The Lesser Light of Dying Stars

Jinwoo Chong
| Fiction

 

Nora Levitt would not see again, that was certain; her face had begun to swell just minutes after exposure. Dr. Merrick did not see much gore in her line of work but the sight of it had turned her stomach. They operated quickly, given the inflammation; with luck, the skin would heal on its own. Had it been worth it, Dr. Merrick wondered, as her breath caught; the helicopter had taken off, en route with her team back to Peridot. She stopped herself; it was not her place to conspire, with her own family at home, safe. Her husband had called the day before: a girl in their daughter’s class had withdrawn from school. She longed for them both while recalling Nora’s calm, listening patiently to paramedics as they wheeled her from the dark room. That had been the image marked ink-like on Dr. Merrick’s mind—the serenity, the empty smile on her lips as she turned from the spot where Leon had stood.
Hundreds more had rejected the Spanish commune and its copy facilities. Everywhere, they burned out. Sublimations depleted municipal resources and resulted in countless injuries, charred remains of homes and hospices, dead caregivers and relatives. In Spain, no solutions had emerged in almost a year. Data on late-stage SDR was scarce; few instruments could withstand the massive heat expulsion. Various governments, under pressure from citizen’s advocacy groups, revisited the option of federal laws to mandate eviction. A tragedy occurred in Geyongju—the brightening of Bek Ki-Won, who had lost her daughter a year earlier. The event, occurring in the night, was the fastest on record at only a matter of seconds, and had left her husband with third- degree burns to the right side of his face and body. He died twelve days later in isolated care.

 

David took his meals in his room, reheated takeout, fast food, things Saul brought home from the grocery store after work. They had been eating like this since Jack’s funeral, food only a sustenance. David’s light had become too harsh to let him roam the house. At dinner time, he waited with the door closed for Saul to set his food in the hallway. Then, for several brief and searing moments, the house would go white as he emerged. Saul closed his eyes around the corner of the second-floor landing, feeling his skin bake, waited for the comforting darkness to return, his blood beating against the surface of his skin, as David shut his door.
It had changed within the year. Eurasia logged less than ten emergences in the last month. Numbers at the Spanish commune and others around the world had dwindled to bare occupancies; novas were expiring faster than new ones could emerge. With fewer and fewer patients, much of the science community had, for better or worse, abandoned treatment efforts. Saul had relayed this information to David one afternoon through the bedroom door. He was one of the only ones left. Saul had said it like that, as though proud. David was quieter than normal that day.
“Hungry?”
David made a noise. Saul listened for more, hearing none. “Why don’t we eat out here with you?” he said, “I think your mother would like that. We can talk through the door.”

 

Jinwoo Chong is an MFA candidate in fiction at Columbia University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in CRAFT, Tahoma Literary Review, The Forge, and others. He serves as Fiction Editor at Columbia Journal.

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