All Astra wanted was to go to the ball. But it was another thing her stepmother said she couldn’t do.

Perhaps her sight was failing. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t dance. Sometimes, when sweeping dust she couldn’t see, she would spin and swirl, the broom her partner. Sometimes, when cooking, she would sing songs, tap feet, move to a melody more felt than seen. Sometimes, when her stepmother and stepsisters went to balls, she dreamed of joining them, in some lavish dress, dancing into the dawn.

But Astra would bump into people. Astra would walk into things. Astra would trip, or fall, and embarrass their family name.

She scrubbed floors again, angry. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t have to dance. She could just sit and listen to the music. That would be more than enough. She loved music, and played her clarinet when she had a chance, when no one else was around, when her stepsisters couldn’t criticise her every note. For music was one thing that she didn’t need sight to see, for it was made of sound and feeling more than anything. But her stepmother would even let her listen. Tears spilled onto the floor and she scrubbed harder than ever. As she cried, there was a sound, a series of arpeggios that echoed as someone embraced her.

“You’re right. It’s not fair,” a man said, voice as soft and mellow as a bassoon. He was sitting beside her, a sapphire suit glimmering. He smelt of the sea, and seemed kind. A prince, or a sorcerer, or perhaps both. It was hard to tell.

“I just want to go to the ball”, she sobbed, frustrated.

“And you shall. All you need, is a little magic.” He said, beaming. He spoke a spell, consonants crooning, and produced a long white staff, with a ball at one end. The staff was adorned with runes, clearly magical.

“This can help you navigate any space, especially ballrooms.” He explained kindly, demonstrating how it worked. “Hold it like this.” He said, fingers brushing hers as he showed her how, as gentle as a flute. There was a spark across her skin as they touched, electric and alive.

She followed his guidance, gripping the staff softly, one finger outstretched against its rubber handle that was as tender as any lover’s touch. “Now sweep it across in front of you, not too wide, and walk in step, like this.” He took the staff, demonstrating, the ball at the end rolling over the floor with a song of its own. He gave it back to her, and she practiced a few times, sweeping from side to side like her broom did on the hallway floor, its symphony singing as the ball rolled from left to right, in time to the tempo of her feet. The runes glittered in iridescent colours, lighting up the space, and tingling when he came too close, or when obstacles appeared in her path. It was wonderful.

“Now, about a dress, and some shoes, of course.” He continued. His hands waved as his voice rose and fell, oozing like a bass clarinet as crooked consonants flowed. Her dress shimmered, turning to an emerald gown speckled with stars, and jade slippers adorned her feet, soft and comfortable, perfect for dancing.

Outside, the carriage waited, an amethyst globe of sheer glass. Astra’s new staff guided her up the steps, and she took her seat. She wasn’t surprised to find her clarinet on a cushioned seat across from her. He sat next to her, closing the carriage door, closer than ever. She folded up her new staff and placed it on her lap, as he sang to the kelpie that stood waiting.

True to their tales, it began to race towards the sea, blacker than obsidian, faster than lightning. It raced in the opposite direction from the palace, its music and laughter growing more distant by the minute, heading to the coast instead.

“I thought we were headed to the ball.” She said nervously, as the tall turrets disappeared behind her, too far away for even her vision to find.

“We are.” He grinned. “But I never said which ball.” He chuckled, as the kelpie dove into the sea, spray singing from its mane. Astra held her breath. Could it be? He handed her a red cap, and she put it on, more excited than ever. For there were stories, of a ball more glamorous than any other, deep beneath the waves.
Underwater, she marvelled at vibrant kingdoms of sound. Dolphins sung. Whales warbled. Seals serenaded. Fish reverberated. Coral hummed. Kelp murmured. Wild sea grass susurrated. Even the prince mumbled a tune as they descended, and Astra couldn’t help but smile.

The carriage came to a stop, outside a brilliant bejewelled palace. Music echoed, a beat pulsing, rhythms thrumming as he helped her down. She followed the sound, her new staff rolling as it guided her forwards.
Soon she found herself in a glorious ballroom, a shipwreck’s treasure, a band delighting, people laughing as they danced in dresses of every colour. Many wore red caps, for the Merrow love to dance. Astra spotted selkie and siren, mermaid and merman, sea dragon and sea serpent, kraken and kelpie; spinning, dancing, twirling. But it was the music that entranced her the most, and she longed to move to the melody, to join clarinet and oboe and trumpet and tuba in that swinging symphony, to become one with twirling triplets and swirling dancers.

