by Norah Park, 16
In the land above, there was sun. It bathed the faces of the young in golden light and transformed their world into an ethereal paradise. Rivers overflowed with milk and honey, fields grew lush and swayed in the gentle breeze that coursed through the air. Above, they basked in luxury and merriment without end, each day as brilliant as the last, and they knew neither sorrow nor pain.
Below, there was darkness. From the branches of skeletal trees hung the tangled limbs of animal carcasses, savaged beyond recognition. Where honey and milk ran through the rivers above, those below were sustained only by dust and soot. The cheeks of the people were sunken in, their figures angular and skin the pallor of white death. Yet, by some divine mystery, they could not perish from starvation nor sickness. They stood motionless, eyes weakly closed and lips pulled taut as they sunk deeper into the damnation that lay before them every waking hour. They called this place the Hollow, for everything good existed above, yet only a cavernous, miserable void occupied the space below.
In the midst of the frigid blackness, a boy stared defiantly at the sky that echoed faintly of the extravagance and laughter just overhead. He seethed with indignation, for it was no fault of his nor any of his brothers or sisters that they had been born into the Hollow. Though he harbored hate for those above, whose privileges were unearned and unappreciated, he was filled with an equal yearning to see the overworld, to be touched by the sun’s radiant warmth that he had never felt before but somehow knew. Seeing the barren, desolate wasteland he was forced to call home, the deity decided that the sun must shine its blessing upon this land. Out of the tumult of his emotions came a clear resolution: he would travel to the surface to bring the sun for his people.
The immortals of the underworld were hesitant to give their approval. “We have lived this way for too long,” they cried. “You shan’t disturb our way of life, no matter our anguish.” Yet many more grew restless at the thought of having their own sun, to be as happy as they believed those above to be. The god had planted a seed that steadily took root in the people’s hearts, an insatiable hungering for hope and light. His kin hoisted him on their shoulders, and with a final farewell, lifted him up into the overworld.
Emerging from the shadows, the god found that he could not open his eyes, for the searing brightness would pierce into his temple whenever he ventured to squint out at the world. Once his vision was restored, he was immediately awe-struck by the rich landscape, glittering and beautiful and unlike anything he had ever known. Curious earth deities observed him from afar. They took note of his emaciated appearance, the unfamiliar, desperate look in his eyes that made it clear he did not belong. “Return from whence you came!” they jeered, making a mockery of his tattered robes and scrawny limbs. Yet he paid them no attention as he approached the tallest tree he could find and began to climb. Branch upon leaf upon fruit, he climbed, each step making him closer to having the sun in his grasp.
He reached the pinnacle of the tree and beheld the sun in all of its blazing glory. The young deity did not care for the tears that streaked down his face, or the scorching pain in his eyes. With a heart swollen with promise and pride, he extended both arms towards the sun, beckoning it to enter his embrace.
Suddenly, the sun flared, emitting a light so pure and sacred, so harsh and repellent, that the god was flung from his tree, his body set ablaze. As he fell, he wished for his people to have light, to see what he had seen, to realize that the brilliance above is their birthright too. Crumbling to ash in his descent, the embers, flickering crimson and yellow, became fireflies, each one carrying the golden ichor of the sun. When the god had fully disappeared, the fireflies dutifully returned to the underworld and let the god’s death be known to his kinsfolk.
They mourned him dearly, commemorating his courage to shoulder their cries and reach for the sun. Though he was lost, the people were at ease with his demise for he shattered the cycle of suffering and finally escaped his torment. In the darkness, the fireflies illuminated the expressions of hope and resolve on the god’s people, a vow that while they will inevitably face tribulations, they will never again be without light.
Cresskill, New Jersey
Reader’s note: This piece is beautifully written and deeply evocative, with a mythic, allegorical tone that adds weight to the narrative. The contrast between the idyllic overworld and the bleak Hollow is stark and effective, creating a vivid moral and emotional landscape. Your use of language is poetic and immersive—lines like “the sky that echoed faintly of the extravagance and laughter just overhead” and “the deity decided that the sun must shine its blessing upon this land” are especially compelling.
Bridge Ink 