Love and Oblivion on Vargon VI

It was true the world was ending, yes, but this wasn’t particularly news to me. As far as I was concerned, the world had been ending ever since Margaux had dumped me, a sentiment that had lost me my friends, my job, and what little dignity I had left.

I discovered that Vargon VI was actually preparing to implode upon itself when I tried to order pizza. I called up Zucko’s and asked for delivery.

“Man, what are you talking about? Delivery? Pizza? Are you joking?”

I was confused. “I’m sorry, this is Zucko’s, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t no more pizzas, man!”

“It’s only 1800 hours, you guys shouldn’t be closed for another—"

“Ain’t no more pizzas tonight, ain’t no more pizzas ever! Turn on the news! We’re clearing out!”

With this, the man on the other line abruptly hung up on me. No more pizzas? Tonight… or ever? I was unaware their business was failing. I sighed. Zucko’s really did have the best pizza in the district; with them out of business, I’d have to settle for Cheap and Fresh. Cheap and Fresh promised two things and only delivered on the first part—I’ve had fresher pizza off my floor.

I called them up and received no answer. As I hung up the phone, no longer just confused but now seriously hungry, I heard the sirens. I crawled across the debris that littered my apartment and peaked out my window. I used to leave the blinds open, welcoming the light of the three suns that shone through at any given moment. I also used to clean my apartment and cook for myself. But this was all in the age before the life-altering bomb that was Margaux.

Outside: chaos. From my view on the 467th story, I could witness at least four planetcar accidents. Police speeders were attempting to respond, but the accidents sprawled across multiple levels.

I flipped on the holoprojector and discovered the news in full: the planet was set to implode, without warning, at any point within the next few hours. Those rich enough to do so were all urged to get off planet. Because of the capriciousness of the planet’s demise, aid from neighboring planets was not coming.

Briefly, I contemplated the idea that my own inner turmoil had somehow manifested itself inside the planet’s core and doomed everyone. I abandoned the notion, but not as soon as I would like to admit. There is nothing so dramatic as a romantic’s broken heart.

With the confirmation of incoming oblivion, I had but one course of action: I had to find Margaux. I was convinced that the literal end of the world would make her realize that she still loved me. All the things that didn’t work in our relationship wouldn’t matter: there’d be no time for any petty arguments, conflicts of where or how we wanted to live, or discussions about children. There’d be no future to complicate anything—there’d be no future at all.

It being midday on a Wednesday, and me being the pathetic creature I was, I was far too drunk to drive. I hailed a taxi and asked for a ride into the 31st District.

The driver was an Urgulian. His seven eyes all blinked a negative. “I’m going as far as the 27th, but that’s it. I’m just on my way home to my wife and kids.”

“I’ll give you fifty extra credits.”

He scoffed. “Yeah? And what am I gonna do with those when the world ends?” His skin softened, changing from a dark green to a lighter shade of blue. “I can take you as far as I’m going. I doubt anyone else on the road will offer you that much, considering.”

The Urgulian had a point. I accepted his offer and hopped in his cab. As he drove through the sky lanes well above the speed limit, I did my best not to vomit from motion sickness.

“What do you need to get to the 31st District for?” he asked.

“I’ve gotta see Margaux before the end of the world.”

His skin turned a dark red. “She’s your lady?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

His brows furrowed. “Well. Okay. Well. I’ll take you, then.”

“Really?”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

When we got to Margaux’s building, I threw the Urgulian my wallet. He laughed but I shrugged. “Just in case they’re wrong.” He saluted me as he sped away.

I went to enter Margaux’s building but was forced to remember my least favorite thing about this place: the landing pad was made of Hartiglax crystals. Hartiglax crystals were rare, they were expensive, and they were transparent. As I glanced down, I saw not the comfort of the ground but the massive five hundred floor drop to the undercity below. Without warning, I vomited profusely.

At this exact moment, Margaux walked out onto the landing pad.

Right behind her came a tall, handsome Rhindian. As Margaux watched me wretch in confusion, the Rhindian grabbed her elbow. “Let’s go sweetheart, we don’t know how much time we have.”

Margaux said not a word, just stared at me as he led her to a large ship on the other end of the landing pad. I tried to call out to her, but all I could do was vomit more. I watched as Margaux’s expression shifted from confusion, to disgust, to concern. I began stumbling toward them but slipped in my own puke.

The shuttle doors closed behind them and they took off, venturing far away from Vargon VI and its imminent destruction.

The first of the explosions began just then. Bursts of molten electogorbs 700 miles tall sprung forth from the planet’s surface. Their electric blue color was dazzling. I basked in their beauty and laughed. My friends and family had called me dramatic, and yet, here I was, sitting in a pool of my own vomit at Margaux’s doorstep, watching her leave with another man—the end of the damn world.

The Promise

It’s Monday night and you’re lost. It’s impossible to get lost in this city—all the streets are numbered, for Christ’s sake—but somehow you’ve managed to do so. There’s only one possible explanation: you’re drunk.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk. Don’t think about what that says about your life. Just don’t even go there. Maybe later you can call Vinnie and discuss it but now is not the time. Now you need to figure out where the hell you are.