She made her way onto the dancefloor, her staff leading the way, clasping her other hand round his elbow as he guided her across. A clarinet began to play as she did, and she smiled to hear its sweet song. The crowd parted for her as the runes on the staff hummed, and many asked if they could guide her, selkie bowing, mermen flirting. She blushed many times, overwhelmed by their kindness, never knowing any to be attracted to her before.

She took his hand, his sapphire suit shimmering as they danced into the dawn, and had the best night of her life. She took up her clarinet, and joined that underwater orchestra, playing like she never had before, and was praised as one of the best in the band. Many swirled to her melodies or twirled to her passages, as her fingers flew to new rhythms she had never known before.
​
When he offered to take her home, she refused. For beneath the waves, she was accepted, welcomed, invited, celebrated. Whereas above the waves, it was a different story. She didn’t want to go back, and he understood.
And so she stayed; her clarinet crooning, her soul singing, her heart happy, often dancing into the dawn. She fell in love with the man who had transformed her life, who had become soulmate and friend. In time, she became the Queen of the Sea, forever dancing as she dreamed she would.

About the author:
Sarah Oakes is a visually impaired writer and musician in love with krakens and science fiction. She has had one short story, four poems and many flashes published, and is working on a speculative novella in flash. You can find her stories in Voidspace Zine, Literary Namjooning, The Microlit Almanac, FromOneLine, Litmora Litmag, and National Flash Fiction Day. When not writing, you can find Sarah travelling, somewhere in nature, or playing her clarinet. You can also find Sarah on Bluesky at: @sarahoakeskraken32.blsky.social

“You must understand one thing: all Gods are aliens, but not all aliens are Gods.”

That was the message that Saphyre received after the 15 days of mixing Xanax with antidepressants. Something was off. She knew Lilith’s power was involved, but she wasn’t understanding who was speaking. She got scared.

This was not the first time. She had had psychotic breakdowns all through her teenage years, after a bad case of depression and the abuse of weed and cocaine. Then, the lights across her building started flicking in a different pattern. How could no one pay attention to that?

She was having another episode, that must be it. But it all made sense, really. Every little detail she was overthinking in the small apartment in the suburbs of São Paulo. She had spent the night smoking weed and writing nonsense into her journals. It was nonsense for others, because to her it was all too real. Her long red hair covered her wrinkles. Having a breakdown in her 50s was impossible to think of, but there she was. Of course that those who are experiencing a mental breakdown don’t think they’re off the tracks. Because she wasn’t, really. But this time she wouldn’t let them humiliate her like they did in the first times.

She had started going to a Yoruba temple, called the “Terreiro”. It was her girlfriend’s family group that introduced her to this odd religion. It is Santeria, Candomblé, Voodoo. It depends on where you are in the planet. And it was there she understood what accompanied her throughout decades, even though she was stable and medicated. The Babalorixá, meaning the “Mother of Saints” – the Priestess – of the Terreiro was incorporated with an Esù, the spiritual deity that guards the realms of the dead and the living, king of the crossroads. It was by talking to this entity that she understood what aliens were.

“Extra-Terrestrials. Think about it, child” the Esù said. “That which is not terrestrial. It is outwards. Spiritual. Spirits can be called aliens, so they’re all around.”

She thought about it and it did make sense. In this religion there is drinking, smoking, dancing, drumming. The prejuditial christian mindset considered it to be Dark Magic because of that. “The Occult.”

But, there are aliens that are not reduced to appearances in Terreiros. They invade each generation. Saphyre never remembered her early childhood. She was an alien that had invaded the real human Saphyre when she was about 7. That’s why she didn’t remember. Plus, Saphyre did something very wrong. She made an offering to the Esù on the woods without the assistance from the Babalorixá or anyone from the Terreiro. The spell backfired.

She lit a candle during the episode. Then, the lights started flicking through the opposite loft. They were weird patterns, with different colors and speed. She was communicating mentally, but she wanted to see. They wouldn’t indulge her to that. Not yet.

Her girlfriend was away, on a business trip to Doha to talk about transsexuality and queer awareness. Saphyre was alone. Of course, she was never alone. She had never been alone. When she invaded, she wasn’t aware of her power. Now, they were activating her. And they were charging the bar tap. She needed to go through it again, but now something had differed.

Not all aliens are spirits, like Saphyre herself. When she realized she invaded someone she felt bad. She had been a human for too long. But she was the bad guy, when you think about it.

