Insect Repellent and the Stars

It is the smell of a certain kind of insect repellent that takes me to the stars. It takes me back more than ten years; takes me to a riverbank kilometres away from home. I was there in a place just outside of some cabins, surrounded by strangers that accompanied me on that rusty old bus that took us there. It was the place where all that was familiar were my sketchbook, my flashlight, and myself. No buzzing and no troublesome bites – it was only the serenades of distant crickets and the laughter of unfamiliar children from metres away. On those few Spring nights, I lay alone.

What the Old House Deserves

The old house called to a stranger. It called her in the midst of a storm. It mattered little to the house what so happened to have happened for that stranger to be walking by it at that time – all that mattered to the house was that it finally found itself a visitor.

Into the foyer, went the stranger, not minding the house’s cluttered greeting. The house first presented to her its wooden hatrack as she hooked onto it her dripping coat – a new neighbour to some of the house’s lonely, once-glittery old jackets. It then presented to her its walls decorated in crooked portraits and posters of a young, pretty face with a microphone in hand. In viewing them, the stranger held her own long hair and squeezed it as dry as she was able to. 

The Lights, One by One

The kind of house that Clara lived in was ordinary. It had all its windows closed and every exit shut so that nothing could climb their way in to find her. Hardly any curtains nor blinds were left open, and now almost nothing could watch her from the dark outdoors. Tonight, Clara was the only one inside of her home. 

Clara took in her last spoonful from the now empty plate. It once contained the leftovers that her parents spared her before they left that night, and now her final task of the day was to catch up on her quadratic equations. Mathematics was never her strongest subject at school – she preferred ones that were more flexible and allowed for a greater imagination. She wasn’t excited to return to her room. But, why waste any time? Except to wash her dishes, there was no other use for her staying at the table any longer. She made her way to the sink.

An Arrettian's Solitude

There was once a being from planet Arrettia who sat to eat his lunch. He watched the Earthling besides him do the same, using two strange, shiny utensils to eat. They only heard the desert wind that whistled, and then the tools used for bearing food clinking onto the tools used for transporting it into one’s mouth. It was the two of them alone atop the ruins of a lost sanctuary, letting the slowest hours of the daylight pass by. 

Suddenly, the Earthling lifted one of its utensils, intertwined with a portion of the stringy, wobbly feed from its box. It held the utensil towards the curious Arrettian. A nervous murmur escaped the Earthling’s mouth as it held up its food, yet not eating it. Perhaps the Earthling was trying to communicate its distaste for its meal? Perhaps it was an exclamation of being thankful, or maybe it was even offering to share? 

The Arrettian struggled to do anything in return. A moment, and finally the Earthling appeared to give up the interaction, continuing to eat its stringy, wobbly food again. Then, the Arrettian continued the same with his own.

A Bored, Needy Piano

We haven’t spent any real time together in so, so long. What are you doing these days? Always with those notebooks, are you? Always typing away on that little computer, too, are you? All of those other things that occupy you, you and I know I could never compare to – never in my lifetime. Oh, if only I was capable of providing the same variety as the infinite possibilities of strokes you could on a sheet of paper, or surpass whatever superpower a computer wields. A lot of the time I wish you and I could be more than just you instructing me what to sing, and me singing as you play. Do you wish that, too? I could never know.