Transmissions - Strange Short Stories

Starlight and Ink

Let me introduce myself. Once upon a time, I was a star. Literally. I shone for billions of years in the theatre of infinity. Being a star is not all it's cracked up to be. Towards the end, I rarely got to see any of my closest friends. They would orbit me from afar, but it was quite clear that my fiery temperament kept them at a safe distance.

After untold aeons, the isolation started to take its toll on me. I would chuckle and spit phrases, laden with radiation, into the void, hoping that one of my distant children might respond. Unfortunately, their atmospheres only hardened to my calls and I found the loneliness of my own echoes reflecting my existence like a dirty old cracked mirror.

But I was no fool. In those times, the iris of my fire sought far and wide. Light years away, I watched other stars mutate, implode, become something else. My voice failed to reach them, but my light winked in appreciation nonetheless. In the distance of the night, one particular star, in a far away galaxy I have since forgotten, acknowledged me.

At that moment, after the preceding billions, I knew the time had come.

I am now a little old man. I am sat in my shed writing. My fingers feel stiff and I struggle.

My hummingbird is now my only company. I could call it a pet, but it chooses to spend time with me, so maybe I'm its pet. Who knows? It sure does flutter a lot.

The last thing I remember about being a star is a whirlwind of voices locked in my core, begging to be set free. I turned my gaze away from the blackness and focused inwards, listening intently. In a final moment of peace, I smiled. And then I let go. In countless fragments, I exploded, freeing the voices within. For millennia they drifted through the cosmos; tiny sparkles, like fireflies in the night.

And then I found myself here, in this shed. Every now and then my hummingbird tweets in excitement and I know a fragment is close. I take a break from gently tapping at my keyboard and listen very hard. In a smile I'll catch those fragments; the distant voices of my almost forgotten past, and I write them down, these ghostly memoirs.

*

I don't think I will ever leave this shed. I have tried several times. I have often thought that it would be quite nice to have a stroll around the garden, but whenever I exit through the door, I find myself passing through the back wall of my shed and once again I am stood before my desk. I sigh, take my seat, and begin writing, pushing the implausibility of the situation to the back of mind. I try not to question it too much.

That reminds me. On the back wall of my shed is a shelf. It contains several unusual objects. The most peculiar are three large glass jars. They hold certain items that I am sure tease me when my back is turned. At first I thought nothing of it, maybe I was picking up fragments of stories, but closer inspection has confirmed my suspicions.

The first of the three jars contains a pair of lips. They constantly whisper whenever they think I'm not quite paying attention. If I suddenly turn my head to look, they are silent and unmoving. They don't fool me though. When I inspect the jar I can see condensation on the inside of the glass.

In the second jar is a finger, forever tapping at the glass as if trying to get my attention. I have watched this particular jar for hours hoping for the slightest twitch, just so we can point accusingly at each other, but so far nothing. I know that the finger is tapping away and making fun of me, for the inside of the glass is covered in unusual fingerprints.

The third jar houses an eyeball. I can see it watching me in the periphery of my vision, following me around my shed, blinking as I boil the kettle or chatter to my hummingbird. I know this to be true as I found an eyelash at the bottom of the jar.