The night is an old woman. She is not so old that she cannot remember her birth yesterday at
6:45 p.m. She remembers the questions of her youth. Her first question, oddly enough, wasn't who or
what was the reason for her existing. That query for the Creator came later, after her wild phase.
No. The night first wondered about the being she saw leaving her world at her birth. She faintly
remembers his luminous form, his bright, fading heart. She would have liked to have asked him many
questions. She wanted to know why he looked so different from her. She wanted to know why his
brightness reminded her of old pain that she experienced in the womb. She wanted to know why,
despite this remembered pain, was she fascinated by him and felt him to be related to her in some
special way. Most importantly, she wanted to ask him why he was leaving her.
But the night was too timid to approach him. He seemed resigned to some consuming fate that
she could not discern. He was much too wrapped up in his own ancient thoughts, and she did not want
to disturb him. She reluctantly let him leave her world and wondered for quite some time afterwards if
she would ever see him again.
An hour or so passed, and she grew, and was transformed into a beautiful, sparkling young
woman. She spread her star-studded wings, and opened her pale, cold eye into a crescent in the depths
of her black face. The questions inside her dwindled in this youthful phase of her life between eight and
one in the morning. She was wild during this time and flung fiery balls of vapor to the far distances of
her domain. She was concerned only with the present and the pleasures of the moment.
Around one o'clock in the morning, however, the experiences of her youth had made her a more
mature woman. She began to take her life and responsibilities more seriously. She started
contemplating again, and in thought became somewhat lonely. She wondered why she existed, why
there was nothing else like her, and why it was her fate to be who she was. She wondered what higher
force created her, and gave this mysterious entity many names. She never doubted the existence of a
Creator. She felt Its unmistakable presence in the core of her graceful, ethereal body.
The time came when the night felt a catalytic change in the air. This change reached out with
long fingers and barely caressed her body. The sensations radiating through her body at this invasion
brought back memories of forgotten discomfort from long ago. She found, though, that she could not
worry about the current proceedings and where they might lead. Something about what was happening
struck a chord in her body and made her feel that this was all natural, almost routine. She wondered if
what was happening then had happened to her before in a past life, another of her theories of creation.
The hours slipped away, and it is now 6:30 a.m. The night is an old, ailing woman. That
uncomfortable feeling which had started an hour and a half ago had become a constant torment. So
much time had passed in which she suffered that suffering had become a part of her reality, her being.
She knows she is dying, and she accepts her death. She is serene and thoughtful, patiently awaiting the
inevitable. Off in the distance, she sees a child in the process of being born. The child is the source of a
great heat which she long ago discovered was the cause of her pain. Already the boy's bright, fiery heart
is visible. She knows this must be the reincarnation of the being she had seen so long ago when she was
but a babe. Observing the pregnancy, she realizes the fetus is discomforted in its heavenly womb. It
occurs to her that it is her cold, dark body so near the unborn child that causes it to fret the way it does.
She thinks it odd that the Creator would make it so that as she is caused pain by something, so would
she cause pain to it.
In a sudden dawning of light, the son is born. The night slowly yet steadily turns away from the
living child. She no longer knows the pain shed by him. Her body is too close to death to feel anything,
and she knows in this weakened form that she can no longer hurt the boy with her own cold presence.
As she turns from him, she sees in his curious face a desire to talk to her, to perhaps ask her a question;
she is in no mood for conversation with the young and energetic, and figures her severe attitude
intimidates the boy enough so that he keeps his peace.
Now night moves into the endless void alone. She is happy, she will finally know what follows
death. She hopes many of her questions will be answered, and she boldly enters into the unknown,
never once looking back.
Originally published by ONE HOUR 2003
Todd Sullivan currently lives in Seoul, South Korea, where he teaches English as a Second Language. He has had more than two dozen short stories, poems, essays, and novelettes published across five countries. He currently has two book series through indie publishers in America. He writes for a Taipei web and play series that focuses upon black and African narratives. He founded the online magazine, Samjoko, in 2021, and hosts a YouTube Channel that interviews writers across the publishing spectrum.