Star Eater

by Jamie A.M.

The grit of the shingles on the roof outside the bedroom window hooks into the fabric of the coat I’ve thrown hastily over my pajamas. I lick my fingertip and reach skyward, dabbing up a couple stars like breadcrumbs, drawing them down to my mouth. Mara says I shouldn’t do that—that star eaters are world eaters. But it’s hard to refrain when each one melts across my tastebuds revealing flavors like words for ideas I never knew existed. I’m changed by every light gone out, just as the sky is changed.

I usually eat them one at a time, to ensure I savor the taste that only I will know and prevent the bite of over-indulgence. But tonight, I try putting one on each side of my tongue. I want to see if they will crest like waves flowing in opposite directions in my mouth. I am lucky. These two flare vibrantly in their dissimilarity. The left is stinging molten soft ness. It roils like many parts clambering and saccharine one over the other in frantic motion, like ants from a ruined anthill. The right is aching chilled edges. It tumbles like a rockslide clattering with bitters and brine. They meet in the middle in a savory sweet crash that makes me sigh. I let my eyes close as I swish the flavor around my mouth for as long as I can bear.

…

I was five when I sat on the porch of my grandparents’ shack in the mountains of West Virginia, still unaware of what star eating was. Granny was smoking a pipe reclining in her wicker chair like it was anything but the uncomfortable heap of sticks that it was. My mom rested her head in Granny’s lap. With her free hand, Granny stroked her hair and hummed an aimless song. My papa and grandpa must have been told what was going to happen that night, as they stayed inside instead of joining us.

Mom beckoned me with her raspy voice and a gesture of her hand. I came over and curled up in her warm arms. Granny started talking, her tone a rusted replica of my mother’s, an old can opener circling our ears. Opening us up.

“Ira, do you see that up there?”

She pointed at the sky. I looked at the warped overhang of the porch and nodded with certainty.

“The sky, sweetie,” my mom corrected. 

“All those twinkling lights up there,” Granny continued, “those stars. They know your mama and me better than anyone here on this earth.”

“Even Papa and Grandpa?” I asked.

“Yes, even them.” She paused for a few breaths. I squirmed in my mother’s grasp. “Your mama and I, our maternal line, we came from up there. From star dust a long, long time ago. Now, we have a special connection with them.”

I nodded again. I had no idea what she was saying.

Mom smiled into my hair. “Give me your finger, kiddo,” she said. Then, she licked my fingertip and guided me in drawing down my first star. Oddly, I don’t remember the taste. Mara found that ridiculous when I told her, but I hadn’t known what was happening until it hit my tongue. I remember crying and my mom wiping my tears with her thumbs as Granny spoke.

“That right there, Ira, that was our people. That was our ancestors and our descendants talking to you all at once.” She paused as she took another drag from her pipe. Then, exhaling, “It’ll get easier to understand with time.”

My mom added, voice layered over my sniffles, “But remember, kiddo, don’t go star eating without our help, ok? Each time we speak in their tongue, they take a bit of our human talk. We gotta maintain a balance. Otherwise, Grandpa and Papa would get real bored.” She’d tickled me then, and I laughed, the sound rang out clear and full.

…

The closest Mara gets to understanding is when she tastes it on my lips when we kiss. Lately, she makes her face screw up in disgust. I know it’s a performance, an assortment of gestures she runs through like a script to convince herself that what I’ve done is incomprehensibly vile. To convince herself that even the second-hand taste of stars tainted by the flavor of my spit and skin isn’t divine. But she knows. And she knows I know. And I think she resents that I know. But I can’t be sure because she hasn’t ever said it out loud.

So, now I only do it when she is away. This weekend she’s with her mother in the city. As I packed her bags into the trunk of our lime green hatchback earlier today, I mentioned that she should have good weather for her trip, and she frowned. I felt the pull of it against my neck where her head rested when we hugged goodbye.

“It’s supposed to rain on Saturday,” she said as she slid into the driver’s seat.

“In town,” I’d replied.

