Stars Above

Though the tides of time have drowned civilizations and nurtured new empires, humans in the past, present, and future all gaze at the same sky.

Phoenix Ning is a twenty-year-old Chinese writer of sapphic antiheroines and queer found families. She is currently a senior studying human-computer interaction. When not writing, she can be found watching C-Dramas and penning raps. A fierce advocate of diversity in media, she hopes that her audience will feel empowered after reading her words or listening to her songs.

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I. Saariselkä, 2022 

Sleep eludes the actress. 
She sheds the threadbare duvet. 
Tiptoe, tiptoe, out the glass igloo. Into
the cold embrace of a Finnish night. 

Heavenward, the constellations. 
Grinning Archer and angry Goat.
Water-Bearer fair, the Scorpion leers.
The Scales can no longer be seen. 

Temperance. Killed by dating scandals.
Prowling haters with frothing mouths.
Idols, dolls, trinkets, and the 27 Club.
Star power shines brighter brighter bright. 

The actress launches the compass
on her brand new smartphone. 
Calibrate, tilt it, calibrate, tilt. 
Aim the needle, find True North. 

Cold air knifes her nostrils. 
She peers up, sees the aurora borealis,
jade ribbons on the gown of Night,
viridian river, ethereal delight. 

Stillness. No screams. No cameras.
Surrounded by the sky and snow, the
actress is smaller than a speck of fairy
dust from her childhood tales. 

The needle snaps north. Her smile flowers,
a resilient plum blossom unfazed by the
cold, beastly, suited men. 
Cruel comments about her body forgotten. 

There is only her and the stars above.
The roiling waves of time bury all.
Even so, she will not forget her people.
Before her, with her, and after her. 

II. Tokyo, 2083 

Sleep eludes the artist. 
She crawls out of bed. 
Dons her glittery cybernetic suit.
Sweeps onto the neon-soaked streets. 

Heavenward, holographic dancers, 
cavorting to slapping footsteps on white concrete.
Android girls flaunt hourglass bodies. Red-eyed
children beam at holographic koi. 

Humanity. Buoyed by computers. 
Information overload in laggy headsets.
Science, technology, engineering, and math.
Fill the collective grail with new inventions. 

The artist slips into an alleyway, 
presses her index fingers to a mossy console.
Seams race down the building’s side. 
A door. Enter. Lock it behind you. 

Warm cheers resound from a round table
where eleven creatives are seated. 
Ukulele and palette and notepad. 
Thespian masks and microphones. 

Laughter. No gadgets. No scarcity. 
Surrounded by friends and lovers, 
the artist unveils her latest sketches 
of an old movie in the Finnish mountains. 

Oohs and aahs fill the dim room. 
“Look at the Northern Lights.” 
“Hey, the lead is a Japanese actress!”
“It’s so nice to see someone like us.” 

There is the actress and the stars above.
The twelve artists who breathe life 
into creations with no wires and gears.
And all the ones who will come after.

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