Author Games: One-Shot, One Kill

Round One: Ishmael and Shailee

Challenge: Romance with mythological elements

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ishmael

I have traveled to many places in my lifetime. I have watched great cities fall and new ones rise from their smoldering ashes— each believing they are more invincible than the last. The world shifts and changes around my aching feet, always moving faster than before. On this giant rock we call our home, there is only so much space. Still, with each century we seem to grow. So rare it is to find a patch of soil, a gust of air, that feels the way it felt to me so long ago. When I was powerful. When I was feared. Now, I am nothing but a weary face in a sea of weary faces. So I travel. I observe.

There is too much to see. Time is an unforgiving leash that promises to annihilate what I have not witnessed without remorse. Whole cultures have been destroyed without ever feeling my warmth among their people. I have seen so much and missed so much more. It is easy in this weakened state to become enraptured by the lives of those around me. With the sun on my back and the blue sky above, I watch them grow and it is a beautiful sight. At the end of each day I am reminded that though I try, I cannot stay. There is so little time.

But here, on the hard plastic seats of the Sistema de Transporte Colectivo Metrorrey, traveling between the third stop and the last, I feel as if I could spend eons.

I have been on many metros during my time. There is nothing special about this one. The lights attached to the ceiling of each car are riddled with tiny cracks, flickering when the train travels too deep below the earth. Faded graffiti remains on the windows, only the outline of words long washed away. Each seat is worn, the scents of a thousand different souls absorbed by the polished plastic. The people speak in a hidden language— made of darting eyes and thin-lipped smiles. Their mouths do not move unless they must. Within this rule, like any rule, there is one exception.

They arrive with laughter on their wings, stepping between sliding doors into the same car they do every day. The air changes with their footfalls, sending shivers through my leathered heart when I know they will approach. A pair, creatures of habit that first enticed me with the warmth radiating from their gentle bodies. When they are empty, the couple will seat themselves in the hard plastic chairs across from my own. When they are not, they stand, greeting me with the same delight and openness as the first day I was ever so fortunate to meet their path. An unlikely friendship bloomed between us in the cracks of that old subway. Lovers, young and full of hope—and an old god, weary and traveling.

Over many days and many rides, they tell me their story. I hear their words entangled with the words of my people. In them, I see the old world as it was before: thriving and strong, full of passion and history. I cling to their story as if it is my own. "We were friends as children," he explains one day, his hand resting gently against her thigh. He is a military man, always in uniform, posture stiff and face stern. But his eyes sparkle when he speaks of her, alive with vigorous color that grows stronger with her head against his shoulder.

"I always knew," she contributes, winding their fingers together. "I told him when we were young— I never wanted anyone else." In her, I see so much more of the old world. She breathes the energy of my time, secrets buried beneath the secret of her dark gaze. It is another life I visit when I look at her, another love that flourishes in the broken pieces of an unforgiving world. History overlaps when their lips touch, creating ripples in the surface of time. Each day when they exit the car, one stop before my own, I feel the urge to pray.

But who do gods pray to?

I know their routine well, it seems. On Mondays, he brings her a fresh bouquet, bursting with color. Never once have they been the same arrangement, he fills her life with bold colors and sweet scents that she has never held before. I hear the crinkle of the plastic surrounding it before their feet ever step off the platform. Next comes the laughter, blushing and bright as she tells him once again that she doesn't need such things. Then the brightness of her eyes comes to rest on me, smile warm and inviting. Each day, we fill the dull ride with our conversation, drawing the eyes of onlookers who would rather remain silent.