Open Access Journals at IU Indianapolis

Saorrono, Elena

138
In the sea of pouring rain 
Beneath the sheet of clouds 
I reach for you, pray with no shame 
Your absence plummets me further down 
Please sense my desperation, Marian 
To the heavens, I wish to the stars 
To the seas, I curse to the waves 
I crave the day you stand near and not afar 
The day you appear before my clouded gaze 
Marian, please hear me cry for you 
Marian, demand the seas to be merciful, Marian 
Eins, zwei, drei, vier, I count how I call you, Marian 
The waters jolt and tug this ship 
I tumble and topple, waiting for you 
Above the raging seas, you softly drift 
I am fearful, for my end is not yet due 
Not without you, Marian, cease these waters 
Thalassa has gripped me, now oblivion below here 
My final breath before plunging into the ocean 
Zieh mich aus dem Meer 
Du bist mein Schutzengel, so schön 
Ich liebe dich, Marian 
Marian, the sea extinguishes my essence, Marian 
Eins, zwei, drei, vier, I count how I call you, Marian 
You deny the depths of my soul 
My altar, my saint, my grace from the waves 
My yearning has ended as our spirits are whole 
You liberate me from the grave 
Marian, mein Schutzengel, mein Heiliger 
Elena Saorrono
Marian


English

Marian

Allee, Evan

The Sleepwriter

Dash, Shyama Prasad

186
     The midnight flight to Indianapolis was nearly empty. The lights flickered 
softly, and the air reeked of coffee and recycled exhaustion. I looked out of the 
window, more concerned with hiding my face than the view. My reflection stared 
back at me from the glass, distorted and broken by streaks of condensation —
hollow, unfamiliar, ashamed. Somewhere far below, the lights of my home town 
flickered like dying embers, fading with each mile. 
     Before I left, Baba had been standing by the door, one hand tightly gripping 
onto the frame as if holding himself up, the other dangling loosely by his side. 
He didn’t say much—he never did in moments like these. Just a soft nod, the 
kind that might have meant “Go,” or “Don’t worry,” or maybe even “Come back 
soon.” I didn’t ask which it was. I couldn’t. A part of me still remembered the 
days when his breath grew shallow, when COVID almost took him from me. 
The fear that had gripped me then had been my silent companion ever since. I 
couldn’t bring myself to let go back then—not after everything. But now, there 
was no choice. I was leaving. 
     When the car pulled away, I looked straight ahead, focusing on the road 
instead of the rearview mirror. The sound of the crunching gravel was the only 
thing anchoring me in the moment, but even that faded too quickly, leaving be-
hind a silence that felt suffocating. 
     I had meant to leave a note—something short, maybe a few words scribbled 
on a scrap of paper. But as I sat at the dining table that afternoon, pen over the 
page, nothing came. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I knew 
there wasn’t enough space to say it. How do you condense a lifetime of debt and 
guilt into a single sentence? 
     Baba had always held the belief that serving the homeland was a calling high-
er than any individual ambition. He never said it outright, but I knew he saw my 
decision to pursue an education abroad as a quiet surrender to a different ideal—a 
path he hadn’t chosen, one he might not have fully understood. Yet he never once 
tried to stop me.  
     Somewhere over the Atlantic, I reached into my bag and pulled out a packet 
of cashews Baba had slipped in without telling me. He always did that—packed 
something small, like a talisman against the unknown. I stared at the crumpled 
packet for a long time, the faded logo mocking me with its familiarity. I didn’t 
open it. 
Shyama Prasad Dash
The Midnight Flight
187
     In my mind, I kept replaying the last few weeks, the quiet rituals of leaving. 
Baba’s disapproval wasn’t loud; it was in the silences, the way he busied himself 
with my packing, his hands steady but his eyes betraying the weight of unspoken 
fears. I had felt the weight of his convictions over the years, and I knew that a 
part of him struggled to reconcile his ideals with the reality of my leaving. The 
way he handed me item after item to pack into the suitcases, how he folded my 
clothes with the care of someone piecing together something already falling 
apart, his silence at dinner, the unspoken things weighed heavier than words. 
     The night before I left, I found him sitting alone in the living room, his glasses 
perched on the edge of his nose as he pretended to read the newspaper. The ceil-
ing fan above him creaked faintly with each turn, and his tea, gone cold, rested 
on the arm of the chair. I wondered if he was replaying his own departure from 
his father’s house when he left his small village to make a life for himself in the 
city, decades ago. I didn’t ask. 
     As the engines settled into a quiet hum, the seatbelt signs turned off and the 
flight attendants got up to start the service. I hurriedly wiped my tears and settled 
in for the long journey ahead.  
     There is a peculiar weight to the moments we leave behind. A stray glance. 
A hand brushing the edge of a suitcase. The lingering smell of incense from the 
puja he performed that morning, as though offering our fates up to some higher 
power. I didn’t know if I believed in a higher power—if one existed, I had been 
damned for a long time. But he believed, so I closed my eyes and prayed, not for 
myself, but for him. 


The Midnight Flight

192
This is the way it was 
Night reflecting up from the shimmering asphalt 
Firing glints of embers back into crystal clear windows 
In the passenger’s eyes, all was calm 
Driving through the terror was a different story 
“No harm will come your way” 
No harm does not make the driver any calmer 
White knuckles gripping the wheel, 
Steering the two into the dreary, drenched oblivion 
With no qualms other than why 
“Any time, just raise your arms above the flood” 
In reference to the raging storm? Who knew 
Perhaps she sensed the desperation brewing beside her 
The road, her road, moves like a drunkard’s hallway 
Like the sea 
The ocean before them brings on its waves 
It echoes with a million voices calling their names 
One distorted, one clearer than yesterday’s skies 
Driving on through the floodland, into the sea 
Off the great white pier standing amidst oblivion 
This is the way it was 
Never to wake up from this land 
This fragmented, endless dream on loop 
This is the way it is 
Driving through the floodland 
Comatose for however long 
Too much, but never enough 
Having everything within one’s reach 
Just to tear it up and watch it fall 
And let Death will you away 
Elena Saorrono
Floodland


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Marian

The Sleepwriter

The Midnight Flight

Floodland

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