Fiction Issue 5


Astronomical Bodies

In a Bahan nightclub where all the stars take their pants off and scorch the Earth, I felt incredibly lonely in my brown suit. I was small as dust, spilled hydrogen, the kind that has an X for a name—and they were all fire; even craters burn with their potluck pebble soups. So I stayed motionless, in tandem with the Earth burn marks. 

Just then, a red dwarf peered down at me—I shot out a ray of light. You up for a dance? Sure, you saw me. We swayed and glitched and I felt my period decreasing by one in a billion—one in a million—one of a lakh—we were proper dancing.

And mid-delay I beachcombed their body—so many watersheds and they still looked so lorn. I thought watersheds meant water and water meant company, but guess not—what then was the point of joints without muscles? What did turning points do if not refashion pebbles into rivers, wax sand into seas? Hey, I asked, why did you come here? Earth’s belly really was dry, the kind of dryness that cracked soils meant for water. Earth had an open throat was their answer. 

Me? I questioned, and they looked star-dazed—what do you mean? You came here the same way, through the throat, in the belly; we all did. No, I meant—and I didn’t know the point of asking someone the intricacies of my own body—do I have an open throat too?

After a flicker, they replied: I don’t know, you never showed me. Then you? Do you have one? I’m not sure, but I’m lonely

My nuclei almost fused. Yeah—and I was overridden with joy to say this, the sacred phrase—me too. 

We continued dancing—clouds collapsed, dust rose, and I could hear the wind blowing from all the stars that towered us two.


T.R.San (they/them) is a queer writer based in Yangon who writes horror without meaning to. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cobra Milk Magazine, INKSOUNDS, and others.

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