THE WRITER’S LIFE
Often I’ll write the end of a story before I’ve written the middle. You can know how things will end up, even if you don’t know how you’ll get there. They always begin with knowing where to start…
I died suddenly and for no apparent reason.
You don’t notice it. It turns out quantum theory is right: Your life carries on, but in an instant you’re transported to an alternative universe, before you even realise you left the last one. Both still exist.
In the old life, people mourn (or celebrate) your death. In the new one you created, you carry on, but you’re in a different physical form. In the old place, they can’t see you.
It takes a while to get used to, when you’re shouting in people’s faces and they don’t know you’re there. Invisible and mute, I can only write from the place I found myself in. I’m on board a spacecraft.
They’ve been here for a while, and there are people I know here. Friends I lost on the streets, still walking around the corridors because they remain in others’ memories. And my auntie, looking very well and with her own quarters, because I often think of her. She counsels the others, who all know her because I wrote about her. Our stories are similar: We were prisoners on Earth, when those who chose to govern chose also to clean the planet.
Like abduction by aliens, the dehumanising machinery employed by the government’s social cleansing agenda first renders you entitled to the human right you were originally denied by making you ill. It’s confusing because it makes no sense in a human mind, and when that preys on mental health, it can kill you. It’s by design, but the human memory never dies.
I starved, I froze, and I forgot to breathe. I had no-one to talk to on Earth, which is why I hitched a ride with my auntie on the sister ship, to take a break, to see things from above. You can only do that if you rise up, and if you have someone up there already, they can help, for as long as they’re not forgotten.
I’d been brain-dead for some time, since the government murdered me. They couldn’t kill what was in my heart. I knew I’d been keeping a secret, and it would be a coroner who got to tell everyone that, in writing. But as I tried to explain what was on my mind, my auntie said something which pressed on my chest.
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
We’re not gone until we’re forgotten. As long as there are stars in the sky, I know there are other people who can look up at them and know we’re still connected, wherever we are. Keep watching the skies and you might see a shooting star, only passing you by if you were paying attention.
The story’s not over, but this is one way it ends for many here who are unable to write home. I thought I’d finish the stories, in case they didn’t get a chance to write the rest.
Some endings are already written, as they write their own beginning and start again.