Stardust

Miles of Sky

Stardust: Miles of Sky

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    Skylar Glass wouldn't wish to be anywhere else in the world.

    Not when he was in the middle of a rolling field of green lightened by the bulbs of fireflies; not when the breeze coaxed the oak trees into a waltz; and especially not when he was this perfectly content beneath vast, star-drunk, obsidian skies.

    His irises, like two polished pennies painted black in their centers, were almost fully encompassed by dilated pupils that followed the fireflies until they blended in with the darkness in the distance. The spindly silhouettes of his eye lashes on his cheeks — his skin beneath the shadows firm and white like frozen cream — waltzed with the oaks.

    Skylar's lean, muscle-dusted body was sprawled in the overgrown grass, the sprigs swaying in frenzies, like a kid in the midst of a snow angel. His chest slowly descended, and for several seconds it was like he wasn't breathing at all. Then his chest rose and sunk again in its own dilatory fashion, letting the world know that he was still on the mortal side of life.

    He laid there, not moving, for hours, staring up at the atmosphere and all of its otherworldly, shiny contents. The stars flickered like a million tiny fireballs. He was captivated by them.

    Skylar wished he could see the vision of colorful, swirling nebulae in the universe that he knew existed just beyond the stratosphere. He thought of the nebulae like someone pouring paint into the sky, and letting the colors run across the universe like a tilted canvas beneath the moon.

    As he laid there studying the sky, he spared a thought for the sky studying him back. Skylar was only sixteen, but he was as defined as a man twice his age and a life harder lived. There was a certain gravity in the strong curves of his jaw and his cheekbones, like polished stone; and a fondness in the way his nose sloped, and how his slender lips curved downward at the edges. A wave of brunette was a mess on his scalp, often reaching down to dance across his forehead and cast shadows over his eyes. He lacked a good combing, but it was inexplicably fitting.

    When he smiled, he was like the sketch-lines of fine art: Scratchy, rough, and absolutely brilliant.

    In a dark corner of the universe, he found what he had been searching for. Appearing like a cluttered nuisance corrupting the rest of the night, was a cluster of dim stars — dim stars that meant the world to him. They were too distant to be seen individually, resembling a luminous cloud of dust that pulsed to life with clarity. Dozens more of the clouds shone through the darkness. It was like, one at a time, light switches were being turned on.

    Just as quickly, the lights were turned off for the night.

    It never lasted long. The transaction was hardly fair: He spent countless hours just for a few moments, but it was worth it for him. Each time he saw the beauty of the fleeting stardust, it was etched into his mind's eye to be relived on the nights that the stardust escaped him.

    He sighed, pulled himself up from the grass and straightened to a frame of six feet.

    The late summer's breeze slithered through the holes in his dark jeans. The sleeves that were hacked off of his T-shirt did nothing to ward off the elements. Goosebumps arose across the canvas of his skin. He shuddered and took off.

    The worn soles of his black sneakers padded down the single road that sliced the field down the middle. His lanky shadow meandered around behind him, swaying against the pavement. His hands were shoved deep into his jeans. He lightly bobbed his head as he walked, a song of unknown origins coursing through his mind. He smiled with those bright ivories and chuckled as his influenced disposition envisioned dancing music notes frolicking across the street.