I feel her phantom frown now as the richness of the melded stars seeps past my teeth, through my gums, and into the nerve roots nestled about my jaw. The intensity makes it ache at the hinge, and I swallow instinctively. No. It’s just my own distress pulling at the corners of my mouth, sorrow draping heavily down the muscles on either side of my neck. The stars are gone, only the faintest essence of them lingers at the back of my throat, burning more than normal. I cough. The wind glances across the rooftop and my supine body, slushing the tears beginning to bead on my eyelashes.

…

The last time Mara and I spoke about stars, I’d tried to explain how it felt to experience unity with something at the same time as mourning the loss of what it once was.

“I don’t know that any star eaters exist outside my family, so it’s possible that no one will ever pick the ones I pick. That they’ll never be understood this way. But I can, so I do. But when their taste has dissolved, their voice faded, I’m struck by their silence. Every time.”

“Then why do it?” She’d looked at me then and I knew I should stop, but I didn’t.

“Because the star and I can do this incredible thing together. We’re made of the same stuff, even if it doesn’t seem that way. So when it’s gone it’s not really gone, it’s just within me, for now. I remain to build memory around a moment that is special precisely because it is incomparable.”

“But you aren’t doing anything. The stars are. The stars are the thing that taste good.”

“No. No, I can reach them. I can reach them because I’m part of them and they’re part of me. This form or that one, it’s all the same. It’s a conversation, and this is only part of it. In time, when my body has long returned to dust, I’ll answer.”

There was a pause. Then, shifting her body so air filled the space between us she said, “Maybe you aren’t supposed to. Maybe the incredible thing would be to leave them be.”

…

The light of an approaching car makes shadows quiver about the tree limbs that stretch into the skyscape. I tilt my head to the left to watch it pass on the narrow road that curves around the property. My eyes will have to readjust, which is irritating, but I have time. The vehicle crawls up the country road, probably unsure of its trajectory in the dark. But now, near enough that the different parts are discernable, an unmistakable lime green flashes in my eyes.

Suddenly, it’s as if I can hear the ocean across miles of countryside, the Atlantic roar of my heart. The gravely press of the car’s tires turning into my driveway is lost to me, but the high beams are spotlight heavy. I shift onto my stomach. I crawl across the roof. I aim for a slither but manage a stutter through the open bedroom window. My night cooled muscles tremble underneath the quilt my Granny left me, coat hastily shoved under the bed. My sea gale breathing joins my heartbeat. I shut my eyes as light slips under the door, heralding her entrance: Here is Mara. Why is Mara here?

“Baby?” she whispers.

I try to breath steadily, mouth slack.

“Baby, are you asleep?” A little louder now.

I try for a small snore. It sounds off. I cough. She is still. She must know. And she knows I know. Screw her, she shouldn’t even be here. She must have shuffled over because the mattress dips beside me. Her arm locks around my middle and her voice, now inches from my ear, pierces through the breakers. “Open your eyes.”

My body is drawn as tightly as her arm, betraying my feigned slumber. Still, I crack my eyes open only a sliver, as if groggy. A stripe of ceiling is painted sickly yellow by the hall light. We painted the bedroom when we moved to the cottage. We wanted to make it feel like us. She still thought being a star eater was romantic back then. She’d dabbed the ceiling with glow paint when I left for the hardware store. Surprise! She had laughed that evening and we made love under her artificial sky.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“You’re home early. You ok?”

“Ira, look at me.”

“Did you forget—”

Her fingertips press divots into my cheeks as she releases my waist to force my face into her kiss. She used to ask to taste stars from my lips. She’d asked because she wanted to share it with me. To understand me. To understand them. I clench my teeth against the press of her tongue and shove her away.

“What the hell, Mara!” I scramble out of bed. She follows, her body bowed forward in accusation.

“You did do it! I knew you would!”

“Do what?”

“Why are you lying? I can taste it!” I’m not sure if she can or if her distrust corrupts her palate.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

“Because you’re lying to me.”

