Short Fiction 2023 Second Prize, Shalini Singh

 Perigee Apogee

Year 2027

A quick calendar in a slow year flips in. I have been marking calendars and filing dates with an abruption that is persevering on the desires rather than accomplishing those desires. I have seen shapes before but never a colored shape. A blue. Dot. A blue dot. 

The point of the orbit closest to Earth is called perigee, while the point farthest from Earth is known as apogee. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss crossed. A blue. Dot. A blue dot. 

The distance between these points affects satellite operations, data collection, and orbital maintenance. I am stuck somewhere in between and have been here since that blue dot surfaced in the endless dark. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss crossed.

I am stuck. But I am aware. A blue. Dot. A blue dot. 

Aware of how I am no more when I orbit. I am trying to get closer to the blue dot but failing. It is as if I am circling. Failing and circling. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss-crossed. Back to where I began. Back to zero. A big fat zero that cracks my ego open, and the orbit becomes a heated pan, my yolk spread on the tiles, my dead dog licking the yellow off the floor, as my spirit sticks in. 

I flip in. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss crossed. A blue. Dot. A blue dot.