Little Star
A somber, bittersweet short story by Ariane Lauren
Ariane Lauren recently became a southwest desert dweller of Arizona. Her work has been published in Moon Cola, Orange Peel Literary, Amphora, levatio, Livina Press and The Minison Project. She loves the smell of the earth after it rains, visiting museums, and fruit so much that her husband gave her the nickname 'fruit bat'. Find her on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr.
“Why are you out here, much less by yourself?” asks an ancient star in the dark, with a voice as warm as the heat it gifts. “It’s unfriendly, cold, and arid. This is no place for someone like you.”
“I’m on my way,” I grunt, maneuvering through a silent herd of titan milk lapin migrating to a distant system. Their dander, stardust, clings to my garments. It gets everywhere, like crafting glitter, and sticks just as well.
A little winded, I continue our conversation when I’m finally before the star. “To be truthful, I don’t know where I am…” I say with hands on my lower back, gazing out towards the endless cosmic prairie. “And if I don’t know where I am, I don’t know which direction to go.”
“Perhaps, then, I could light your way, wee pilgrim,” they offer kindly, “and help you get there quickly. Where are you going?”
“Well… there’s not a place, in particular, I’m headed to,” I confess to the massive being, feeling foolish. “But I’m told my arrival is anticipated, so I have to be there soon.”
“Anticipated by whom?”
“My purpose.”
Stilling, the giant starts to consider me. Their heat, once so refreshing, is now insufferable as they concentrate. Humming, they finish their cross-examination.
“Purpose makes one bright, burning and glowing. Yet — you resemble dimming coals,” the star observes. Despite having no eyes, they see everything.
“Multiple cycles have passed, and I have yet to rest,” I say to myself, knowing they still can hear me. “When I start wanting to collapse right where I am and settle, there’s always a whisper telling me: ‘Just beyond that moon’.”
Flaring giddily, they say, “Your hope! That’s what stokes the flames at your core! What has it been telling you lately?”
“Nothing. We stopped communicating at some point. And I’m lost and so lonely without it.” I don’t have to tell them I feel terrified. Other bodies in these twinkling ambient heavens never doubt their course or intentions. Colliding, orbiting, drifting, existing alone… “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to feel useless.”
My tears begin to flow.
“Oh my dear, dear vagabond, you are tired,” the elder coos. A glimmering haze trails the lapin that the star summoned over without a word, a movement, or burst. Its set of long, pearly ears stiffens, then flops, as they settle next to me.
"You remind me of not one but of many fireballs: family, friends of mine, long ago and lately," the great being begins while lifting me onto the animal. "Not stopping to rest, observe how far they’ve wandered, or take a parsec break. There wasn't an epiphany that appeared too late. They weren't even aware they had faded away."
"Burnout?" I yawn inelegantly, reclining against the twinkling hare that strangely smells of a childhood of warm sugar.
Burnout: an event in which a star collapses, implodes on itself, underneath all the pressure pressed against them until they are nothing. Or, when the body takes on too much, ignoring the signs of distress. Their ends, their novas, are beautiful, but were they necessary? They grow and become bright, thinking they are becoming stronger when, in reality, they’re unstable.
"Yes. If it can happen to ones born with immense energy, how much more important is it for you, my little visitor, to pay attention and take care? It can happen so slowly and yet suddenly."
I feel guilty, slipping further into a dreary warmness during the star’s cautionary bedtime story. The somber titan doesn’t mind and continues to wander in thought.
"This quadrant used to be alive with the light of many more stars. Now all I see and feel is their auras, their afterglow," they reminisce with a sullen timbre in their voice, easy to miss. But through drowsiness, I find it.
“How many of you were there?”
“So many. I didn’t know all of my kinfolk, but seeing them cause their own suffering, unawares, and die, still hurt. It was like I was dying too.”
“You’re still here though… and for that, I am thankful.”
“I find it difficult most cycles to be grateful,” they confide. “Today, with you here, is an exception.”
Through the ambient darkness, I slowly float towards a thought that blossoms into an answer.
I am lonely. They are alone.
"Oh, stars, I must’ve been more tired than I realized. My legs feel as dense as a black hole,” I cry. “I'd love to stay here and rest for a while until I regain my strength. That is, if you don’t mind."
My suggestion doesn’t fool the star; I know that. But they remain gracious nonetheless.
"Of course; be my guest, little star," I hear as my mind starts to drift to sleep, basking in the hare’s candyfloss aroma. "I've been waiting for someone like you."
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