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This Blue World

By Samantha Murray

 

You leave while it is still dark. Your lover sleeps on his stomach, the sheet draped only to his waist.

You don’t want to go. You want to slide back into bed and listen to him breathing. And for him to make you coffee later, dark and sweet.

But you’ve never let anyone haunt you. And you’re not about to start now.

Your car takes a few tries to get going, as if it is reluctant to move out of his driveway, as if it wants to stay, not to glide down his street in this blue world that exists just before dawn.

There is light in the sky when you pull off the highway and wind through the suburban streets to your house. A woman is walking down the road, and she is surrounded by her ghosts. You try to count them unobtrusively . . . eleven? Crowding and cluttering behind her. She doesn’t look that much older than you, and how easy is her heart, did it just throw itself at anyone who came along? You wonder if any real people are waiting for her at home or if their ghosts were the only part she kept.

---

You’ve always been able to see them. Most people can only see their own ghosts; only a rare few can see those that belong to other people.

You’d confronted your mother once, when you were not much more than five. “But you should only love my dad,” you’d declared stridently, flushed and righteous. You knew which ghost was your dad, although he’d died when you were a baby. You’d curl up next to his ghost sometimes and tell him about your day. He never spoke back to you and his eyes were always on your mother.

“I do, my dear,” your mother answered. And yet there was another ghost in your house, too. A younger man, with hair that fell forward over his forehead. “Once, it was something that was true,” your mother said when you’d huffed and puffed about it. The ghosts lingered, even once you’d stopped loving them. “I wanted to deny it later. Pretend he never meant anything to me, just a crush, an infatuation, a fling. But here he is, so . . .” she shrugged.

“Do you haunt him too?” you’d asked. You hadn’t thought of this before; it was a new idea with tricky edges.

Your mother looked very far away and oddly younger. “I should think it likely,” she said, with a very non-mother-like smile that you hadn’t seen before.

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You are in the middle of making yourself a cup of tea — peppermint, your tea of choice for afternoons, when you look up and see him. Sitting in your window seat, one hand folded under his chin.

Too late. You are too late. Your hands grip the benchtop and you bite down hard on your lip. Too late.

Surely your heart is sinking but if that is the case why is it hammering so hard in your chest?

You should have left earlier. You knew this, how many times did you ignore the little instinct telling you time to go, time to go. But your railing and recriminations slam into the fact that it is just so damned good to see him.

His ghost follows you around all afternoon. Not intruding, not doing anything much: a quiet, gentle presence. But there. All the time there, as he will be, for the rest of your life. No matter what. You realize you are trembling. Too late.

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Later, much later, your doorbell rings. Your lover stands there and you are struck by how real and vital he is compared to his ghost, which is so calm and still and soft around the edges.

“Hi,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were gone for a while because . . .” he pauses, but you already know. Because there you are, behind him, standing in the golden slanted light of late afternoon.

Oh.

You were surprised, when you first met him, and attracted, both, that he didn’t have any ghosts tagging along either.

And now here you are, haunting him.

“You never invite me over here,” he says, sounding more uncertain than you’ve ever heard him. But of course, most people cannot see other people’s ghosts, only their own. He doesn’t know that he haunts you.

He doesn’t see what you see. Your ghost, going over to his, taking his hand.

“I will do,” you say. “Come in.”

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The Light at the Edge of the World

by Avra Margariti

 

i. Ours is a small planet, about the size of our god’s fist. Everything is water and sand. If it weren’t for my lighthouse illuminating the oily sea, the entire world would be a dark, solid mass. If I screamed, my voice would sound like a whisper, and if I whispered, my voice would sound like nothing at all.

In such pure darkness/silence, one does not know one is alive.

I make up one half of the population.

And then there’s you.

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ii. Ours is a lonely planet, too. This is no place for weak hearts.

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iii. My god-given routine is simple. I wake up in my straw bed, drink seawater tea, and eat the pale flesh of glinting minnows that swim around my tiny island. I climb the winding staircase to the top of the lighthouse and activate its flashing beams. I return to the ground floor and lie in my straw mattress until I drift off.

I was illuminating the sea even before your boat appeared.

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iv. The water was still one day. (“One night” would have been equally accurate, since there are no stars, moons, or suns to tell the time.)

The water was still, and then it wasn’t. I spotted the ripples first, up on my observatory, then saw the tip of your boat slicing through the sea.

I ran to the edge of my world and watched in disbelief as you circled the lighthouse three times before disappearing back where you came from. When you live in a lighthouse all by yourself, when you already know everything there is to know about everything there is, or so you thought, when one day/night you were darkness and then you weren’t, you don’t question your loneliness.

