Still the Sun

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Little tremors like this happen from time to time. Tampere, the name we’ve given this land, is often restless.

Lore—some might call it scripture—claims that Tampere exists as one land among many, created by the World Serpent, whose discarded skin coils into entire planets, far beyond what our mortal eyes can see.

I wonder if mothers feel this way with disobedient children, drowning in frustration while loving every moment of it.

I try not to look at him; he’s oddly distracting.

“Many fill their lives with anything they can grasp, and their minds with anything they can think. They disconnect from others, from the world, from the cosmos. The things they grasp, ultimately, hold no meaning. I seek the darkness to strip away meaninglessness. To remember myself and my mission.”

move. The sun doesn’t move. The sun doesn’t move. But maybe, in the time of the Ancients, it did.

It’s not until I’ve finished my calculations that I realize they’d been speaking in another tongue, and yet somehow, I understood every word.

“I broke it,” he hisses, “because it took you away from me.” He releases me all at once, and I gasp in air like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

That sensation of being very small returns. I hate it. I’ve fought against it my entire life, because it’s something I can’t change. No matter how strong I get, I will always, somehow, be small.

Madness has a feel to it. Smooth, subtle. Like the oil nestled in those hinges, but thinner. It doesn’t leave a noticeable mark. No grease stains. When it first starts dripping, it feels wrong, the way I imagine a knife through the gut might feel. But I can see how one could become used to it. Even comfortable. Oiled up and slick and satiated, forgetting there was ever anything else.

We can only move forward and find joy in what’s left.