“You’ve been upset far longer than I’ve been lying.” I take a step back. The windowsill presses into my spine.

“I’ve been upset since I understood the implications of what you’re doing.” Mara takes a step forward. She’s close enough that she has to bend her neck to look up at me. Must be uncomfortable.

“And what am I doing?”

Her brow furrows, intensifying the lines there that no longer fully disappear. “You pluck worlds out of existence, other beings out of existence, like a god. But you’re not a god. I would know.”

“They aren’t worlds, they’re stars. And we don’t have proof of other life in this galaxy, which is all I can see. And even if there were, the odds of me destroying them are next to none. Miniscule. Insignificant. Anyway, what I do isn’t destruction, just a temporary transformation.”

“Do you hear yourself? Just a temporary transformation! What you do could destroy life before we have a chance to see it. Insignificant isn’t the same as impossible. You could impact the universe in ways we don’t yet understand. That sounds like a big risk for some candy, Ira.”

…

Mara likes saying things like that, making me sound petulant. Perhaps I once was before I learned important lessons about consequences. In a home as small as my Granny’s filled to spilling with four adults and a child that was becoming less and less childlike, it was difficult to do anything without someone else being aware. Homeschooling made it worse. Even after Grandpa died and Granny become less present, her mind and voice corroding into rust in tandem, I always felt the gaze of my parents. But I loved them dearly, and my care translated into a paranoid dedication to avoiding their disappointment. I was certain Mom had the night sky mapped on the back of her eyelids and if I were to draw down stars in secret, she would know the moment she blinked.

So, I kept to my word, given at age five without a clue what I was saying. I only ate stars with the help of my mom and granny at the times deemed appropriate. Th is was typically in celebration of rare celestial events—a Blue Moon; the alignment of five or more planets; a passing of Halley’s Comet.

“It’s to keep balanced and center these moments on remembering how we are connected to all this,” Mom said with a dramatic wave when I asked why we followed this schedule. At this point, I was perhaps thirteen and she felt less ethereal and more human. It was harder to see how she was connected to the universe. Hard to see myself in it. But I nodded vigorously, hoping to convince us both.

…

I still felt disconnected from the universe when I went off to college. Neither of my parents had been and though they hadn’t pressured me to do so, I delighted in their pride and the distance. I could make sense of the world the way I saw fit. The way the rest of humanity saw fit.

Mara first appeared in my life at a party thrown by upperclassman off campus that first autumn, a vibrant Polaris—dazzling and luminous and, as ever, vocal about her thoughts.

“You sure look stunning for someone so obviously uncomfortable with all this,” she said loud enough to be heard over the music, bumping her shoulder into my side. I looked down at her and grinned, twirling some hair at the base of my neck. She wore all white. It made her tan skin glow.

“Um, thanks?”

“You’re welcome. I think you’d look even better if we were dancing together. Let’s go!” She grabbed my hand, and we danced. She giggled a lot. I blushed a lot. Later, we kissed a lot, and I felt better about all the giggling and blushing. In the coming months, she became the universe to me, so during the alignment of Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, I invited her to go camping.

“I have something to show you.” I said, wiggling closer to her in our respective sleeping bags, mine zipped down enough that I could use one arm to guide her into me until her head rested on my shoulder.

“Ok, baby.” I felt the hum of my heartbeat at the endearment. It was new, then.

With my other arm, I pointed up at a star near Mars. “Do you see that?”

“Uh, the planets? Yeah, you showed me.”

“No, no.” I laughed. “No the star to the left.”

“Sure I do.” She turned her head into my neck, biting at the skin there. I faltered. “Mara, please. Just watch.”

She turned her attention back to the sky, sighing. Before her eyes I drew a star to my tongue. Its glimmer must have disappeared because she gasped, but my eyes were already closed. I was listening and its taste was a burst of spice that shot down my spine, intense and lush and excruciating. At the time, it felt exactly like the tumbling passion when Mara pulled me close, when Mara kissed me, when Mara whispered my name like it was a triumph to say it.

