CREATIVE WorRKS

ee BW el sk Orcs ahi / =
ere ge

a)

Sonam Kaloti
Arts Editor

 

I begin to conjure the worth we see, beyond our eyes
past shows, the stars, to where only darkness lies.

the edge—

plaka Cony melo lBlatKo) oye

can we make it beyond?

then tell me, if we can't, what is it all expanding from?
let’s say we opened the opportunity to reach the edge
let’s say we go past it

rg

itr)

cee

that there is absolutely nothing, but

aN Ace ery adel

nothing, in terms, is something, so long as

we have a word for it, so long as

Soa Lan toy ian bte LLB oe

so, let’s say we make it there

and with despair

come to terms with only blank space, though

with nothing we can make something

to create something with our minds and mold it from nothing
create something that doesn't exist, a nonexistent colour, per se,
DST tak OMT Uc) pL cas tear VeVOLO] Covey COLTS ETE MANTON em NCAA

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dans Bronte

Gu Lahslamiw No) BTeVETNTI Co

Space
Geographer
Part 11

Morgan Hannah
Life & Style Editor

 

i clusters, like some horrific science experiment... what I can only assume are people, writhe and twist. They look like a species somewhere between myself
and the creature that led me here. Moaning, clicking, and gasping for air, their skin bubbles and pops—there’s a green hue underneath the first couple of
layers of flesh. They are mangled together in a hellish way, like melting metal and it’s enough for me to bring up all the water I had consumed earlier. Loose and
fast, the liquid dribbles down my chin and the front of my shirt with each heave. My fists grip at the fabric across my torso, squeezing it tight until it hurts. All
around me, stalagmites and stalactites emerge from the rough, wet stone, like teeth in a cancerous mouth. Torn t-shirts, boots, and splintered helmets litter the
uneven ground, pale and drenched. A crack way up high in the cavernous space sheds light down on the equivalent to the pits of hell.

Tam reminded of the smashed observatory window in my ship, and my eyes well up. J should have never left that fucking ship... | never would've seen...
this. Never would've known. Dying of a lack of oxygen would have been a better way to go than the disturbing reality I am now aware I will have to endure. It’s
suddenly clear to me now why the creature that led me into the belly of this mountain looks like a fucking brined vegetable.

This goddamn planet is nothing more than a steamed pickle jar, and lost explorers, lost Space Geographers are the vegetables inside. The proof writhes in

front of me and inside me, there’s no denying that I will not be returning home from this expedition.
Fin.