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I am still myself and so I am answered at last: yes, I have a soul, no matter what shape its vessel is forced into. I remember that I am sunlight made tender flesh, even as I stir soundless feathers against a starlit sky. I remember the wind in the woods, the gift of nectar, the graze of wings. Though I cannot see the sun, I fly ever closer to its resting-place, and I pray it hears me, in its dreams, when I call.

Read “A Flower Cannot Love the Hand” by Aimee Ogden, in Issue #332

© Story content copyright 2021 Aimee Ogden
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Aimee Ogden is a former science teacher and software tester; now she writes about sad astronauts, angry princesses, and dead gods. Her work has appeared in Clarkesworld, Analog, Fireside, and multiple times previously in Beneath Ceaseless Skies. With fellow BCS author Bennett North, she co-edits Translunar Travelers Lounge, which features fun and optimistic speculative fiction. Her first novellas, Sun-Daughters, Sea-Daughters and Local Star, debuted in 2021 from Tor.com and Interstellar Flight Press respectively.

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