December | 2023 | SYNAPSEONFIRE

STASIS

Emory Wall existed in a dystopian world; a world ravaged by environmental collapse and societal upheaval, where the looming shadow of despair obscured the thin veil of hope survivors like Emory still clung to.

Emory had been an astrophysicist, a dreamer in a world that had all but forgotten how to dream. The world lay drowning in a malaise, the very air was thick with uncertainty, the very fabric of existence seeming to fray at the edges. Everything breaking down or already non-functioning. Only a dwindling subset of survival mechanisms remained, tended by a dwindling group of scientists and visionaries, and even to those carefully coddled systems, entropy approached.

As the last remaining hope for humanity’s survival, Emory found himself amongst a group of others, carefully chosen for their skill sets, standing on the threshold of a daunting decision. The planet’s resources had dwindled to a critical point, and the only chance for a future lay in cryogenic stasis—a leap into the unknown, suspended animation for a select few that promised a distant awakening in a time when the world might be healed.

The time for that decision was now. Emory, adorned in a sleek, white jumpsuit, stood in a sterile chamber staring at the cryogenic pod that would soon become either his sanctuary or his doom. The soft hum of whirring machinery did not soothe him. The room, and the sounds, a symphony of the technological marvel of a bygone age was now both potential savior and captor.

A whirlwind of emotions stormed within him—a cocktail of fear, determination, and a flicker of hope that fought to stay ablaze in the darkness. The weight of responsibility bore down heavily upon his shoulders; the fate of humanity seemed to rest upon his decision to step into the pod.

Emory’s mind raced, questioning the implications of his choice and scanning the myriad consequences of his decision.

What if he never woke up?

What if he did and his mind was blank?

What if the world beyond the pod’s doors was even bleaker than the one they left behind?

But, nestled deep within the crevices of his consciousness Emory clung to a belief that whispered of the possibility of a better tomorrow, a belief echoing the words of forgotten souls who once dreamed of a world adorned with possibilities.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, each footfall resonating like a drumbeat in his head, marking his passage into an unknown future. He could feel the chill of its metallic surface against his skin as he entered the pod. He closed his eyes as the lid sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss, the world fading into an eerie silence. Automated delivery systems and monitors attached themselves to his body but he hardly noticed the slight stings of their intrusions as the sedatives that came first began to take hold.

In those fleeting moments before succumbing to cryo-slumber, Emory’s mind whirled. He reflected on the world he was leaving behind—a world ravaged by greed, a world where the echoes of laughter and the vibrant hues of nature had been replaced by desolation. Yet, in the recesses of his mind, a tiny ember of hope still burned brightly—a beacon illuminating a path to an uncertain but tantalizing future.

The last image etched in Emory’s mind was not of desolate landscapes or crumbling cities, but rather the faint glimmer of stars in the night sky—a reminder of the infinite expanse waiting beyond the confines of his current reality.

As stasis enveloped him in its ethereal embrace, Emory surrendered to the void, knowing that in his suspended state, time would slip away, carrying him towards an enigmatic destiny—a destiny intertwined with the fate of a world yet to be reborn.

ABANDONED

Let me take you on a journey, a journey back in time, to a place, a house, a house of memories. Such places have a story to tell to anyone who cares to listen, so bear with me.

Our journey begins at the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet nondescript neighborhood. Here stands a house bearing the weight of memories within its weathered walls. The front yard once meticulously tended, has grown wild with overgrown shrubs and untrimmed grass, hinting at a long absence of care. Layers of accumulated dust and grime coat windows, once gleaming with life, now lifeless and opaque, obscuring the view into the dwelling.

Stay with me as we go inside. Entering is like stepping into a time capsule frozen in an unknown era. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old books and faded memories. In the living room, a worn-out armchair sits by the fireplace, its fabric threadbare from years of use. Next to it stands a side table adorned with a floral patterned teapot and a collection of mismatched cups—a testament to a fondness for afternoon tea sessions, perhaps shared with close friends or cherished family.

Look around you. Faded photographs adorn the walls, capturing moments of joy and laughter. One in particular, a portrait of a younger couple in happier times smiles back from a silver frame on the mantelpiece. Their eyes sparkle with shared dreams and promises of forever. Yet, the absence of a wedding band on the man’s finger and the weathered edges of the photograph suggest that life has taken its toll, leaving behind remnants of a once bright blooming love.

There is a door left ajar in a corner of this room. As we go through, we find ourselves in the kitchen. Here, the faint aroma of spices and aged recipes still lingers. A cookbook, tattered and well-used, lies open on the counter, pages marked with handwritten notes and splatters of ingredients. Overhead, the shelves still hold an assortment of spices from around the world, hinting at a desire for adventure and a taste for exotic flavors. An apron hangs on a hook by the door, as if recently hung there, stained with memories of countless culinary experiments and shared meals.

Did you notice the staircase around the corner in the room we left? Upstairs, a bedroom whispers stories of solace and introspection. The bed, perfectly made but untouched, faces a window overlooking the garden—a sanctuary for quiet contemplation. A writing desk nestles in a corner bearing witness to countless hours spent pouring thoughts onto paper. Ink-stained journals stacked on a shelf chronicle the innermost musings of a soul seeking understanding and meaning in the mundanity of existence.

In a corner of the bedroom, by the window, is another door. It’s closed, but inside is another staircase, less ornate than the one we climbed up to get here. It leads up to the attic. Here, among forgotten treasures and dusty boxes, lie remnants of hobbies long abandoned. An easel stands in one corner, surrounded by half-finished canvases capturing moments of raw emotion and untold stories. A guitar rests against an old amplifier, its strings rusted now, but still resonant, whispering melodies left unplayed for too long.

It’s getting late now, and it’s time to go. As the sun begins its descent, casting long shadows through the windows, the house remains silent, holding onto the echoes of life once lived. Each item left behind is a testament to the person who called this house home—a soul now immortalized in the artifacts of a life left behind.