We are up late, in the middle of the night when everyone else in our slave quarters is sleeping. The air is dark and cool and just slightly moist. It would be comfortable, if it wasn’t for the emptiness in my stomach, the way my muscles ache and strain, the way my joints grate. We are making sure to be careful, careful, so that no-one can hear us.
“I’m ready if you are. Are you?” There is affection in my hushed voice. Affection for my deepest friend. Though, I guess all the slaves here are my deepest friends. It’s just that Izza understands me in a desperate way, a way that no-one else does.
“Yeah,” she answers, “I am.”
“You got the wires?”
“Yes, I do. You have the batteries?” She shows me the coiled wires that she gets out from a fold in her skirt. The wires are copper-coloured, though it's hard to see colour here. They are malleable, and can be bent into any shape. They keep the shape they have been bent into, unless enough force is applied to bend them into something different. We got them from the junk pile, they were thrown out because they conduct too much, and aren't useful for the purpose they are meant to serve. But this means that they serve our purpose well.
“I do.” I get out the batteries from a fold in my clothes. She hands me the wires, and I hide them both together. Before putting them in my pocket, though, I twist one end of each of the wires around the nodes of the battery. Our weapon is ready. A weapon we forged out of nothing but carefully-stolen parts from the trash and our own ingenuity. The more important weapon, though, will be our acting skills.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asks me, voice tinged with worry.
"I am. I will. Do you want to do this?" Part of me wants to bring her along. Part of me doesn't. We will both die in the end. Even if we escape, even if we get to the surface, the detonators of our collars will be set off and we will die, once roll call happens in the morning and they see that we aren't there. But still, it's going to be worth it. We are going somewhere beautiful.
"Of course I want to go," Izza insists. "I want to see the moon. Anything is worth getting to see the moon. I've heard the stories."
"I heard the stories as well. I'm sure it will be worth it."
She smiles at me. I smile back at her. She kisses my hand. And the kiss is soft and warm. It's both fantastical and grounding at the same time. Izza is my dearest friend, she is like a sister to me, and I am so, so incredibly glad that I have her. And I'm so incredibly glad that I'm getting to go on this mission with her, even if this mission will mean both of our deaths. I want to show her the moon.
We start arguing, a false, choreographed argument that we thought about and coordinated months in advance.
"You are so lazy!" she yells at me. "You never do any of the work after our assigned tasks!"
"Maybe I'm tired! You're no better than the enforcers, who force us to do all this stuff!”
We make our way to the dimly-lit entrance of the slave quarters, past the double doors that lead to a hallway. On either side of the door at the end of the hallway, there is a guard. They are sitting on plush chairs, idly looking through the Galawork. They both look up at us, as we burst into the room. I see this from the corner of my eye.
“We’re all tired!” Izza bellows. “But we all share our work! Everyone except you!”
“I don’t owe you guys anything!”
We keep fighting, pretending to get increasingly agitated at each other, coming up with more and more ridiculous things to accuse each other with. The whole while, we keep drawing more and more of the guards’ attention. Not only are we loud, but we are reaching soap opera levels of dramaticness. That’s good though. We need to distract them.
“I have had enough of you!” I scream at Izza. I get out the battery and the wires from my clothes, and start uncoiling the wires, bending them straight.
“Oh, what are you gonna do!” Izza demands. “Are you gonna kill me? You don’t have the guts!”
“Yeah? You want a bet?” I finish uncoiling the wires and aim them at Izza. But, at the last moment, I swivel around super fast and dig the ends of the wires into the stomach of the guard to my left. He screams in pain while convulsing to his death. Before the second guard has time to even process what has happened, I electrocute him too.
“Good job.” Izza smiles at me, solemn and mischievous. We show our pinkies to the camera in the corner.
We drag the dead bodies of the guards with us, using their eyes to unlock all the doors and force fields. It’s tiring, dragging two fully-grown, well-fed men up the tunnels that lead to the surface. But we manage it. It’s nerve-racking, going down these halls that we have never been down before. We don’t know if we’ll reach another set of guards. If we reach another set of guards, we are screwed.
But thankfully, we do not reach any more guards, and emerge outside, into the cool night air.
“We made it!” Izza whisper-shouts. The sheer jubilation on her face is glorious. It is worth anything and everything.
“We did,” I reply back to her, my voice soft and soaring like the clouds of stories.
“So, I guess we should look up now.”
“We should.”
“Do you want to do it on the count of three? Both at the same time?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. One. Two. Three!” There is so much pure, concentrated excitement pooling in her words. We look up.
The moon is nothing at all like it’s described in the stories. Instead of being a silver disk of pure light, calm and serene, still and shining within the black darkness of the night, it is a bruised and bleeding thing.
There are snaking lines all over the marred surface of the moon. Some are thick, some are as thin as hairs, and many overlap and connect to each other like fractalled hydra. There are all sorts of colours, black and gray and copper. And tired, gray lines also scar the surface of the moon, giant cracks and chasms everywhere. There are splotchy bruises of all sorts of colours all over each and every part of the moon, different colours melding and mixing with each other, smaller splotches nestled within bigger splotches.
The moon is a sick thing. The moon is a dying thing. The moon is not at all what the stories told us it would be like, not at all brave and unconquerable. The moon has fallen to the powerful of this world. We have fallen to the powerful of this world. There is nothing which can save us.
I look at Izza, and the defeated horror in her eyes mirrors my own. The devastation I see in her cuts me deep into the soft core of my very soul, and yet I have no blood left to bleed. We died for nothing.
42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQFrDlpi3Ma
42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTY3ucV3NgW
42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsG4pCOxw5V
If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd62tZaMVhH
and then Add to home screen.