Until someone who isn’t you comes along.

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v. You cannot leave your little walnut-shell boat, just like I cannot leave my little matchstick lighthouse. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. Just as I know that I wake up in my straw pallet the next day/night to a beam of moonlight slanting through the window.

Like always, I switch on the light I now know was meant for you all along, to guide your boat safely around the jagged rock formations of the shallows.

With the light breaking the murk and the newly acquired silver-thread moon stitched across the sky, I observe you approach.

The moonlight illuminates your face, too. You are like me, but different. You look nothing like me, but similar.

When your boat circumnavigates my island, I stand at the edge of the beach where pale sand meets dark water and reach out toward you. You do the same, both arms outstretched to keep the flimsy boat from toppling over.

We stop just shy of touching each other, but it is something, everything.

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vi. I fall into a new routine. I wake up and think of you. I gather seaweed to brew tea and conjure your face in my chipped teacup. I tend to the lighthouse’s mechanism and my chest flutters at the thought of your arrival.

We can still only stare at each other, but we never stop trying to touch fingertips.

The moon comes every night now, and each day is separate and distinct as I count down the hours until I see you again. I think you do too, although I can’t really know where you and your boat go when you leave here.

If there are other islands you visit. Other lighthouse keepers you gaze at and spread your twitching fingers toward.

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vii. You’re not here. Night after night, I light up our world for you, but you’re not here. No ripples in the water, no boat slicing the ocean.

Nothingness again, dark and simple.

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viii. I flash my lighthouse’s beams on and off for what feels like eons. I can’t tell. The moon hasn’t been back since you vanished.

On. Off. On.

Where are you?

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ix. The thought comes one day, as if in a dream. (I say “as if”, because I’ve stopped dreaming ever since you left.) I wake up, drink my tear-salty tea, head upward through the spiral staircase. But when I reach the top, I don’t activate the light beams. We’ve each been given a job, in our god-fist universe. I guard the lighthouse and you sail your boat. But what’s to keep me switching on the lighthouse now that you no longer sail toward me?

So I don’t.

The next day/night, the moon remains absent, but your boat is back, a blacker patch of dark, not circling me but still for once, anchored far off my island’s coast. I can’t tell if you’re inside or not, but when I scramble to the lighthouse’s top, none of the light bulbs are working.

I did this and now you can’t find my lighthouse without crashing on the rocks around it. You can’t sail your boat if I don’t light my lighthouse.

I run to the wet-slick shore and jump and wave my arms, but you cannot see. I scream, but no sound comes out. So I do the only thing left to do in a broken, upside-down world.

I dive into the lukewarm water and swim toward you.

When I pull myself into the boat, I’m soaked and panting but intact. I fumble around for your hand while I blink the water away from my eyes, only there’s nothing here but barnacles and wood splinters.

The boat is empty.

The lighthouse floods with brightness then. It looks pretty from afar, a beacon shining in the darkness.

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x. Now, I sail around our tiny planet, while you guard the lighthouse and show me the way. Our fingers teach each other shapes/signs. We still can’t leave our posts or touch each other, but our gazes connect under the moon’s watchful eye.

And like the relentless pull of habit and duty, this can sometimes soothe the soul as well.

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Directions to the House of Unnumbered Stars

by Devin Miller

 

The house of unnumbered stars will be there when you need it, the night cartographer waiting with her pens and silver inks. Do not be ashamed of wanting her to draw you a star map. It’s no surprise that it hurts when the world fails to understand the unfamiliar contours of your human constellation. It hurts when your house is not considered a home because you share it with a friend, not a spouse. It hurts when your partnership is dismissed because your girlfriend also has a wife. And you are not the first to seek a map. We who create constellations the world doesn’t recognize have always been here. We know how to find the house. The search is worth it, even if in the end you decide a map will not help you.

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Timing is important. The first step to finding the house is to crack an egg into the hands of someone you love, one star in your constellation. Compare the yellowness of the yolk to the brightness of the sun. If the yolk is very yellow and the day is rainy, wait for clearer skies. If the yolk is pale and the sun bright, wait for clouds. The egg must be eaten before you set out. Since you are allergic to eggs, feed it to the person who let you crack an egg into their hands. Scrambled if you’re feeding it to your nibling, poached for your sister.

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Bring an item given to you by one of your stars which has influenced the direction of your life. The recipe book from your best friend that made you a pastry expert, the first tiny houseplant that taught you to garden, the notebook that told you your adopted gay aunt believed in your words.

Dogs are also quite good at direction. If your dog needs a walk, bring your dog.

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When you venture outside, continue until you reach a memory. As your constellation formed, your mind annotated the world around you, creating associations between places and people. Perhaps you will find the Puerto Rican restaurant or the witch hazel tree, the bookstore or the playground, which reminds you of one of your people.

