The Star

*Nota: no estaba del todo seguro sobre postear algo en inglés, me parece un poco sectario y por eso me disculpo ante quien sea que siga leyendo. La verdad es que leí este cuento que escribí hace un tiempo y me di cuenta que es uno de mis preferidos, entonces pensé en colgarlo igual. Nuevamente, disculpas a quien no maneje el idioma. A quien sí lo maneje, le ruego olvide preposiciones, tiempos verbales y demás y trate de ver un poco más alla. Ah, agradecimiento a Monica Marinakis por el título.

Whenever he got lost –and God knows he got lost quite often – he would look at the sky and find his way. He would find his favourite star and get back on track in a matter of seconds. It wasn’t the most shinny star, or the biggest one. It wasn’t even one in those typical constellations you and I would look for, but it was his favourite; and it had always been there to guide him.

However, that night the sky seemed to have run out of stars. And there he was, lost and with no star to tell him where to go. Stupid clouds always tried to confuse him. This time they set to make him run back home and poured over him. He took shelter from the heavy rain under the roof of a bar or a shop, he didn’t even look. Knowing that as soon as the rain ended, his stars would come back again, he waited. After an hour, the rain stopped. Streets were already empty by that time, and soaking wet. His legs and feet were wet as well, no matter how soon he had sheltered. Anyway, he was smiling. He felt a sense of justice in rain. Rain fell on everyone, rich and poor, nice and mean, beautiful and ugly. It was one of the few fair things in life.

Rain over, he looked at the sky and found it. His star was there. He stared at it and it stared back at him. There was something, however. It wasn’t pointing anywhere. It didn’t show the way to go. He panicked. The star felt there was something wrong as well. It started fading. When it was close to off, it fell from the sky. You know how people always see shooting stars and make a wish and find this a nice thing; well, he was in despair. His star was falling. No wishes to be made except that it wouldn’t fall. But it did. He was shaking, and his shaking turned quickly into a strong urge to run towards it. And so he did. He ran looking at the sky, hoping that his star would not vanish. He stopped at a deserted place. The shinning was very little, but he could see it, resting on the floor. He walked to it and kneeled down. It didn’t take long before his star died out. He cried. He cried as babies do; for death may seem as fair as rain, but it is also irreparable. There’s no towel after death.

He sat there, as he had nowhere to go now. He spent that whole night there, and the following day, and the following night, and so on. People sometimes throw him some quarters, if they pass near him. He throws curses back at them. ‘You have nowhere to go either,’ he says sometimes.