Little fictions

for H and Fatema ben

The sky is blue. Then it turns a hazed orange. And in the twilight zone the females come out, in high heels and black dresses, hunting their prey behind sunglasses. Their hair flies like dandelion seeds in the wispy breeze, and their fingers point and ask questions better left unsolved.

You see, the night shows a few stars, in between the clouds. Beside me, my brother and my sister don’t see them. They see fairies dancing like dragonflies mating, they see the pulse of a thousand grasshopper heartbeats, they see the milky light of a moon that isn’t out yet. They see sunrise. But it is still night.

This is what the morning brings. Birds chirping: Bird 1: So lets go eat. Bird 2: That front yard looks promising. Bird 1: Yeah, the weedy ones are always awesome. I love humans that let their weeds grow out. Bird 2: Yeah, hahah, imagine how annoyed their neighbors are. Bird 1: hahaha.

I wake up too late for the sunrise. Remnants of a sleepover pierce me like rida pins dropped and stepped on, lost somewhere in the depths of this carpet. Here, lost things live in a secret community. If there is silence, you can hear voices. A sharp thin pin voice asks: Where’s the washroom? A round milky bead voice replies: Roll down the steps, then spin left. Pin: Isn’t there one closer? Bead: No, that’s the closest one. I’m pretty sure. Pin: Well, fine. You sure are pretty too. Let’s talk later. Bead shrugs but a faint pink flush colours her as Pin leaves. But perhaps it is only the reflection of the sunset outside the window.

The stars, after a short summer night-shift, come to my store just before sunrise. Its true. They leave their places in the sky and fall into thin plastic beds, smoothly, thinly. At their arrival, a wind rustles in the store but the alarm stays off. No one sees them come. Except the security guy, who lives with the guilt of falling asleep at his job every day, because he thinks it is a dream. Even he doesn’t see them shrinking, dimming, and sticking themselves onto sheets, whispering goodnight to the other celestial bodies: to Saturn and her rings, to bright and brilliant Venus, to cold Pluto who doesn’t reply. In the morning sun’s audacious light, their faint glow is invisible.