Press Coverage

[Gundham]

Rebekah Hayes nervously waited for the hallways to clear. The after school crowds were sluggish, and she had to endure the sight of a couple of humans who were busy kissing in front of the lockers. She didn't mind the wait. It was just another little ritual, one of the things that she just had to put up with from time to time. Eventually the kissers moved on, and the students melted away to wherever they went when they weren't here. When Rebekah was confident that no one was around, she snuck over to the little rack where the new editions of the student paper were stacked.

It probably didn't matter whether anybody saw. It probably wasn't like people would see her flipping through to find the poem and immediately cotton on that she was the one who'd written it. But she kept up the ritual all the same. She always read the poems alone, scanning the words to make sure they were all there, that she hadn't made any mistakes when sending it off.

Like all the others, this poem was credited to Anonymous. She liked the way the word looked in italic font. It made it more mysterious and alluring somehow.

Soulmates
by Anonymous

There are
Seven billion human beings
On this planet.
One hundred
And seventy-two thousand
And eight hundred of them
Will die today.
Seven thousand and two hundred of them
Will die in the next hour.
One hundred and twenty of them
Will die in the next minute.

Two human beings die every second.
Which means that
Forty-two human beings
Died while you were reading this poem.

But it also means
That when you die
That somewhere
Out there
Someone else
Someone old
Someone young
Someone near
Or someone far
Will be dying too.

That person is your soulmate.

And in that last moment
When it all goes black
And you feel alone
You won't be.
Your soulmate will be there
Waiting for you
With a hand outstretched.
And they will take your hand
And hold it tight.
And whatever comes next
Whatever's out there beyond the black
The two of you
Will go hand in hand
And search for it together.

Rebekah read it over once, then a second time. Her thoughts always felt scattered and chaotic when they were inside her head, and that made it very difficult to pull them out and stick them onto paper. But here they were, laid out in orderly little rows. They were like kindergarteners in formalwear - not in their natural state, but made presentable for others. She folded the paper up carefully and put it in her backpack, to put with the rest in the shoebox on her bookshelf. Even if it was just a little flimsy student paper, destined to be glanced through for a few seconds and then immediately crumpled up and discarded, it was still her words, her ideas, inked onto paper for others to read. A tangible reminder that she had, in her own quiet furtive little way, actually produced something of value.

Her cellphone buzzed. Her dad, wondering where she was. She sent him a reply, assuring him that she'd be home soon. Then she ran out of the school, and into the sunshine.