The Children of the Golden Sun
Chana Fisher
In the beginning, we were small, unencumbered, and naive. We were lost souls enjoying the warmth of the blood orange sun that tinged the fringes of the new skin. We were wanderers with hazy smiles that drew across our sun kissed, pink chins. We were olympians chasing a ball through an unimagned court. We were simply girls. We were just boys. Mostly, we were children. Small creatures that roamed the unassuming earth. I didn’t know there was another world abound. I didn’t know there was another truth looming. I didn’t want to know because to know was to tumble the foundation of my mountain of reason. On the edge of the cliff we danced. Happy, we were, as lost children.
I was interviewed for Vanity Fair a few weeks ago. I sat in a regulated, black suit. My legs were stiff, crossed, and undesired. I sighed, as I waited for the interview to begin. I tapped my foot slowly, and moved my silky hair behind my shoulder. The interviewer held a recorder in her unbashful hand, and pressed the button. Her smile jittered from the remains of morning coffee. Again, I waited for the deluge of questions to flood the remaining space in the room. I waited to feel the sensation of floating on memory. I waited for the moment of transcendence: the drift. She smiled at me, as she shifted her glasses back into a position one may deem closer to her eyes. I waited. I did not smile. Smiles were reserved for pleasure. Pleasure was an emotion I struggled to feel after. After the freedom was gone. After the dark buildings and gray stones were deemed the future of my existence.
She placed the recorder and pen on the table. She shifted her stance, leaned back on the couch, adjusted her sweater, and leaned forwards. Directly into my dark eyes she glanced. Her blue eyes blazed. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me your tale of mystical wonders. Tell me about the magical land.” These days I found that I did as I was told. When I was told to sleep, I followed. When I was told to eat, I followed. When I was told simple false facts about my whims, my desires, my essence, I followed with hasty nods. I twitched, as the interviewer’s blue eyes began to intertwine with my own sharp glances.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, there is no purpose in speaking words that can not be described. I will not tell you, I will show.” I quickly grabbed the soft, untouched hand of the interviewer, and the interview quickly began.
We dreamed of discovering a lost castle. A lost cave of untouched reason. A lost figure of unimaginable truth that sat on a throne of thrones. Prostrated by the scents of yellow roses: the scents of jealousy. How we longed for this unstable figure, how we longed for this unattainable youth. Our hope was from a picture. A small engraving of yellow and blue that was found in the parcel Daisy carried. Daisy’s withered red bag always slung on the back of her shoulder. Daisy’ bag was rooted to her tethered soul. The engraving was not originally stowed away in this reddish-pink sack. Rather, the engraving was first attached to a simple string that nestled against the contours of Daisy’s yellowing neck. Then one day, the string severed in a great demise. Daisy was left grasping the engagement in her bloodied bare hand. Drenched in blood, Daisy feared losing the emblem of her hope and quickly stashed the bloodied piece in her red pouch. The blood stained the lightly faded red; a deeper shade of crimson forever encompassed Daisy’s sack.
We were once around the campfire and a boy asked the reason for the emblem. “The reason?” Daisy’s eyebrows rose, searching for a questionable purpose. “Yes,” The boy answered. “Everything is made for a reason and reason is made for all.” Daisy dug her foot in the sandy, dirt, as she shifted her shoulders to the side. I remember glancing upwards at the dark mountain in the distance. I recall the shift of the mountain; the haze of the shadow upon the hue of the iridescent campfire. I remember the crackle of the earth. I remember the sway of my shoulders and arms, as I began to shiver from the fear of uncovering a previously untouched conversion. “The purpose is hope,” said Daisy meekly. I could not understand Daisy. I could not understand Daisy and her acquaintance’s hope. I could not understand Daisy’s desire for a differing future. We were 13 and 14 then, and the days were beginning to become unruly. As the days lengthened, as my peers jittered from the new thoughts, new questions, new hopes, I remained the same. I was stern in my present. I was steady in my happiness. My thoughts had yet to drift. Daisy, however, had begun to float on the washes of a blue haze. A haze of the mind, a mist of the soul.
When my glance shifted from my earthy feet to Daisy’s face, Daisy began to reach her small arm into her bag. The emblem soon appeared. We stared. “Hope; I believe there is a figure called Hope that sits in a great throne. A throne of thorns that is surrounded by gleaming yellow roses. Hope is alone because she was abandoned as a result of her fellow creatures’ jealousy. The others wanted hope. Each creature desired to carry hope on their adventures across the sea. Each creature desired to touch Hope’s cold hand, and to carry Hope along the shores of an infinite journey. All believed that Hope was their key. Hope. however, did not was not destined to fulfill the dreams of these creatures. Hope had two rules: one, hope may give infinitely to all that desired. Two, Hope must give from afar, she may never leave her throne. Hope was enshrined and shackled to the great throne. There were no hourglasses. There was no key. There was no code. There was only the throne, the thorns, and Hope. The other creatures, however,could not understand the shackles of Hope. These were creatures that danced, that ran, that felt the oozing of the summer sun against their breasts. These were creatures that were alive in their essence. To be alive is to be selfish, you are wanting, to refuse to understand a fellow’s curse. So the creatures in great frustration left, and they left behind a decoration of yellow roses. Some say the yellow roses were left in spite, in anger, in hatred, in longing. I say the yellow roses were left behind in sadness and jealousy. The great emotions that accompany the loss of one’s friendship.”
The story changed our ways. The story changed our path. The story changed our great nomadic trek across the universe of discovery. We set out to find the kingdom of hope. I think we would have found Hope together, in all her glory. Ablaze upon her purple throne. Surrounded by the gleam of the yellow roses, had we not met Chrysa and his followers of mums. I think without Chrysa, I would not have trekked the mountain alone. I would not bloodied my scraped knees against the jagged mountain believing that I would not slip, that I would not tumble, and that I would reach her throne. Had we not met Chrysa: my greatest enemy and the beginning of my lonesome entrapment, Chrysa.
Chana Fisher majored in history and political science while at Rutgers and graduated in 2024. She writes, “During my sophomore year, I took an introduction to creative writing class and my love for writing became re-invigorated. Since then, I have published in the Rutgers Creative writing journal, The Anthologist. Even though I plan on attending law school, I do hope to write creatively for the rest of my life. While I am not writing, I am an avid reader and nature walker. I also truly enjoy riding the subway in New York City!”