Short Story: The Sun Orbits the Bug - A tale of time and scale

The Sun Orbits the Bug

It was in the summer that I watched the sun rise. When spring had sprung and winter had not yet needed to be addressed, that bee or bird and whatever manner of speckled thing, feathered thing, fuzzy thing had settled affairs and earned relief. For the sun rises on summer without intent. For the sun, its gaze a dry tear, rises on summer to survive the living and rot the dead. Ou, Sun, as Ou waltz and flare across the sky lightly holy, holy holy, so the living can die and the born can damn. Ou ceaseless big thing that fathers time and mothers lie.

Am I to ode Ou or curse Ou.

That summer when the sun rose, I sat by the river where the wind was strongest. It came from the water in refrains that whistled and wished. Or perhaps I wished and it whistled regardless. It could only be described as a ravenous squeezing, like a choir made of three sections choking on varying lengths of beautiful, opalite pipes, each a varnished metal engraved a leaf in motion. But the wind itself was name-less, not one to be called. It came from the water and sang to the trees who chittered and quivered in the particulate way that trees that are happy do.

I had stopped speaking long before then. No sound could push past the lesions and pulpy bile. No ink could stain my skin, the lead would shatter and the pigment was filthy and the paint kept fucking smearing and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. A worm chewed its way through my nape and found only blood, wove its offspring into a writhing noose in my derelict voice. As if I was the voracious cankerblossom that chanted filth. Gesture became an onus of demonstrating the Sorrow, one that I used to wave goodbye farewell wellmet as my thoughts calcified within the electro-chemical sublime.

Everything was so beautiful after that.

I remember opening my mouth, as one would do to scream, and filling that monstrous cavern with the wind that came from the water so that I could steal that song. My swallow fingers bracing upon the drying rocks and carving dark lugs of hate through the heating moss. I remember straining my blood filled neck so that that vapid chute that muck goes in and murky spluttle comes out could for even just a cardboard syzygy be…lovely.

In autumn before, my leaves lay at my feet. When winter fell, my branches pinned me in a wilted embrace. By spring, my roots were black and hallowed, sure to drown if rain ever fell. Yet blood still pooled and flesh pulled taut. So that summer, I sat by the river, but had the river been silent, I had also brought with me a knotted satchel. But I had promised the Sorrow I would listen first. That the wind would come from the water with a song that sang of summer. So, I sat by the river and swayed with the trees above, who’s epicurean plume chattily swallowed the sun before it could lay upon me, who’s mien was fearless in its fall damnation, immortal in its spring rebirth. So I sat by the river and listened, as it whistled through the thicket to give the song sound. As it danced with the bladed leaves to give the song sight. Where did they go that they shimmered free from Sorrow. Where did they go when the sun set. The wind from the water left for the sky. The stone below me drank from the ground. It was in summer, the season that the living survived and the dead rotted, that that worm ate me. Lightly holy, holy holy. The sun is so bright. I wonder if it will tomorrow.

Samsa’s Last Meal

Under the moonlight, a beetle emerged from the bark. He presented a soft purple to me, like the smear of oil pastel on black chitin. The way he defied the rightness of orientation, navigating about a plane unmeasured by degrees or freedoms. His path was infinite, his journey meaningless. His every step ended at the tharsus. The way he scuttles straight through the cobalt illuminated dark, is he determined? Devout? Does the purple pastel beetle live from topographical event to topographical event? I had idly erected walls with my fingers to impose hardship upon the fellow, but stopped as such acts seemed rooted in cruelty. So, as parts of me lay against the wood and watched him make his way, I felt the shagbark’s soft cragged fibers breathing upon my cheek. Brushing a scented dirge through me, whispering snareful chords, begging to turn me to soil. It was to be nothing, though the Sorrow permitted longing, that I drew from my harrow lips to be placed upon my fingertips and pressed into the black bark shining blue. But instead my hand had come away with a soft purple, like the smear of oil pastel on black chitin. The beetle had paused in his march to gaze at me curiously, and I caught many, many parts of myself in his faceted eyes. His jagged antennae did not dance or click, but met the one of me all the same in a curt nod, which I returned of course. How big it is when it was small. Fate, the hemorrhage, behind the mountains. I perch now on this living land of trunk, oh merry the sky before me and boundless the dirt behind me.

Well, now well met in the blue, pleasantries exchanged, this pastel beetle chittered about this and that, that paltry drizzle, this early germination, oh click click that horrid molt, this this arthritic mandible. A charming tune, though still thunder clouded the edge of my vision in stinging streaks. The way that you scuttle straight through the cobalt illuminated dark, are you determined? Devout? Do you live from topographical event to topographical event? Where do you go when the sun sets.

