La akvo estas vivo

La akvo estas vivo (the water is life) deals with an experiment carried out by twelve people who met in an online forum. Since the participants hail from all over the world, Esperanto is used as a lingua franca when communication is necessary. Each person has been given 'godlike' powers in an mmorpg like environment. Although the environment is not meant to be a game, many of the participants see it as such and use their powers to help their worshipers to become 'the best'.

The sound of Trash McSweeny's voice clung to the room. He and The Red Paintings pounced out of the speakers of the mp3 player in surreal waves.

pick up that piece of wood / use it for therapy / and nothing else

Trisha sat at her computer desk and sent her final message to the prophets of Kaprikorno. On the screen, the priest's eyes lit up and his voice bellowed.

"People of Laen, know that the wind and the butterflies bring to me news of your works and I am pleased. Your stories are rich and your poetry peerless.  Continue to bring beauty into the world and heed the words of the prophet for he speaks with my voice. I leave you now but know also that my love shall be with you always." 

The prophet's eyes returned to normal and as he realized where he was he hugged himself. Several priests came to his assistance and Trisha smiled.

Sitting up in her chair, she grabbed the bottom of of her t-shirt, pulled it off, and threw it across the room. She put both hands on her stomach, slouched and laughed softly as the folds of flesh made her appear chubby.

She stood up and walked over to the full length mirror. An attractive, dark-haired woman wearing a black lace bra and black jeans winked back at her. Nothing chubby about this body she thought to herself.

With a sigh that seemed to pull the life from her face, she opened her underwear drawer and fished out the Kahr MK9. A single tear escaped her left eye, causing her eyeliner to run. "La akvo estas vivo" she said as she put the barrel of the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

"TRISH!!??!" her mother's voice screeched over the music.

Caring neither for the grisly scene that had just transpired, the fast approaching footsteps stomping up the stairs, nor the discarded pregnancy test marked with a blue plus,  The Red Paintings continued singing.

I'll be holding on to this / sweet love / and now our world's colliding / and I feel walls





The End

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