A collection of Short Stories

The Crickets

I couldn't sleep. Something about the night felt different..odd. The crickets didn't cricket like they usually did. Their rhythm, their beat, was off. And I knew this because it's how I went to sleep. I would count the beats along with the crickets until it enveloped me, kind of like when the night swallows all the light. But today, their rhythm was off. And because of that, the entire world was off. The trees didn't sway the same way, the air was chilly but hot, I could go on forever. There were too many imperfections, too many unexpected changes and I just couldn't sleep.

But then I guess I did. And I woke up to the orange-pink paints of the sky, shivering as I took ahold of the moth-eaten curtains, letting the light reach all the far corners of my room. And yet as splendid and spectacular it was that light even existed, that the rays of the sun somehow travelled through that vast empty void space to bring light to this lost planet, the rays were never strong enough to go inside me. And though my mother always said I had the prettiest blue eyes, I've always despised them. Maybe if they were darker, I'd absorb more of that light.

I made pancakes. I liked them with bananas and honey, but my dad lost his sense of taste a long time ago. So I left them as they were in a little container, but he never came to get them. And then, I heard the lovely sound of my little sister, light footsteps down the rickety stairs. She said,

"Daddy went fishing. Are you making pancakes John?"

"Good morning," I said, and gave her a kiss.

"Guess it's just gonna be you and me," she smiled toothily.

She was beautiful, she gave me light. Not the sun. The sun never did anything. It just sits there in cushions of clouds and whatnot, staring down thinking no one could ever triumph over her. Well, my sister did.

"We'll have fun. Where do you wanna explore today?" I set her a jug of milk, rained down some honey and blueberries on the pancake just like she liked and sat at the table.

"Hmm" she took a sip of the milk, "Boats."

"Oh?" I looked up at her surprised, "You want to go to the pier?" She nodded. "Okay."

We walked to the pier hand in hand, our faces washed in suncream, a hat on her head. The water sparkled blue and green. There were some cormorants sunbathing, large seagulls conversing. The world seemed alive. And of course, there were the boats and the large fishing nets, being pulled on by sturdy burned men. One day, my father said he was gonna teach me how to fish. When I was ready. Well, I'm 18, and he still brings us the fish every day.

The crickets didn't cricket like they usually did that night either. And the next day, before the sun had come out, not that it made a difference other than indicating day and night, night and day, my father woke me up. He took me to the pier, to his boat. He handed me the fishing rod and told me I was ready. After he taught me how to fish, he left. I never saw him again after that, not that I ever searched for him. But from time to time, I would leave small pancakes on the dining table, hoping, wishing, dreaming that perhaps it could bait him out of the darkness he travelled to.

If only the light would've entered. If only we were smarter. If only it was as easy as throwing a fishing rod into the water, and pulling it out after feeling that satisfying heavy tug, to holding a brilliant large fish flickering blue and green, reflecting the light, never absorbing, never-ending. I turned over and over in my bed, but even now, days later, I still could not sleep.