Stars flicker, glimmering silver in the black expanse, over voluptuous hills which roll and curve behind me. They whisper their stardust smiles, welcoming me to the night, to the hills, to the silence of things. Stay awhile, they whisper, while I stand transfixed on a country road delightfully coated in dirt and roughness, devoid of sleek design. They dot the sky, stardust sprinkles. Their silence is so still, yet so loud, their flickering a song in my mind. No roar of traffic, of belligerent students yelling from windows and assholes playing beer pong half-naked, shorts drooping and baseball caps clinging to bald heads. No cliques moving up and down streets on Friday nights, whispering secrets, while I look out windows so high from the avenues, unreachable. No tears which burst with the force of a bomb. No secrets here, secrets are released in the tender breeze and the autumn chill. Only the family of woods, the crickets singing their serenade. Only the rising pines, a cathedral, black shadows, imposing, yet blanketing me, the rooftop under which I dwell. They cover me, like the periwinkle sheets on my bed, but they cover the world. They hide the cities, the whirl of angry mustache men who dissect, of jobs and reality that proclaim themselves the one true way. They hide the anger within me, keep it from expanding like balloons. They beckon me to bed, the trees, the image of the stars flickering brighter than anywhere in the world. Stardust flickering brighter, brighter than anywhere in the cosmos. Anywhere at all.
© Yash Seyedbagheri
Bio: Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A native of Boise, Idaho, his work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Maudlin House, and Ariel Chart. Yash lives in Garden Valley, Idaho.