Stardust

Stardust

By Rue Volley

Published by Hot Ink Press

This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

©Text Copyright 2014 Rue Volley

Cover b
y Rue Volley

Edited by Karmin Dahl for Hot Ink Press

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

“And the rest is rust and stardust”

-Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

For Love.

I ran as quickly as I could, trying my very best to catch up. The large black and red train started to leave the station without me, causing a panic to settle deep into my chest. I ran along the platform, my maroon heels clicking underneath me. My purple and black striped dress clinging to my small frame and my pink fedora hat teasing with the thought of flying off of my head. I had recently cut off all of my hair. In fact, by “recent”, I mean, last night. I am a stress cutter and no I don’t mean that I harm myself, I mean, that if I get extremely stressed out, I do drastic things to my hair and this was no exception. My hair had been down past the middle of my back, all one length, minus the bits of layering to frame my face. It was naturally chestnut brown, a strong trait in my family, as well as the pale skin, large eyes, and pouty lips. Now…well, my hair is shaggy and bleached blonde. I know, like I said…I am a stress cutter and when I change my look, I do a one-eighty in whatever direction suits me best. It had been four years since I had last morphed myself into something new. I know for some it may seem as if I need to have a therapy session or two, but honestly, cutting my hair had made me feel a million times better after the phone call I had received at eight pm the previous night.

I sped up as the train's whistle blew.
The mere sound of it causing my body to tense up. I had arrived late, through no fault of my own. I live in New York City and whenever you plan something, you have to add two extra hours onto it to make sure you have time. Unfortunately it was raining, the city was backed up in traffic and the cab showed up a half hour late. I didn’t even complain about it, there was no need. My thoughts were of one thing and one thing only…getting home. I was told to fly, but the train was beckoning me for a very good reason. It was one childhood memory that I always drew upon when living in the city made me feel lonely. Cities can do that to you and I always found it ironic with so many people dwelling in them. You would think it was the last place that loneliness would grip you in the middle of the night, but no. You can be standing in the middle of a packed club and feel as if you are the only person in the world. I never felt like that back home, but it had a lot to do with my dad…and of course, my eccentric family.

The reason I had insisted on taking the train home was very simple. When I was eleven years old, my dad had taken me on an adventure. We had boarded the train with two old suitcases in hand and a need to see all of Pennsylvania. That is
where I am originally from. Stillcreek, Pennsylvania and proud of it. My home town was built on industrial logging, in fact, that was what my dad did. He worked at the mill, he started out on the bottom level, hard labor and long hours. He worked his way up and his last position was that of foreman. He was proud of what he had accomplished and I was proud of him, too.

The train ride was a birthday gift to me. I was adamant about traveling the world. In fact, I had map after map with locations marked on them on my bedroom walls. No one paid attention to it, except my dad.
No one being that of my four sisters, Poppy, Violet, Daisy and Rose. I was born last in a chain of flowers, my name being Jasmine. My mother told us, many times over, that she wanted a garden of children as beautiful as the one behind the house. I never thought of myself as beautiful, but she insisted that we all were.  I have no idea if it was because I came along after everyone else or if I was just more like a boy, but my sisters were all girly and I was not. I was a tomboy and maybe that is why my dad seemed to bond with me when my sisters clung to my mother.

I remember sitting next to my dad on this train as we watched the scenery go by from our room. The sky was blue, the day was perfect and he said something to me that I will never ever forgot.

“When I die, I want to be taken on a train and you make sure to scatter my ashes from here to the other side of Pennsylvania, Jasmine. I want to be set free. We are all made of stars and to the stars we return.”

I remember staring at him as he watched the sky from our window and thinking about how he would never die, he couldn’t
, he was my dad. To me, he was immortal. I then blinked, pulled out of memory, as I felt a hand take mine and pull me up onto the slowly moving train. I almost dropped my suitcase, a tattered old thing with stickers of different places of the world on it. I sighed and then looked up to see a man standing there, he was dressed in a white button down shirt, a nice coat and jeans. He grinned as I pushed past him and then I hesitated, remembering my manners. I turned back and got caught staring at his shoes. They were so familiar, like the ones my dad always wore. I looked up and saw his face. His eyes bright and blue, lips a pinkish red. His skin pale, but not sickly in color. He was very attractive.
My
kind of attractive. Young, probably my age, if not a year older. His hair was tussled, that weird style that looks great on some people and completely ridiculous on others. It was dark, a bit shaggy, but framed his face and accentuated his features. His bangs were just a smidgen too long, adding to his “cuteness”, that coy
hair in the eyes thing
was happening as the wind blew. It gave him a unique look. One of independence and kind of artsy, my
thing,
when it came to what I found interesting in people.

