FOUR SOULS TERMINATED

FOUR SOULS TERMINATED

The River of Paradise flowed with a light that seemed to emanate from within, its surface a shimmering array of blues and greens. Around it, the landscape of Paradise unfolded – a breathtaking vista of rolling hills, fragrant orchards, and trees that bore every conceivable fruit, each bite a symphony of taste. Here, time held no sway, and the air thrummed with a gentle, joyous energy. By its banks, nestled amidst blooms of impossible colors and leaves that sang in the breeze, sat four souls. They were, in the language of the living world, ‘aborted’ – unborn lives cut short before they drew their first breath. Yet here, they existed, fully formed and imbued with the potential that had once been their earthly destiny. A quartet of quiet discontent amidst the celestial harmony. They were different from the others, their ethereal bodies possessing a somber hue, a subtle dimness that spoke of lives unlived. Here, in Paradise, they were safe, loved, and surrounded by an ethereal beauty that should have filled them with unbridled joy. But a quiet unease lingered, a shadow cast by the unrealized potential within each of them.

There was Cyrus, his hands ever gesturing as if holding an invisible scalpel, his brow furrowed in perpetual thought. He was the one of science and medicine, his very essence a multitude of formulas and biological wonders. Beside him sat Ellis, his fingers tracing patterns in the air, the spirit of an engineer coursing through him. He saw the world as a matrix of gears, levers, and soaring structures, each problem an exciting puzzle to be solved. Then came Barney, his presence radiating a deep connection to the earth, a silent understanding of growing things. He was the spirit of agriculture and farming, his soul imbued with the rhythms of life and harvest. And lastly, there was Sara, her eyes reflecting the starlit sky with the depth of a thousand untold stories. She was the artist and the writer, her being a wellspring of imagery, melodies, and narratives yet to be born. They met by the River of Paradise every cycle, drawn together by a shared, unspoken question. Tonight, the air was thick with a melancholic silence as they watched the river flow, each lost in their own what-ifs.

“I imagine,” Cyrus began, his voice a low murmur, “I could have eradicated diseases they still battle. In the womb, I possessed a restless curiosity, a drive to unravel the mysteries of the human body, to heal and alleviate suffering. I had the beginnings of a cure for the cancer, the plague that still ravages their bodies. I dreamt of a world free from suffering, a world of vibrant health. I saw the patterns in the common flu, the answers hidden within.”

His translucent hands balled into fists, a gesture of frustration that felt all too human. He yearned for the sterile precision of a laboratory, the quiet satisfaction of a breakthrough.

“My mind held the key to unlock the secrets of the human body. I could have added so much to the understanding of how we are all created.” His words, though simple, held the weight of unfulfilled potential, a deep ache for the science he was denied.

Ellis sighed, a sound like the wind whistling through a hollow frame.

“I envisioned a world of interconnectedness, a global network of seamless transport and communication. I saw cities that would reach the clouds, powered by clean energy, their structures testaments to human ingenuity. Bridges that would knit together continents, systems that would make life easier, more efficient. Imagine, a world free from pollution, where resources are abundant for all. I had designs for a machine that could harvest the very energy of this Paradise, but instead, my potential is wasted.”

Even in Paradise, his fingers twitched with the urge to build, to dissect, to understand the mechanics of the universe. He ran a spectral hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on some distant, intangible blueprint. “My calculations… my theories… they were all there, within me.”

While in the womb, he saw, in his mind’s eye, a world crafted with logic and precision, a world he would never build.

Barney nodded, his gaze fixed on the lush foliage surrounding them.

“I could’ve shown them how to work with the land, not against it. I saw fields bursting with life, crops that would flourish even in the harshest climates. I understood the delicate balance of the ecosystem; I could have guided them to a future of abundance, not scarcity. Imagine a world where hunger was a distant memory, where food was grown in harmony with nature, and everyone had enough. I felt the earth within my very soul, the life it craves. Such waste,” he lamented, his voice heavy with sorrow.

In the womb, he understood the interconnectedness of all living things, the silent language of growth. He would have been the steward of the earth, the guardian of growth, but that chance was gone.

Sara, who had been silent till now, looked up, and for a moment, the stars seemed to gather in her eyes.

“Imagine,” she whispered, “the tales I could have woven. I’d have told the story of their triumphs, their failures, their endless quest for meaning. I’d have captured the human spirit in all its beauty and complexities, their struggles and their joys. My words would have built bridges between cultures, healing divisions and fostering empathy. I had poems blooming in my soul, stories that would make them question their very existence, but in the end, I will never have a chance to share them with anyone.” A translucent tear traced a path down her ethereal cheek. Her soul resonated with the melodies of creation, the power of storytelling.

In the womb, she saw the world through the lens of art and literature, an array of emotions and narratives waiting to be brought to life. She saw libraries overflowing with her words, stories that could have moved mountains, but her pen was forever still.

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the gentle murmur of the river. It was a silence filled with the weight of potential, the sting of unfulfilled destinies. They were four fragments of brilliance, cut short before they could ignite. The radiant beauty of Paradise seemed to mock them, to highlight the cruel irony of their existence – in heaven, they found a haunting sense of hell. It was a paradox, in the lush beauty of Paradise, four lives that were never allowed to bloom.

“We could have healed,” Cyrus said, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. “We could have made life better.”

“We could have nurtured life and fed many,” Barney added, his tone laced with a quiet sorrow.

Sara’s hand seemed to reach for the air, as if grasping for the pen she could never hold. “We could have created beauty,” she whispered.

“We could have given ease and comfort,” Ellis concluded, his voice heavy with the weight of the marvels he would never build.

Did those in the mortal realm, in their haste and fear, in their calculations and choices, realize the magnitude of their hurried decisions? Did they understand that each life they chose to interrupt was not merely a potential future extinguished, but rather an irreplaceable void that would echo through time?
Each lost soul represented dreams unfulfilled, relationships never formed, and contributions to the world that would forever remain unmade.

They sat in silence, letting the magnitude of their collective loss wash over them. It wasn’t just the lives they’d missed, but the world that was robbed of their contributions. A world that could have been a little more sensible, safer, healthier, and a little more tolerable, had they been allowed to live.