Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
“That’s… you,” I say, lifting my hand out of the shimmering water to point to the group of women. “You’re all spark.”
It’s true. That is the whole reason they have factories. To grow girls.
And if this were the end of the story, that would be tragic.
But it’s not. This story is just getting started. So the lie means something too. Because the women of the factory dimension, for whatever reason, are made up of spark. And we are all sisters. We all come from the source.
The spark sea hugs me. At least that’s what it feels like. An embracing blanket of warmth swirls around my body, telling me that I’m on the right track. And as I think this, a woman standing on the bow of the nearest ship, raises her hands—beckoning me.
My body lifts up from the water, spark dripping off me, and I float up in the air towards her. When I get there, I hover briefly over the top of the carved figurehead—a Spark Maiden, body carved into the shape of the bow, arms by her side, head tilted up towards the sky, lips parted slightly and eyes wide—as if awestruck.
My feet touch down softly on her back and my beckoner is now a mere few steps away. She reaches for me—her little cherry light brightening as she approaches. Doesn’t say anything, isn’t capable of speech because she doesn’t have a face. But inside her cherry of light, there is something to see. To hear. To touch.
I lean forward, reaching for it, but not with my hands, with my own little cherry of light. There is a connection—a kind of jolting, like pieces locking into place. And when this happens, I do see. And hear. And touch. And I do it for her. I see her. Her life inside the Delta City Factory. Cold fear. Endless harvest. A life of pitiful slavery, and abject misery, and constant abuse.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. And I find that I have a voice. I’m the only one here with a voice. “I didn’t know. I’m very sorry to learn of your suffering.”
Desperate to give this Maiden’s life purpose, and finding myself short on gifts, I do the only thing I can to ensure remembrance.
I name her.
“You are... Majesta.” And then, for some reason, one of the symbols on my body begins to glow white instead of blue. I exhale, filled with sudden understanding. Because these symbols on my body aren’t words, or letters that tell my story. They are names that tell theirs.
Why I have them—why I’m the one to carry their memory on my body—I have no idea.
But tears of relief flow down Majesta’s face when she realizes she was never forgotten.
Just misplaced.
“You’re free now,” I tell her. And as soon as these words come out, I understand what’s really happening here. Her soul—all of their souls—have been trapped. Harvested until there’s nothing left of them but their essence—a light the size of a cherry.
From the Source we come, and to the Source we return.
Except, it’s not true.
Not if you’re harvested.
They steal your soul and leave you adrift on the spark sea. Floating on the movements of time for all eternity.
A million ideas flood into me—You could jump in to the sea, become part of it! You could float up into the sky and turn into a star!
You could—
You could—
You could—
But she can’t. She is trapped.
Before I came, she had nothing.
Now, she has but a name.
“It’s enough,” I tell Majesta. I don’t know if I believe that, but I say with confidence. “I won’t forget you. I remember you, Majesta. And…” I look over her shoulder to the thousands of women behind her. Then at all the other ships. How many?
I don’t know.
But I make her a promise. “I will remember you all,” I tell her. Then, for some reason, I bow a little. And when I look up, she is stepping back and another woman is stepping forward. Reaching for my cherry of spark in my head. Begging me to look into her little light and remember her life too. She is from Gamma City Factory and the memories play out in much the same way. Fear. Slavery. Abuse.
Hers is a life of absence. Of emptiness. Of futile existence.
Again, I name her—lighting up another spark symbol on my black, empty outline of a body—and then I apologize. I don’t know why. None of this is my fault. I just feel compelled to try and make up for their sadness. Because I wasn’t sad in my factory life.
I really wasn’t sad at all.
If you gather up all my moments of satisfaction and happiness and weigh them against the ones filled with fear, my misery amounts to something near zero.
And this makes me feel… guilty.
And so, I am compelled to wait in place as one by one, they come forward. And one by one, I see them. I acknowledge them. I remember them. I name them and let that name become part of me when they claim a symbol on my body. None of the memories are happy. Out of millions of lives, not one was good.