This Severed Line, a Chasm – by Jennifer Worrell
THIS SEVERED LINE, A CHASM
OUR REUNION FORGED BY FIRE
BY JENNIFER WORRELL
Stone Circuit, Black Hole
My Heulwen.
Reuniting with you was easier when I was younger.
I sat within the ring of stones and waited for the planets to align just so.
The energy surrounding Stonehenge transported me within seconds.
Today’s ethereal essence intertwined with yesterday’s corporeal self.
I relived entire days with you, touched you, felt your voice against my skin.
Did you know this would be possible someday?
Or was it privileged information exclusive to higher beings?
But what was once a vivid recreation and a gentle parting has become fragmented conversations and fleeting images, our hands clawing at the fabric of reality in an attempt to wrap ourselves in it forever.
Our connection fades, the sun along with it.
How I savored each kiss, holding you closer against my chest than I have each time that followed.
The shadows of the stones grew long over me, like a blanket over my head.
Whether we remained together five days or five minutes, the time was equally cherished.
Science, magic, time—all converging. The breakthroughs The Wise Ones made in such a short time—unthinkable.
Something to celebrate, isn’t it? Friends and neighbors by your side for decades, family bonds strengthened.
Conflicts resolved through discourse and meditation.
Beloved hounds stay pups, loyal at your feet.
Not so long ago, saplings bent to the will of the wind, then snapped into brown dust with the first chill.
Now leaves take years to change from green to gold and back again.
We have plenty of time.
The Wise Ones tried to convince us we were blessed.
We didn’t have to squeeze a full life into a span of merely eighty years.
Youth was drawn like water from a well for decades past a century.
You couldn’t tell an old man from his middle-aged children.
The world rejoiced—except for those on the cusp of departure, anxious to be reunited with those who passed before us.
Our limbs are still supple, our minds and senses sharp, though we ache for decline and senility.
Those outside the realm of New Science remain on Earth, alive and well; a curse The Wise Ones insist is a gift.
I continue to hope that today they reach the peak of their knowledge and worldly understanding, and tomorrow we regress. But every evening momentous news reaches my ears: another revelation, another milestone, another year gained.
I have no words to express my regret. I failed you by not acting sooner, when these innovations were first becoming apparent.
I’m imprisoned by my poor choices and cowardice.
This was a battle I was ill prepared to fight.
Now it’s too late; modern medicine will simply reverse any drastic measures I take.
My heart forever deepens as the void between us expands. I can feel you sigh as you turn away from me, your star a tarnished silver.
All things must end. All things must end. This promise I hold on to more tightly than ever.
How Many Seconds to Say I Love You
Darling Cathal –
I used to pray for your safety, love.
Your return from battles, unscathed.
Now I wish for violence, quick and sweet, yet I do not feel shame. There is only justification for my bitterness.
Immortality was a gift, if you believe The Wise Ones’ clever propaganda.
They didn’t consider those standing on the threshold between life and death, severing the line indiscriminately and calling it success.
Where are they now when you speak to me?
They can’t punish a phantom for scheming against them.
Or is my punishment the withholding of you?
I did not intend to wait forever.
How will you spend your last minutes, love?
The Wise Ones struggled amid instruments rampaging with sirens and lights, confused by the madness in the heavens.
Billions of years before their calculations predicted, they were forced to reconcile their facts and figures.
Some sobbed while others calmly re-tallied, gauging where they neglected to carry the one.
The seven stages of grief were confronted and experienced at record speed.
Considering how steadfastly I remain mired within them, my sympathy decays in a fallow field.
They swallowed the myths and the fairy tales, abandoned the mellow platitudes meant to calm the masses.
Breezes never moved mountains. Rather than risk revenge, murder, wild chaos, they quietly closed up their labs and disappeared into the shadows without a word.
You’ll find their ghosts in the arbors, grappling for answers. A name for things that are not God.
Heaven isn’t paradise when you endure it alone. Eternity isn’t a gift when it’s spent on two different planes, watching the chasm between us widen more every day.
I can no longer hear you speaking across the distance. The light of your spirit fades before it reaches me. Your voice no longer echoes in my head, my heart conjures false memories. Soon my name will simply represent a vaguely familiar arrangement of letters, a sound that reminds you of childhood.
Are they positive life lasts forever, love? Or only as far as their imaginations can reach? I am so very tired of waiting to discover which is true.
The sun will intensify upon its next rising.
The heat will make you look up, futilely shielding your eyes, searching for a disturbance.
Expect a visible trembling, light so powerful it cannot be endured.
Seas will evaporate, crops will wither. The skin of young and old will turn to leather.
Panic among animals and birds will spread to children.
From that moment eight and one-third minutes remain.
Only seconds to practice I love you in gestures that wipe the slate clean.
Do you remember our time at the shore, love?
Old enough to feel the weight of mortality but young enough to laugh in its face, we spent the day thinking about what we’d do with our last days, decades into the future, arguing about the philosophy of such a question.
Are we well or infirm? Young or old? If we’re young, surely we aren’t well. Who remains on Earth beside us?
But I think, first:
I’d stuff myself with chocolates and wine,
dance to my favorite song,
stretch into the warm daybreak while my feet shiver with dew.
At night, feast on the moon and howl until the wolves joined in.
Tell my mother I always loved her cooking.
Pick the sweetest berry and crush it against my lips,
pull you close and kiss you all over
find a soft spot under our favorite tree
make peace with fear and worry
and burn the list of pursuits that count now as failures, because there is nothing more in all the world that matters.
Wait.
Our last days, or the world’s?
I didn’t think that far ahead, then. But your answer was the same.
Will forgiveness figure into your plans, love?
Note: The first half of this story first appeared in Ironology 2017 .
Bio: Jennifer works in a private university library in Chicago.
Jennifer's short stories appear in The Hooghly Review , NECKSNAP Magazine , Broken Antler Magazine , Channel Magazine , and Little Old Lady Comedy , among others.
She has written one novel, Edge of Sundown .
Her smutty alter ego Su Orwell has written a chapbook ( Escape Artists ) and a short story with Black Scat Books/New Urge Editions.
More information, check out her website , Bluesky, or Goodreads .