Vacuum (From the Archives)

Geyle watched the world spin below her. She tapped her foot gently on the window that separated her from the vacuum of space. The sound echoed inside the table, a gentle tap tap tap to match the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat.

Most hated the training area, being exposed on four sides to the vast expanse of space that spilled outside the window. They found it too vast, too terrifying, to look out and see how tiny they really were in the grand scheme of things.

It was that reason why Geyle loved it. 

Out here, she wasn’t a Ketke. She wasn’t looked down on for her thin hair and her purple skin. No one muttered behind her back how a Ketke managed to get onboard, let alone to be the head scientist upon the ship.

Just her, and the stars gently twinkling in the blackness. It reminded her that even though she was small, the universe around her made the comments even smaller.

Not that it made them easier to stomach. But manageable. In the same way that knowing a fly was an annoyance didn’t make it sound any less annoying, but you could find peace in the fact the fly itself wouldn’t harm you.

She had come out here tonight, cradling her newly lashed up arm. Sometimes the words went beyond words. And it meant that she came here, to try and find a semblance of peace.

The stars lazily floated past as the ship span around its axis. They had shone, and would continue to shine, for lifetimes beyond Geyle’s own. Sometimes she wished the stars would speak to her, like her mother claimed to say.

But tonight, they just twinkled in the vacuum of space. And for now, the twinkle was enough.

This flashfiction was first posted in 2019

Featured Image by Alice Hampson on Unsplash

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