Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Two Years

Tonight I stand beneath a crisp and cloudless sky, looking upward at the stunning host of sparkling jewels set proudly in a robe of royal blue - a blue so deep it is indistinguishable from black. The Milky Way is a creamy, pixelated stripe streaming across the dark firmament, neatly dividing the sky in half.

Standing here I remember what I have heard about this sparkling array: balls of plasma thousands of kilometers wide and millions of times more massive than the earth, burning themselves out at millions of degrees. Yet, for all of that, each one of them is nothing more than a tiny spotlight glinting in the night sky.

Two years from now I will stand here on this spot, on a clear night, and I will look up to see the stars, the same stars that I see tonight. Except, perhaps, in two year's time, one of those vibrant, glistening balls of fire will have fallen dull and cold and dark, nevermore to be seen by human eyes. To its left, to its right, above and below, the other quiet flames will still flicker and shine, but that one, it will be forever gone.

Will I notice the absence of that one star that shines no more among all the stars? Will I - will anyone - feel sorrow for its unannounced departure?

I envy you your silent grandeur and your silvered beauty, my bright and lovely star, and yet, how sad and lonely it must be, to know that none will grieve your passing, nor shed a tear for you.

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