A civilization grew out of my eye. Their written language a divine loneliness. And they named constellations from my eyelashes and worshipped gravity, constructing a monument in the constriction of my pupil that telescoped outward for twelve feet and saw the things in my life I kept missing. And they discovered irrigation and harvested colors in abundance until the economy flourished a plague. The civil war a failure of attention. Civilizations collapse for one of two reasons. Because I was violent, I fell in love with the emperor. He promised me the technology of time and I promised him an ancient flood so soft and incomprehensible. And I blinked. And a civilization grew out of my eye.
Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, Wigleaf, and X-R-A-Y, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024, 2025, and 2026.