So when I explained and she asked me to do it again, it seemed that even the stars agreed with my devotion. Yes, I said over and over. More, she said over and over. When she traced my bottom lip with her thumb I held my breath. She hadn’t kissed me since that first star, but when her eyes settled on my mouth, I knew it wasn’t my flavor she was curious about.

When I woke the next morning to the sunlight streaming in the mesh window of our tent, I crept out as quietly as possible. I boiled water for French press for the two of us and, when it was done, called Mara’s name. Or tried to. The sounds of the letters caught like a fork in the disposal of my throat. My eyes watered. I set the coffee aside and walked down the trail, breathing in and out slowly, testing my voice at intervals. I kept on this way until Mara called me back. She cast it off as a head cold from the winter air, and I nodded, wiping my clammy hands on my pants before she took them in her own, rubbing soothing circles against my palms.

As the day went on my words maintained a distinctive rasp that reminded me of my mother. The letters had regained their shape, albeit slightly altered. This change made me feel more grown. And it was all the better for the adoration in Mara’s eyes each time she looked at me.

…

Mara and I reached the bottom of the stairs and I turn to face her. There is no adoration there. She’s a step above me, which gives her enough of a boost that she looks down at me. She’s always liked that. She’s kissed my nose while standing on this step a hundred times. There are flashes of her smile colored by different light across different times projected from my memories over her presently cold expression until the bulk of her silence ends.

“I met another star eater.”

“What?”

“Her name is Jackie. She works with my mom.”

I take a step back. Mara moves around me, the shorter of us once more, but suddenly much more fearsome. 

She continues, “She hasn’t eaten stars in years. Says it’s selfish and, well, I agree. Do you understand?”

The blood rushing past my eardrums in its abrupt haste heralds a numbness. The protective cousin of cutting off circulation. Too much or too little blood and it’s like your body signals your brain to stop you from feeling. Danger, something is amiss. Let me cradle you until it’s passed.

“So a woman you met today says something that affirms what you already believe, and that’s enough to push you to come back here in a self-righteous rage? To berate me about something I never said I’d stop doing?”

“I didn’t just meet her.” I hear her hop up to sit on the kitchen counter. At least I imagine that’s what she’s doing. That’s what she usually does when we talk in the kitchen. She used to tell me about her day while I cooked. She said I was the best cook. I said it was because the stars made me think about tasting differently, that it was a way of saying I love you. I don’t turn to look at her now.

She continues, “I’ve been seeing her for the past year. Every time I visit the city.”

…

The first and only time Mara joined me to see my parents, she was wearing a dark floral dress that pooled around her feet. She tied it at the side to keep from tripping on it. Before we arrived, I asked her not to mention my family’s ability. We were only meant to tell people we intended to marry. She grinned. “And who says we aren’t?”

I struggled to find words and she laughed. I was glad I was driving and didn’t have to meet her eyes.

“It’s ok. I get it.” She continued, placing her hand on my thigh. “It’s our secret.”

What I didn’t account for was that my mom would still have the stars pressed into the back of her eyelids. Before I could knock, she flung the door wide open beckoning us to her with a dramatic spread of her arms. “My girls are home.”

I remembered beaming at Mara then, so pleased at my mom’s boundless welcome. She held us both tightly. I breathed in the smell of her like bay leaves and smoke and closed my eyes. Images of Mara sitting with us on the porch in the evenings flooded my mind. Then, at the weathered wooden table with my father, a grandfather now, mom and I outside with a third new little person. She released us. I said, “Hi, mama.” The words were curved by my happiness, but not softened enough. She froze. She blinked.

“What’s wrong with your voice, kiddo?”

“Nothing. You just haven’t seen me in a while.” I noticed it though. How similar our voices sounded. She blinked.

“What have you done?” She took a step back from us. Her face dropped.

She blinked. She glanced at Mara.