Turn left here.

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No matter how long you live in a neighborhood, there’s always a street you’ve never ventured down before. In just the same way, it is always possible you will find someone wonderful and new to add to your constellation.

The house is on this unfamiliar street. You will know you have found the right street because your heart will begin to pound and its beat will whisper to you, here.

You will find the house at the end of the street, at a crossroads. Its front yard is a chaos of hellebore, acanthus, rosemary, yucca. Picture the house a family of witches would live in — it looks like that. Choose between the lichen-stained stone steps and the wheelchair-accessible ramp that looks like it might be the back of a sleeping troll.

When you reach the front door, knock thrice.

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You will enter a house full of unnumbered stars. Darkness and starlight will swallow you and an old woman will come to take your hand. She is the night cartographer.

“Tell me,” she will say, “who do you love and who loves you? Who asks if you have eaten and remembers you are allergic to eggs? Who do you trust with the shadows and squirrels in your mind?”

You will tell her. You will speak of your girlfriend and your girlfriend’s wife, your best friend you share a home with, your sister and your nibling, the adopted aunt who told you how to find the house: your tangled queer family. Tell the cartographer everything.

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She will lead you through the house until you find the corner where your stars are shining. She will remind you that a constellation is an unreal thing, invented by humans to explain the world to each other. She will remind you that this is true even of the constellations everyone knows, the husband-and-wife constellations, the parent-and-child constellations. She will remind you that not everyone will understand your constellation even when it is mapped.

You will bite your lip, hesitate. Maybe having a map will make it hurt worse when people still don’t understand.

“What good does it do, then?” you will ask.

The night cartographer cannot answer this question for you. She will sit you down in a chair of black velvet and give you time to think.

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Ask yourself: why exactly does it hurt when the world fails to recognize your constellation? Is it tiring to explain over and over again what your people mean to you? Does it frustrate you? Are you afraid that this thing you have created for yourself is not as good as the old, familiar constellations?

You will run your hands over the soft velvet arms of the chair and answer these questions, and when you have answered these questions, you will say, “The map is for me.”

The night cartographer will smile and arrange her inks and paper.

Tell her more about the people she is mapping, about your girlfriend’s penchant for growing garlic, the time your nibling explained gender to their math teacher. Tell her about egg dripping through fingers, your memories of the landmark where you turned left. This sort of detail helps the cartographer choose the right shade of silver ink for each star.

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When the map is done, she will show you how to fold and unfold it. Because you will unfold it often. When the world tries to tell you your links to your people are not strong enough to form a constellation, you will unfold the map to remind yourself the world is wrong.

You will thank the night cartographer. You will thank her from the bottom of your belly, where you keep your starlight when you are not in the house of unnumbered stars.

 

 

 

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Host Commentary

Thank you to all our authors today for their stories. All of them felt so much longer than their length; all of them felt like the connection and the yearning in them were built on real life and real aches, though, so perhaps that’s why.

I suspect Devin’s story in particular is going to speak profoundly to its intended audience, and make you feel seen in a way the world so rarely sees you: valid, valued, valuable. I hope the idea of your own constellation map is an armour you can wear on the days when the world is regressive and refuses to see your heart.

Avra’s story made me ache again for the days before I’d met my wife, when it felt like I was lighting a beacon in the desperate hope I would find someone, anyone who would understand me and see me in truth, when I felt so desperately alone and outside in the world.

And Samantha’s story made me jealous, because good gods what an amazing idea and image; this was the one that resonated with me most, personally, because I do feel like I carry round the ghosts of everyone I’ve ever loved—not just lovers but friends, too—and that I could turn around and have a conversation with any one of them right now, as if no time had passed, as if we’d never left off.

And maybe I’m overthinking this, but my goodness, isn’t it telling how all three of these stories are in second-person? That’s so uncommon a device, still, and yet here—where all three are about connection—the author is choosing to address you, the audience, directly. To build that connection between page and person, to reach out and bridge the gap as intimately as words can.

We are the social ape: we achieve nothing alone, but only together. I suspect any narrative we’ve ever been fed about individual brilliance has inevitably elided the support network around the overachiever: the uncredited researchers, the domestic support, the teachers and colleagues and conversations and encounters that shape a person and their thoughts and thus their accomplishments. So build your networks, not as a means to an end but as an end in itself: take your joy not in your own achievements but in seeing your friends succeed and soar, in the sympathy you find when the struggle gets overwhelming, in the sense of a shared journey so complete and fulfilling that the destination becomes an afterthought.

In the words of John Donne: “No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine.”