• ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Fiction, LiteratureAugust 30, 2014

The Courage Necessary

Universe inside, by Ankolie

By Scott Kolp

for Theresa

“The poem supreme, addressed to
emptiness – this is the courage

necessary. This is something
quite different.”

                        ~ Robert Creeley

They wanted to live on the Moon, so they did. One day, they just got into their rocket ship, and they left.

They arrived after four days, disembarking as matter-of-factly as they’d left, planting their feet, for what felt like the first time, on solid ground.

The Moon was a wasteland. The Moon was 14.6 million square miles of nothingness dotted with pockmarks and craters.

No one took a deep breath, because there’s no air on the moon. What little air they had was in oxygen tanks, and one couldn’t waste that on grand sighs or exultant gasps.

Instead, he turned to her and said something like, “Look at it. There’s nothing in any direction.”

She nodded, not wanting to waste oxygen on compulsory expressions of agreement.

With that, his hand searched for hers and found it. They began to walk wordlessly, hand-in-hand, away from the rocket ship.

Neither one turned to watch as it disappeared behind a dune of moon dust. Their eyes were fixed on the horizon.

They walked like this for what seemed like hours, or maybe it was only minutes. Neither knew; neither had thought to bring a watch.

On 14.6 million square miles of nothingness, any one spot was as good as any other. At any point, one could simply sit and make a place out of nothing.

They made theirs at the edge of a massive crater.

She wanted to say something but found she had nothing to say. He sensed this and nodded, not wanting to waste oxygen on compulsory expressions of agreement. Together they trained their eyes on the crater, wondering silently at its history.

They sat like this for what seemed like hours, or maybe it was only minutes. Neither knew; neither had brought a watch.

At once, they both motioned to rise and explore. But then the Earth appeared: a thin, blue membrane peeking over the horizon.

They stayed to watch it rise.

“Do you miss it?” she asked, finally thinking of something to say.

He shook his head, not wanting to waste oxygen on compulsory expressions of agreement.

“Me neither,” she said, affording herself the luxury.

It was strange to watch the Earth hanging precariously in the inky abyss of space. Whereas the Moon presents an unchanging, stoic face to its cosmic dance partner, the Earth is the very visage of changefulness and turmoil.

They looked on; the clouds swirled, cities twinkled.

They both found themselves wishing to be rid of their spacesuits. They wanted to hold hands, but for real.

This they could not have.

But, they knew each other’s bodies well, and the memory of such only sweetened in absence. Besides, there was only so much oxygen, and it couldn’t be wasted on compulsory expressions of affection. Instead, they felt their hearts swell.

With little else to do, they laid back and took hold of each other’s gloved hands once again.

Having seen both the expanse of nothingness and the tumultuous blue orb hanging in the inky abyss of space, they finally turned to see each other.

They smiled.

Their moon was a wasteland. Their moon was 200 million square miles of nothingness dotted with cities and clouds.

“I like it here,” he said.

“I like it here, too,” she said.

They wanted to live on the Moon, so they did. And they lived like that for what seemed like an eternity, or maybe it was only forever. Neither knew; neither had brought a watch.

 

Scott Kolp is a writer living in Los Angeles, CA.

Tags

Ankoliefictionflash fictionScott KolpStory of the Week

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleThe making of newcomers
Next articleClock-Watching

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Suits: Adapting to Changing Circumstances

Reviewed by Shazia Ahmad

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Reinventing the Reel: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Film critic Chuck Williamson pulls no punches in his evaluation of Jonathan Liebesman’s "terminally stupid" ‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ reboot.

Close