Dandelion

Tanya Ashraf

Amongst absolute darkness, there is little place to reside. It is ironic that a body so vast holds such scarcity. No longer are there planets or stars. There is nothing. Empty beings are pulled along in a hypnotic lull – they, too, are nothing. Perhaps “nothing” is unbecoming, as it is technically all we have. Surely, then, it is something?

Far above, they watched in feigned omniscience. Anyone can tell you that a world without life is not a world, but how does one create life? When there is no universe to explode, no one to blow the vitalistic breath of life, then what?

They looked to each other for guidance, yet were met with blankness.

One fell – assumedly one of the youngest. As opposed to being pushed to their premature death, they appeared instead to reach towards it with an infant-like, grasping limb. 

They continued to watch. It didn’t matter. Arguably, it was a desirable way to go.  

And then, it stopped. 

Suddenly, there was colour. Not much, but more than before. The figure outstretched, much more aware of itself now that it was visible, more than just a shadow. It looked around, foreign to this place. More figures stood, too bodied to be the same as it. Yet, they were too drained of life to be humans. All of them watched, with eyes as soulless as those that stared at the fall. 

Then, a tug came from behind. It spun to find a little girl. It looked at where she had grasped on – hands? Foreign to the concept of both limbs and contact with girls, it looked back up at 

her, at her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes! Forget overused metaphors of what used to be the ocean or sky – no, that would be insulting, to think her beauty was of something bigger than her. No, her eyes were full of life, life that was so clearly intertwined with her being, not a gift granted to her by a larger power. It was certainly prevalent enough to be so abundant in a universe that had lost it so wholly. How those around them didn’t see, didn’t lunge at her for possessing what they so desperately need, was a complete mystery.

“They don’t understand”.

A voice! A sound unheard of for such a long time; once there is nothing, there is nothing to talk about. To you, to me, it may have been mundane, broken, even, after such a long silence. But to it, the voice was beauty. A beauty that it did not possess, but it so dearly wanted to. Not to steal it, like the others above would, but to share it, like a little secret.

In her other hand, she clutched something else, just as intensely. It reached for it, compelled, driven both by curiosity and a newfound strength in its – limbs?

It was paper, occupied with unintelligible scratches and black markings. Whether it was lack of intellect or legibility, who knew. She took his silence in her stride, and began to read aloud, her voice this time a dainty whisper peppered with a few stutters.

“I wanted to be a ballet dancer. A writer. A singer. 

 But they told me, no –

a waste of time, with a pointed finger.

I wanted to dream, in a world where they wanted me to produce

And now, now that creativity is dead

humanity none but lingers”

At that moment, our breathing was simultaneous. Quivering, as if panting, but in solidarity. I lifted my gaze towards her, forming my words, when she suddenly started. Another vibrant shock amongst the familiar bleakness, this made me, too, flinch.

Silent, she stood, wide-eyed. 

She was not alone.

All around me, the now alerted bodies held me, us, in their gazes. Fearfully, I looked to the girl, suddenly wishing for the invisibility I was so used to. Yet, she no longer cared for me, and instead had her eyesight set on her paper.

Her…paper?

It wasn’t there. Only her hands remained, clutching at nothing.

We looked back up. Again, I was no longer the centre of attention. 

Gone were the disturbed, rippling forms, and instead fully-bodied creatures stood. Not for long, though, as they began to collect themselves and disperse, driven by a newfound energy source. It was only then I noticed the suddenly illuminated world they were scurrying to. Office buildings, streetlamps, and roads surrounded me, a resemblance of a historic painting. 

She was looking at me again. Still, she was prettier than anything around us. A grin grew on her face while my eyes darted between hers haphazardly.

Yes, definitely prettier. 

The next thing I knew, her hand was loosely grasped around my forearm, and she began to tug at me. Still foreign to human touch, I followed. My thoughts are a little more than cloudy mush. 

Who knows how long we walked. It must have been long, for I began to grow weary, another feeling I wasn’t used to. I met it with open arms, however. To feel the drawbacks of humanity, I think, is far better than to not feel humanity at all.

She seemed to be at ease, as if the recent events were normal. Although I resembled an arguably even more ghoulish version of our earlier companions, she oddly seemed to accept me entirely as one of her remaining own. While our darkening visions began to become occupied by winding, faded lanes instead of city billboards, I grew to learn more about her. She couldn’t tie her shoelaces. I tried to for her, but they were too twisty and confusing. Her favourite colour was orange, I think; she became occupied with the sunset, so much that she would stop walking to stare upwards. The girl shied away during our first encounter, but would lift her eyes to pick a flower. Not the big, imposing ones, but the dainty, barely noticeable ones. 

A little yellow flower was clutched in her hands, which she offered to me.

“Dandelion”, she said. I took this dandelion graciously.

Eventually, we stopped at a little building, possibly a cottage. Again, I had no idea why we were there, or honestly about anything. Yet, I joined her, and together we peered in through a window. Originally, I mistook it for a strangely placed mirror, for I was met with a face that closely resembled the one beside me. This boy was younger, yet much more frail. In fact, everything about the house was aged and dreary. Upon seeing my new friend, his expression showed a glimpse of something, and he withdrew into his room – his bedroom – and began to call for someone. Another walked into the room, while he reached for what looked like a notebook from a nearby shelf. He began to read from it.

At that moment, I finally realised what was happening. I was watching what had happened when the girl read out loud earlier. She shifted next to me, already eager to move onwards. I remained there, still curious. I watched, as the lifeless forms before me began to straighten, and eyes opened as wide as a newborn’s first does. It was almost too much to take in, seeing something so great being given so easily. 

I looked at the girl.

I was met with dumbfoundedness. Once again, she reached for me, and led to the front of the little cottage, which she pointed me towards.  

I peered, only to find a boy looking back at me. No, not the boy from earlier, a new one. It was then I realised I was looking at shards of mirror that decorated the door.

I was looking at…myself?

No longer a shapeless, thoughtless mist, I now had a face, and hair, and expressions – and eyes! Eyes full of light, just like the girl’s!

I spun wildly to rejoice.

 But, I was met with nothing. She was no longer there. 

I was alone.

I turned back to see myself, but I was no longer there. The mirror, the house, the people, were no longer there. 

Again taken over by perplexity, I take slight solace in the slightly crumpled dandelion in my hands, which I clutch tighter than ever, desperate to not be parted from it.

I look up to an entirely different view. Gone are the green fern and the mellow sky. Instead, I was back…to the beginning? The end? Back to where I was before. The encompassing nothingness around me made me even more aware of the crushed petals, being the only thing left.

Perhaps it was meant to be. 

By being able to experience a glimpse of the salvation of this world, I had hope. Hope that the girl and more of her kind would continue to relight what has long been smothered, and maybe even that she would uncover a path to me once again. In the meantime, I won’t forget her.

Dandelion, I decided to name her, would always be remembered for her eyes, her kindness, and – most importantly – her words, and how they brought life. Hopefully, they would one day too be remembered for bringing back humanity.

–

Tanya Ashraf, a university student, finds solace in creative writing, using it as a gateway to reconnect with her cherished childhood memories. With each stroke of her pen, she breathes life into her stories, bridging the gap between past and present, and preserving the magic of her youthful imagination.