All that, that purple pastel beetle considered, clacked, and hummed, was all deeply, deeply philosophical and would certainly make him late for tonight’s nightly get-together that he had been on en route. And indeed, now in my starving scrutiny did I notice that in his hooked arms did that pastel beetle press a delicate violet hyacinth against his pitch thorax. How lovely, a color.

As he made his way, a piloted scuttle further about this trunkish land, I followed in silence. Busking arthropods and whorish songbirds performed a deafening symphony blind in the dark. I followed, but I could not tear my sight away from that bundled color. That hyacinth petal, delicate violet. The color of of of flowers. That delicate violet, the color of the hyacinth petal. And the color of the sun, that pastel beetle cricked beside me, though I myself had never once seen the sun that shade.

We entered a clearing and descended into the wood. The night choir was left outside, the closure of wood was warm but not dry. Soft. Silent but not still. Alive. The xylem and phloem of green blood seeping in the way that life does. The breathing sprout. The oldest house. And from within, I followed that pastel purple beetle who cradled that delicate violet into a hollow chamber that lived a moonbeam. A small ring had already formed, that which we joined to complete the frock circle of colored carapaces. And it was, for each beetle wore a shade apart from the other, powder azures, flush verdants, soiled browns. And, as it became apparent to me, each beetle carried with it a bundle cradled tightly in the dark.

Thus, that pastel purple beetle scuttled into the moonbeam and held aloft that hyacinth petal of delicate violet for the clicks, clacks, and chits of the circle. How beautiful! How bright! What a joy it is to behold such a lovely color! Then, that pastel purple beetle tore from the hyacinth petal a delicate purple flesh and mashed it in his mandibles. He passed the mangled petal around the circle, each beetle tearing its flesh and mashing its delicate purple. I did the same, its bitter blood pooling in my mouth under the lovely lunar glow.

When all had had a tearing and that treasured hyacinth petal was no more, the circle converged on that purple pastel beetle and from their maws they began to paint. Messy splatterings smoothed by swooping antennas with the thumping of chitin on chitin with the tapping tapping tapping of appendages and the scraping scraping scraping of color upon color.

Then when it was all done and the ring stepped back into formation around the moonbeam, the delicate purple beetle found a new spot in the circle. So, in turn, each beetle bloomed in the moonbeam. Some brought petals, leaves, fungi, fruits. Others brought swatches of threes and fours, mixing into speckled sparkles or brown.

In the end, I did not step into that moonbeam. I carried no color of lovely thing with me save for the iridescent Sorrow that slithered and puked. But even that I could not reach. I thanked the circle of beetles for a beautiful night and then when the sun rose on the next day, I set about to search for the color of the wind.

West of Charybdis

The Swallow lived upon the sea, she was free from sails and anchors, she was not that kind of traveler. From her deck she raised a mast, twisted crooked branches reaching into streams of hanging willows. The longest of which would glide atop the water. Wayfare beneath the fluttering leaves, she rode the mirror of the sea.

The Seeker trilled the piccolo, from willow whipped nests, deep up the thrush. The Seeker hopped from branch to branch, chasing where the air flowed fastest, dancing in pursuit. It flew in from every which where, from eastsouthnorthwest, from the sea, from the sky, and roosted in her vales. Her leaves whistled and then whirled, her branches ebbed and then flowed, the Seeker trilled the piccolo.

The Sailor played the viola, where her roots shaped the hull, and lichen soaked the surface. The Sailor hung below the bow, from one hocked leg, drawing notes from the waves. The tide came aboard with a dull cra

shhhh, ,cra

shhhh, ,cra

And her hull creaked and murmured, and the Sailor played the viola.

The Sayer rang the triangle, perched beside her rudder, atop the wooden helm. The Sayer waited.. when the silence was thickest.. and stung it with a ding. So The Swallow sailed a crew of three, grasshoppers far from grass. The wind sang songs and the waves beat rhythm and together they made music.

Though, for a brief time they were joined by a fourth. The Stowaway did not play an instrument. But was a very good listener. On her stern, the Stowaway plucked at toadstools, waiting till Sayer rang the silence. Then sat upon her wicker bow, the splash upon the soles, swaying to the waves that Sailor played. Then climbed her mast and hung from branches, tangled in the willows, glancing gusts of Seeker’s trill.

And every night, when the stars turned white, they gathered at her prow. The Seeker, The Sailor, The Sayer. And The Stowaway. And on The Swallow they settled down, in the largest moonlit meadow. Where through the hush bush of that hanging willow, lucent travelers, from outer space, found their way upon her. And there in that brightest pool of blue, The Seeker, The Sailor, The Sayer, would learn their wandering song. Each night, they played three times, the lead was in the order.

