I both love and hate where I live. On one hand, it’s small and conservative and the neighborhood kids are forever doing that thing they warn you about in driver’s ed where they chase a ball out in front of your moving vehicle. On the other hand, there are so, so many stars at night.
I grew up on an island where the night sky was absolutely filled with stars. I used to watch them through my curtain when I couldn’t sleep, imagining they were eyes winking back at me from somewhere out in deep space. When I got older and moved out, spending some time in a city, the lack of stars was disconcerting.
Of course, they’re there even if I can’t see them. But there’s always been something comforting to me about looking up and seeing thousands of tiny points of light, each one so far away I can’t even fathom the distance.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) From Greek ástron, for “star” and goneia for “seed”
The origin of stars.
The problem with history is that when you go back far enough, there are no more written records. Tracking down oral histories is near impossible, and Cordelia so dearly misses the smell of books, of dust, but the clean air is nice. She isn’t interested in theory so much as facts, and time travel, though dubious both scientifically and ethically, is worth it despite all the nausea. She eats unseasoned boar by campfire and hears how birds brought star seeds from the glowing sun and takes notes on the thousand creatures that wink from the sky—each answer is true.
Both halves of this have this sense of quiet majesty that I love.