Stars — by Daniel Ray

Cindy didn’t have much, but she had a book. Every night Cindy’s mother would read the book to her and show her the pictures, pictures of stars burning bright, asteroids roaring through space, and far away planets where no human had ever been.

“What’s stars?” Cindy asked her mother one night, halfway through the book.

“They’re like the sun but farther away,” her mother answered.

“Are all of them far away?”

“Yes, very far.”

“Why can’t they be closer?”

“I don’t know, honey. That’s just how it is.”

“Can stars be small?”

“No, I don’t think so. Even the smallest ones are bigger than a planet.”

Later, when Cindy slept, she dreamt of stars, little ones that were much closer, not very far away at all.

The next morning at breakfast, she said, “Mommy, I think I’ve got stars inside me, in my belly probably.” Cindy grabbed her little gut and squeezed. “Pretty sure I’m full of ‘em.”

Her mother laughed and said, “You’re full of something, alright.”

“No, Mommy—I’m serious. What if I’ve got stars?”

“I don’t think you should worry too much about it.”

Her father wouldn’t listen either.

“I think you’ve been reading your book too close to bedtime,” he said. “You’ve got a wild imagination, kiddo.” He patted Cindy on the head as though she were a dog.

Even though her parents didn’t believe her, Cindy knew she was right—she could feel the stars getting brighter every day, burning hotter as they grew. Weeks later, when Cindy stopped eating and started coughing up blood, her parents finally believed Cindy and took her to the hospital.

They made her lay on a table in a cold room all by herself. They took pictures of Cindy’s body with something called an X-ray. Cindy thought that sounded neat. She said the word over and over as she lay there.

“X-ray, x-ray, x-ray.”

After the X-rays were over, Cindy and her parents had to wait in a small room for what seemed like hours before the doctor came in with the pictures. He hung them on the wall and turned on a bright light so they could see. Cindy stared at the strange black photographs, finally able to see what she had known all along:

There were stars inside her body, some the size of dimes, some the size of quarters, all glowing white. Stars all over her bones—up and down her arms and legs—and a few in her head from the looks of it.

She was full of ‘em alright.

Cindy wondered if someone would ever put her X-ray pictures in a book about stars. She hoped they would. Her parents were both crying and shaking, but she didn’t understand why.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Cindy asked. “I told you I was full of stars.”

AUTHOR BIO:

Daniel Ray lives in Tennessee and spends most of his free time either reading or writing.