Change

• Saugat Bhattarai, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2022

The figure returns the gaze. The yellowish hue that emanates against the stygian atmosphere gloomily illuminates the man. Carefully and elegantly stabbing the man as he rests on the lovely, lush green grass, an unremorseful bed of nails like. On this calm yet humid night, the shadows are closer to him. As his mind wonders about what should’ve and could’ve, he begins to fall into an abyss that reality is inevitably pulling him off. But as the man's ears pick up a gentle flapping coming from the shadows, reality appears to have assumed the form of a flying monster. His ears spring out as the pushing by the grass leaves give the man an uncomfortable yet calm sensation, like getting into a shower and feeling the water touch your back and realising how lovely it is. The sound of the water making contact with the walls. The white noise that enters. The steam from the water surrounded him like a well-known friend. The darkness overwhelms him. Like the steam. But this time, a rather distasteful familiarity. His worn-out, faded clothing seems to be becoming heavier. The creature's tiny legs grab hold of his clothing, putting an end to the fluttering. The man looks at the beetle on his numb chest. With his heavy green eyes. He observes the creature's twinkling eyes and tiny oval body, which is barely larger than the man's thumbnail. It covers itself in a joyous and vivid crimson. Resembling new blood from a cold, delicate and vulnerable tissue. A few tiny, dark black spots that resemble holes are present against the otherwise vibrant, once-bright area that was previously a haven for bees to gather sweet nectar from a variety of flowers of all kinds. The ruins of this once stunning, accurate illustration of mother nature's potential have left a meadow filled with careless actions, distraught, distress, and dismay. The beetle takes off, beginning to flap its tiny wings as it moves with the breeze. The man was all too familiar with the wind. The man looks on. Then, in the same manner, as in previous periods of his lengthy and deprived life, he freezes. The man observes as the ominous skies leave him astray. He observes those who have already left and those who have just arrived. However, the brilliant cratered moon continues to sing him a song. This song had a pleasant melody and wasn't overly loud or quiet. It was flawless. Ethereal. Inimitable. His feet and hands by his side watched as the world moved while becoming lifeless and immobile. Not as it used to, his heart pumped and beat in time with the moon's music.