And just like that, without reason, you’re thinking about her. There are a million other things you should probably be thinking about. And if you absolutely need to go down this path, you could be thinking about any of your other ex-girlfriends: Elaina, Ciarrah, Jessica, Ashley. Take your pick, man. Anyone but her.

Too late.

You’re thinking about Sarah.

You want to call her. This is probably a terrible idea. Why are you taking your phone out? Don’t do this.

When you were sixteen you made her a promise. Is that what this is about?

Sarah.

She had hair like fire that burned red down her back and illuminated her pale skin. These days she cuts it short; the flame atop a candle. You remember what it felt like to run your fingers through her hair while you were kissing her. How she would push you down and climb on top of you, her fiery hair falling all around you, igniting you. Soon the two of you were both burning, an inferno. Together your fire outshone every light made by God, almost as if in defiance of Him, almost as if to say your passion was better than anything He could craft.

This is what happens when two writers make love.

Sarah.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and you’re contemplating calling your ex-girlfriend.

You’re scrolling through the contacts on your phone but you can’t find her. This is for the best. Maybe you deleted it. Maybe you’re just too drunk to find it.

When you were sixteen you fell in love with Sarah and it’s possible she fell in love with you, too. She was a year older than you and way out of your league; this was not a girl you should have ever even attempted to talk to. But you were always bold in an arrogant, stupid sort of way, and the fact that you shouldn’t talk to her only made you want to talk to her more. You were a cliché.

You still are.

You promised her something. Who keeps promises they make when they’re sixteen? Nobody. Let it go.

It was her hair that you first noticed. Fire. And then her eyes. Blue like only eyes can be; deep in the way poets write about; energetic and scorching in their beauty. You had never seen anyone as alive as Sarah.

But you did not fall in love with her until you discovered she loved to write. Have you ever desired anything more in life than a woman who could play God with her pen? You loved to watch her write. She wrote mostly by hand, so she could feel the words form as she released them onto the paper. Her brow would arch ever so slightly when she couldn’t think of the right word to use. The determination and creativity that burned in her eyes while she wrote excited you in a way that nothing else in life ever could.

Sarah.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and you need a cigarette. You’re all out, though. You dig through your pockets and find you’ve still got some cash on you. Nowhere near enough for a cab home but just enough for a pack of smokes and a soda. There’s a bodega across the street that’s still open.

When you purchase the cigarettes the clerk asks you for your ID and you smile. Still young. It’s easy to forget that, sometimes. Life has a way of making everyone feel old.

You’re back on the street, lit cigarette in your mouth, and you’re scrolling through your contacts again. This time you find her. The number is there. You want to call her. What would you say?

Sarah.

The two of you would spend hours together in her room, laboring away at the task of Creation. You’d read aloud to one another and critique each other’s works. And then you would make love. You would always make love.

When you were sixteen you promised her that you would always love her, no matter what. She smiled and told you how sweet you were, but did not return the promise. You were sixteen and stupid. She was smarter at seventeen than you could ever hope to be in your whole life.

These days Sarah is a published author. She’s written a book, What It Means to Be Alive and Other Poems. Some of her poems are about you. You think so, anyway. You’re pretty sure, in fact.

What have you done? Nothing. Still not even done with your novel.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and you’re contemplating calling your ex-girlfriend and now it’s raining. The rain came out of nowhere but it’s coming down hard. If you’re gonna make this call you need to get out of the rain. The bodega has since closed up shop but at the end of the block is a 24 hour CVS. You run to it.

Sarah.

You were in her room writing when the sky opened up and unleashed its storm. You thought nothing of it but she looked up from her poem and said to you, “Let’s go outside.” You could deny her nothing and so you went. She ran in the rain, laughing, begging you to chase her. So you did. Her hair trailed out behind her as she ran but no amount of rain could extinguish her flame. You chased her and she ran and when you caught her she wrapped her body around you and you made love right there. A moment of carefree glee from a girl who endured a lifetime of solemnity.

You always think of this moment whenever it rains. No matter how many years have passed now, no matter where in this world you are, the rain always makes you think of Sarah and her hair and the promise you made her.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and your phone is broken. You dropped it in a puddle while running to CVS and the water killed it. You’re not calling her now.

An employee comes up to you and asks you if she can help you with anything.

“I’m lost,” you tell her. “I’m so lost.”

And for reasons you’re not entirely sure of you start crying.

The woman—Casey, according to her nametag—asks you what’s the matter, and you try to explain to her that when you were sixteen you made a promise to a girl that you would love her forever, no matter what. You try to explain to her that to this day you’ve kept your promise.

What It Means to Be Alive
a poem by Sarah Engles

There are moments
when I’m sure
I’m dying.

I can feel
my very life
draining.

Life has a way
of making us all
feel so old.

But then;

He looks at me
with those eyes
so bright

So full of joy
and adventure
and love.

Love for me.
I can hardly
believe it.

But this;

This boy has
ignited a spark
in my life.

He teaches me
what it means
to be alive.

I will always
remember this boy
and his promise.