The Stars
Bethany Fischer
Finally, the child makes it to the desert, though tired and hungry and just as lost as he was when he first stepped foot off his drunken Father’s front porch. He was told there would be answers out here, yet when he looked before him, there was nothing but barren land and a chill that shuddered his bones.
“Hello?” he called into the darkness. The only reply was a howling wind and songs of bugs that hid in the small brushes. The child asked again, and again, and again. Each time louder than the last until he was shouting, words near unintelligible as he threw his cap into the dirt and screamed at the sky. Finally, out of breath, the child stopped his fit and glared upwards.
“How dare you?” he whispered. There was a deafening silence that took over the flats. The wind stopped howling and the crickets were no longer chirping. One by one, the child watched with wide eyes as bright stars, brighter than he had ever seen, popped into existence against the inky night.
“How dare we?” questioned the stars, flickering with every syllable they spoke. Their voices were a uniformed chorus, as calm and cold as the air that surrounded him. Anger bubbled again in the child.
“How dare you curse me? How dare you lay these plagues upon me, as you lay perched in your comfortable vastness, unbothered and untouched! My fate in your hands and yet you act as if you lack any responsibility in my misery! How dare the universe conspire against me?” The child spit and cried and stomped his hat as he pointed at the starry sky.
“Bold you are,” the stars shimmered in unison, “to assume the universe considers you at all.”
The child froze, his face relaxing from its contorted state of rage. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground and drew his legs to his chest. The cold had iced his fingers, and he tucked them away as he wept.
“Go now child, and stop blaming us for your ailments,” the stars began to fade, “and take comfort in knowing that the causes of your problems are there with you; on the ground, not out of reach.”
The child sat there, tired and hungry and lost, until the morning came. As the sun rose, so did he, and he began to walk again.
“Hello?” he called into the darkness. The only reply was a howling wind and songs of bugs that hid in the small brushes. The child asked again, and again, and again. Each time louder than the last until he was shouting, words near unintelligible as he threw his cap into the dirt and screamed at the sky. Finally, out of breath, the child stopped his fit and glared upwards.
“How dare you?” he whispered. There was a deafening silence that took over the flats. The wind stopped howling and the crickets were no longer chirping. One by one, the child watched with wide eyes as bright stars, brighter than he had ever seen, popped into existence against the inky night.
“How dare we?” questioned the stars, flickering with every syllable they spoke. Their voices were a uniformed chorus, as calm and cold as the air that surrounded him. Anger bubbled again in the child.
“How dare you curse me? How dare you lay these plagues upon me, as you lay perched in your comfortable vastness, unbothered and untouched! My fate in your hands and yet you act as if you lack any responsibility in my misery! How dare the universe conspire against me?” The child spit and cried and stomped his hat as he pointed at the starry sky.
“Bold you are,” the stars shimmered in unison, “to assume the universe considers you at all.”
The child froze, his face relaxing from its contorted state of rage. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground and drew his legs to his chest. The cold had iced his fingers, and he tucked them away as he wept.
“Go now child, and stop blaming us for your ailments,” the stars began to fade, “and take comfort in knowing that the causes of your problems are there with you; on the ground, not out of reach.”
The child sat there, tired and hungry and lost, until the morning came. As the sun rose, so did he, and he began to walk again.