I always found short fiction fascinating, be it a short novel with hundred pages, a short story of few pages, a few paragraphs, less than 500 words, or even the two sentenced stories with 140 limit characters on twitter, I relish in their summarized beauty. Short fiction is just like a relationship. Sometimes, I don't have the energy to invest in a long term relationship with a story that expands in a five books series with long and complicated story lines. Short fiction is the perfect alternative, something you can just pick up and put it down whenever. Sweet and simple. No strings attached.
In fact, from my observations, flash fiction has been gaining popularity. Flash fiction is a type of writing that is extremely brief, typically as low as a few hundred words, but occasionally up to a thousand words. As an avid book reader, devouring in young adult book series was not out of the norm, and with reading, comes a side effect: Getting emotionally attached to fictional characters.
For readers, stories don't end after the last sentence, after the last book. When you are so invested in the characters' lives, you start to crave for more information, deeper story lines and beyond the book. To satisfy the relentless cravings, most people turn to reading fan fiction, for the more invested ones, they write them instead. And yes, I was one of those more 'invested' people. Although I am very glad I had written with a pen name, (which I am not telling), I would bury myself if anyone I know currently finds out. However, I have left that secret fan fiction writer life of mine.
Short fiction is also especially perfect for people with an attention span as short as an goldfish. Us, as the modern human beings, our lives are so enriched with multiple forms of entertainment, that we tend to take them for granted. In the recent years, new social media platforms has been taking advantage of our short attention span as well, from limited characters in tweets to 6 seconds vine videos and so on. Then again, this does not necessarily put having short attention span in a negative light. Instead, I find people who are able to convey such deep and mind blowing messages with limited materials incredibly talented. How many of us are able to make someone laugh in 6 seconds? How many of us can impact someone's thoughts, opinions, and ideas in a short essay of 200 words?
One of my favourite short stories is fairly popular, and most people would have come across it online at some point, especially on Tumblr. This is a story called: The Egg, written by Andy Weir.
The Egg
Andy Weir
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
Of course, some might disagree with the message of the story, why should I be held responsible for every evil deed done by a person in history? What is the meaning of life? Everyone's opinions or interpretation of this story varies, and you are free to take whatever message you want out of it, but to me it was, treat others as you would want to be treated, for we are the same. Nonetheless, we are not supposed to take this so literally, but instead appreciate the idea with open-mindedness. In addition, it does serves as an interesting conversation starter.
Side note, Andy Weir is also the writer of a novel called The Martian, which is one of my favourite books as well. The movie adaption was also as equally amazing. If you are a fan of space travel, science fiction and adventure, I highly recommend it!
Hi everyone, I am Venice. This is my first post here on steemit and I am very excited to be apart of this community. This is something I wrote a while ago and I wanted to share it here on this platform. Do let me know what you think and I will be posting more soon! Constructive criticism is welcomed! Thanks for reading !