The first was alone, a seafarers’ soliloquy, the seance of the night.

The second was in tandem, a tri-tet’s waltz, the blooming of the soul.

The third was in verse, they began to sing, the birth of the sound.

And in the dark she listened. And The Stowaway too. And all those dark spindled creatures rising from the foam, looping tentacles and hitching hooks into this vessel of moving music. Great mollusks breach the night, eyes to the ears to the sea to the song. For music shines brighter to the deep and the moon sings louder to the dark.

That night, The Seeker had led the solo. Abuzz about the coming storm, The Seeker pranced triads with gusting runs and violent tremolo, the wind was fierce, slashing on the run. Hm, today the waves had set upon each other, trampling up the ruckus, played the Sailor. Oh yes, the air had been heavy in crash and howl, the silence drew breath for screams, rang the Sayer. And as they played they considered that sound together.

But it was The Stowaway that sang the first verse that night. And with that, it was thus, a song about the clouds. A lament in sadness from a distant, reaching tear. The sound of the ocean’s floating ghost, voiceless giants, haunting the waves and riding the wind. Weightless, that music. But the sound was blinding lifting pulling grasping the shells the bones and the meat and the mush. It seeped through the holes and slammed against the walls, entered the caverns crypts already blind and gnawed every soft stone and lay fat motes of light that rumbled and screamed. It was acid it was fire it was salt. It hurt but it was warm. She drank it with every fiber. This was a good sound. How lovely.

When the stars showed signs of fading black, the last of the music sank into her deck. Those deep creatures disappeared with twinkling ripples, there are slugs in the sea. The Stowaway stood on the shore, watching her drift until the creak of her hull was silent. The Stowaway held a gift. A new singer. This instrument. Carved of her hollow wood and strung from her willow. It held the flute of the wind, the string of the waves, the silence of the air.

Hyade

I sat with the beach and beheld it anew. It was a meaningful thing, that any nudge or budge would make it make something. It was terrifying, holding a thing that is not yourself. I clasped it by my palms, fingers too many, too touching. And just by holding you, I suffocated in your world. What do you do with such a thing? How do I love you when you sit in my hands? I want to scream and tear and bawl but you sleep in my arms. I want to tell you that I do but I can’t. That I know but not how. Don’t forgive me that I failed to make you what you dream. You don’t deserve that. Please don’t forgive me.

I lay in the sand where the waves wouldn’t touch me. You stood perfectly where I left you. I was tired of wonders. Your every sweet song and blue hue filled me with absence, panacea leaking with every wasting breath, wind so meaningless it was called wind. Oh, I lay with the Sorrow in the sand and the sun, beach fleas gnawing my rind while pregnant white maggots wriggled within. My, the Sorrow laughed with delight, to be given it all, I heard it descend into cackles, to be given the answers and the tools and the wind and the sea, I felt it in tears, to wallow here as if with nothing, it danced and moved so mockingly, to take but refuse to give, it drove black teeth between my spine, to be able but too scared, it was the sun but bones alone could not rot, to cry fetal and spin woe, it chittered and bloated weigher of hearts, ok that’s it, too many words, too many names, too many metaphors, too many promises, hallow thus, hollow me, it did this, it did that, bloody worms of blood guts a eeh I oh you shut up and play something already.

The first day, I found the sound of silence. The air was numb and loud. It did not sound like the music I longed to hear. The music that I missed. You were truly perfect, but I could not learn your song.

The Sorrow curled beside me, the fat bulging worm as gorgous as ever with thousands of black spots that could be eyes. The blistering grub listened silently as I played, only offering mean words when I faltered.

The second day, I found the sound of the sea. Your willow strings thrummed then foamed. I played to the tide rushing in. I played to the tide flowing out. With rhythm, it becomes percussive.

The Sorrow swayed gently, once viscous but now dulling in the sun. The sea was so big, there was enough room for everything. Even the stars and the moon it could hold at night. Even Fate, the hemorrhage, with the wound.

The third day, I found the sound of the wind. I rode the silence with the waves and found my body breathing. And like the sea the air flowed in. And drifted out. And the song of wind was life.

The Sorrow was still now, fleshy and pulpy but still. It looked so little but I knew it kept it all. I cradled that little worm and held it to my breast. Ou are me and are not it and well deserved the same.

I stayed an extra day after that. To play the sound of parting. Everything was the same but in a different place. And I gave you a name too, that last day on the beach. Unicava. Together Hollow. We played the loveliest of songs.