Berit Ellingsen - Not Dark Yet

“Of course not,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

“Well, goodbye then,” Eloise said, shot him a pale smile, stuffed her hands into her pockets, and headed toward the waiting car. He remained on the deck until there was only the sound of the wind. The sky was gray and distant, as if it was about to snow, but the temperature was much too high for that.

He opened the envelope with trembling hands.

“Dear astronaut candidate,” the letter began. “We deeply regret to inform you that the astronaut training program has been discontinued, without plans for restarting in the foreseeable future. Due to the recent catastrophic events along the coastline of our continent, the decision has been made at the ministerial level to refocus all our funding into research concerning the Earth and its climate and environment, leaving the exploration of the solar system the domain of robotic missions. Closing the manned space program saddens us all, but we hope it may be of consolation to know that you were close to being among our next class of astronauts. We encourage you to take a look at our vacant placements and current research opportunities and apply where appropriate. We thank you for participating in the testing and wish you the best of luck with all your future endeavors.”

The letter ended with the signatures of the manager of the manned space exploration program and the head of the space organization itself.

He straightened and took in the muddy soil, the brown flood lake, and the broken stalks in the fields, the now abandoned farm across the plain, the smashed cabin, and finally, his own empty hands.

One can never truly possess anything, he thought, but even that notion seemed distant and inconsequential. The sensation of nothingness he had felt since the end of the previous summer was now stronger than ever. He was no longer in the picture, even if he could see his hands. No head, no body, no outside or inside — it was as if he had been replaced by the entire rest of the world. He had grown so used to the experience that he’d stopped thinking about it. Now he realized he would stay that way for the rest of his life.

He returned to the cabin, wrapped the sleeping bag around his body, and sat down by the hearth. The sand in the square pit was dark with moisture and most of the once bright and fine grains had been forced up and out onto the floor by the flood. Yet a small spring of water, barely lifting its head above the remaining sand, rose from the bottom of the pit. The fluid looked transparent, not like flood-water or sewage. As he watched, the source grew taller and broader until the water beneath it formed a small mirror where fire once had burned. It wouldn’t afford him much warmth, but it would still his thirst, the first and foremost of all needs after air.

Dust and sand roiled like smoke in the breaths from the cracked door and the broken windows. Outside, the fields lay black and empty, with no one to till or sow them. The gray light of the day dimmed to a blue dusk and settled into distant, pale stars.

With thanks to François Bon, Jeremy P. Bushnell, Bill Campbell, Kevin Catalano, Patti Yumi Cottrell, D&C, Raechel Dumas and Jesse Bullington, Fábio Fernandes, Ignacio Gallup-Diaz, Kathy Fish, Jimin Han, Ian Sales, Paul Jessup, Jason Jordan, Kvalfangaren, Rochita Loenen-Ruiz, Michael Matheson, Mike Moore, my family, Eliza Wood-Obenauf and Eric Obenauf, Joseph M. Owens, Valerie Polichar, Edward J. Rathke, Sam Rasnake, Ethel Rohan, Donald van Deventer, and Ann and Jeff VanderMeer.