The candle was red and black. The colors of the Esù. “Knucklehead, you woke them up.” They said. It wasn’t exactly a voice of sound but a quick thought that sunk in her mind. They were saying she woke everyone that had invaded the humans in the new generation. But how to differentiate one from the other? Who could she talk too without being committed to an asylum? The Babalorixá, maybe. But her girlfriend was away. She needed physical contact, someone to talk to about it, a real alien to converse with. But, you see, this is the most exclusive secret cult there was in the planet. Not even those on it knew they were on it. To Saphyre, that was a waste. And the matter was: what for? Why did we come here? Some say it was to enjoy, others to learn, others to hide. They panicked her in the first episodes, but now she knew better. She wasn’t guided by the voices. And she shuffled them with music. Music is the best religion there is.

It wasn’t just a manic episode she was going through. She needed someone on the inside to appear and ease her into it. Little did she know that Gods are lonely creatures, after all they’re really alone because, if you think about it, they’re the only ones existing. They are all one. It sounds confusing, but that’s purposeful.

What happened was that the new generation that she woke up was now demanding explanations. They didn’t want to learn the hard way, the path she took. They were lazy. And that couldn’t be. No true learning comes from ignoring shadows. And whether you like it or not, they were the shadow.

From that frightening and exciting period she spent 3 weeks awaken, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. All her siblings lived abroad, and her mother had recently died. But she didn’t access to what they call mediunity, not directly. Of course that contacting extra-terrestrials was a type of mediunity, but it wasn’t easy like you’d see on TV. It was always cryptical. It was a puzzle she had already solved. What she didn’t understand was that she was the one who created the puzzle. This world wasn’t for her. But what could she do? She thought of offing herself, but she didn’t want to after much thought. She enjoyed being with her girl, smoking her cigarette, painting and singing. Of course they wouldn’t allow her to be very known or famous. She was the best kept secret of the cosmos, but no one can handle that without diving themselves. So she started playing the game.

She went to the Babalorixá. The woman was in her 90s and spent most of the time in the Terreiro chainsmoking and dropping the cigarette butts in what seemed to be an Egyptian urn. She didn’t seem surprised in seeing Saphyre, but looked worry. She ordered her daughter to prepare a bath, which she did in about 10 minutes. It was a big bowl with cold water and several herbs. Saphyre was manic and alert, but didn’t speak much.

“Take off your clothes, go to the bathroom and pour this over your body. Then, don’t dry it or clean it and put on your clothes back on and come back here.” The Babalorixá said calmly, puffing her cigarette. She had big eyes and always seemed curious as she gazed into Saphyre. The woman did as commanded and got back to the elderly guide. She got up from her chair as she dropped another cigarette in the urn and her daughter had a sort of white rag in her hands, and she handed it to the Babalorixá. Then, the woman started draping Saphyre’s head with the fabric. It felt weird. She walked her into one of the back rooms of the Terreiro, filled with strange objects and a straw mat on the floor.

“Lie down. Accept your thoughts. Breathe. I’ll come fetch you when it’s time.” The old woman said. Saphyre complied and, strangely enough, she felt calm. A coming down started tingling in her as she was left alone in that dark room with the rag in her head. But then, with a sudden crack noise, she started trembling. She wasn’t convulsing, but she was shaking as if it was very cold. She started having sad and destructive thoughts and then she blacked out.

She must’ve been asleep for a whole day because it was late at night when the Babalorixá came back and nudged her in the shoulders, waking Saphyre up.

“You’re good. Come outside with me.”

The old woman sat back down in her chair and nodded to Saphyre to take a place on the floor in front of her.

“When we came here, everything was glued together. The Motherland was where the Tree burst and, from that Tree, all of the Orishas came through to Earth. Our world had been destroyed by war, but we found a way back. Thanks to a shaman here on Earth. It was you, child. Your asè was spread through the Motherland and the Tree gave birth to all the rest. You were not a tribe shaman. You were alone. But then, you had us all. You needn’t do anything anymore. The answers are here, here and everywhere. Stop wondering. If they try to catch your attention, let it be. They seek attention. But you must take care of yourself. Worry about your journey now, and the rest will follow. Take off the fabric from your hat and breathe.”

Saphyre did that. She was crying. And then the priestess did something unexpected: she smiled kindly and offered her hand to Saphyre. They hugged each other.
​
“It’s good to have you back. Now, let’s eat.” The old woman said as they went down a flight of stairs into the woman’s house. They ate cheese and corn funnel cake. Saphyre stayed there for a week and went back to her apartment. She burned her notebook, cleaned the house and went back on her medication. That day, her girl came back and lights flickered from the opposite loft every night. They were just saying hi, she realized. Now, another would do her job. She was finally free. But, hey, don’t go telling everyone. It’s just a playground, you see? Keep this between us. See you later.