The rest of the visit is muddled following those brief moments of joy. If I dig, I’m sure I could pull it back with sour clarity from the place I tucked it away, but I don’t want to. But I do remember the way my mom shrunk from me for the rest of the visit. Here I see my mom’s liver spotted hand slide across quarter sawn woodgrain. I remember the long silences over bread and soup as if my parents couldn’t bear to hear my voice. Here I see the bright carrots floating among brown lentils to the clanking of spoons on bowls. I remember the sound of mom’s voice when she asked about all the stars I’d eaten. Asked me when I’d fallen off balance looking at me with her dark disappointed eyes. Here the spit suddenly pools in my mouth. And I told her. And she blinked. And her gaze fell again to Mara who came, unhelpfully, to my defense.

“I mean, it’s like a communion or something for you guys, yeah? She was just showing me how beautiful it was, that’s all.”

As we walked out the front door, I looked up at the warped boards covering the porch. With my back toward my mom and papa, I said I didn’t want to see them again if they were going to be so closed minded. Though in harsher words, I’m sure, because though I can’t remember them, I can taste them like dark chocolate so bitter it makes you gag.

…

Hearing Mara say seeing her all crisp and confident, the sound vibrates along my pulse-numb skin and saliva pools in my mouth. I wonder if she can sense it even before I respond. If she can imagine the way the spit will string from my teeth like some feral animal.

“You mean sleeping with her.” I say it over my shoulder, turning my head but not my body. I see her fidgeting in my periphery. I hope it’s shattered glass discomfort, a self-soothing shimmy that does little more than grind her further into the hurt of this moment.

“It’s more than that. I love Jackie. She respects how I feel.”

I look over toward the little living room. The old denim couch Mara convinced me was stylish sags with the hours we spent on it reading together, watching movies, drinking, laughing. It’s still ugly, though.

“You mean she changed how you feel about it. But she’s lying to you, you know.”

“No, she’s not.”

“What are the odds of another star eater living in this state? Of meeting you? Of confessing it to you? As unlikely as me plucking sentient life from the sky.”

I turn to her now. Her face crumbles for a moment. I like that. I swallow. It tastes stale.

“My Jackie wouldn’t lie to me.”

I crowd in her space. She tries to scramble further onto the counter, but I am near enough to see her pupils eclipse her hazel irises.

“If I could draw you down like a star right now and swirl you across my tongue, I would. I’d roll you around my mouth, find your Jackie, and kiss her. And she’d be so grateful to have the faintest glimmer of who you are because she’d never be able to discover it for herself. And when I’d swallowed the last of you, no one would notice. Not even her. They’d look around and see the billions of other glittering people and your absence wouldn’t matter just like the absence of the stars you think I’ve stolen. But they’ve mattered to me. You’ve mattered to me. And Jackie’s taken that. She seems like a great woman. A real goddamn moral paragon, Mara. I’m so happy for you.”

She’s curled in on herself like you would after a kick to the stomach. I hope it’s left a mark. I know I’m gutted as I walk out of the place Mara and I called home and onto the dark country road. By now I’m starting to feel the ache again, losing the brain-body numbness with every step. I can hardly see what’s in front of me as I escape the light emanating from the cottage, but not its effect on my eyes.

So, I look up. The stars I’m able to see are blurred from tears. I’m not sure when they began, but now they slip down my face accompanied by sobs that burst forth in a painful eff ort from my lungs, echoing among the trees. I bring my right hand to my mouth, shoving my fingers past my lips. Then I reach up, trembling into the night sky. I write Mara’s name across it in broad strokes. They peal like shards of glass against palate and gum and bone, clamoring down my ruined throat. And they don’t taste like much at all, cold air and copper, silent in the face of betrayal. Mara’s or mine, I’m not really sure. I open my mouth to cry out. The cool breeze rustles the pines as crickets chirp softly in the distance and my voice does not join them.

Jamie A. M. is a writer, photographer, & avid dabbler. Their work has been published in The Lit Nerds, Peach Fuzz, Powders Press, and Impossible Archetype, among others. They roam the forests, occasionally emerging to teach a class or grab a coffee. Learn more about their doings and beings at www.jamiemorning.com or on Instagram @countryfriedhex.