I grinned, his gallant effort to save me catching me off guard. “Thank you.” I said as my hat flew off and away from the back of the train.

We both watched the thing linger for a few seconds before it darted off down the tracks behind us. He jumped. I screamed…I mean,, it seemed insane to watch him do it. He landed in between the tracks and ran until he snatched up my hat and then turned to smile at me. His look of triumph soon turned to one of distress as he realized the train was gaining speed. He took off running towards me and I dropped my suitcase and held onto the bar as I extended my hand out as far as I could. He finally reached me and with one leap, his hand was in mine and I pulled as he jumped up. We quickly moved backward and he was against me. The closest any man had been in a while. You see, I was not big on dating, I tend to have strange expectations and it trips me up in the relationship department, but anyway, that discussion is definitely for another time.

We stood
there chest to chest, him breathing hard and me starting to. I looked up into his eyes and he smelled so good, I could not place the cologne, but it was woodsy and not too overbearing. He grinned down at me, a good five inches taller. He was not broad shouldered, but not too tiny either. I would have to say he was just right. Strange for me to even think it. He lifted my hat and I ignored it as I got caught up in his features. Close up he was even more…

“Here you go,” he said as his voice interrupted my inner monologue.

I blinked as I took my hat from him, “Thank you…again.”

He stayed where he was and I cleared my throat.
Suddenly, his close proximity to me becoming clear. I felt flustered by how much I enjoyed it. I guess my lack of companionship was wearing on me, or perhaps I am just a tad bit off my game. I would have to guess the second was definitely true.

“No problem,” he replied as I reached behind me and fumbled with the door handle.

I opened it and backed up, keeping my eyes on him and grinning. I know I seem awkward, I always do and I cannot help it. I stepped through the door and made my way down the hallway. I glanced back as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. I turned back and made my way along the narrow corridor the best that I could.

He called out to
me, “Thank you, for the hand back up onto the train.”

I nodded to him and stared for a moment longer than I needed to. I could not help it. He was the cutest thing I had seen in quite some time, not that I was looking…because I don’t. Like I said, I am not good at relationships at all.

The train was gaining in speed, so I swayed back and forth, trying my best to not look like an idiot as I made my way down the hallway. I glanced back as the anonymous man watched me, I felt my face heat up, my emotions completely out of control.

I finally saw my door number and slid it open. I peeked in and grinned as I remembered it, just the same as it had been when I was eleven and here with my dad. I slid the door closed behind me and walked to the single bed. I placed my suitcase on it and felt the old dark leather. It was smooth and weathered. Containing memories, as old things tend to do. This was the suitcase I had brought on my trip with him and
half the stickers that adorned it were collected by the two of us. We had not traveled to all of these places, in fact, these were simply meant to be a map of all the places we said we
wanted
to go. A wish list, so to speak.

I flipped the lid open and pulled out my dad’s picture, it was an old black and white. He was much younger, in fact he was the same age I am now, all of twenty-five. Mom would probably be pissed if she knew I had it, but I snatched it up when I left home for New York and bigger dreams. It was always my favorite one of him. He looked like a writer, pipe in hand, shit-eating grin on his face. As I age I do see him in me, especially my eyes.

I turned and sat down on the bed, holding his picture and then I leaned back. I closed my eyes and felt the sway of the train as the bed felt soft under me. Some people may not be able to sleep like this, but I prefer to have movement and noise. If it is too quiet, I will lay awake all night. My dad was the same way, he used to get up in the middle of the night when I lived at home and eat a cheese sandwich with a glass of milk. I remember walking into the kitchen one night and seeing him sitting at the island in the middle of the room. He took a big bite and then grinned at me as he chewed. I joined him, I think I was thirteen at the time, and it became a strange ritual we had of cheese and milk at midnight. I don’t think my mom ever knew that he got up at night when the house was quiet so he could spend some time alone. If I had been older, I would have left him to it, everyone needs their personal space and time respected. I understand that, now that I am an adult, but then? Well, I just felt like it was one more cool thing that we shared that no one else knew about.

I then started to drift off, clutching my dad’s picture to my chest. The words “He is gone, Jasmine,” echoed in my mind. Dad
was
gone, he had died two days ago while working in the mill. A heart attack they said, sudden…he felt nothing, but how do they know that? How can anyone know what anyone else feels at the time of their death? All I knew is that I hoped he simply closed his eyes and the rest became his greatest adventure, one I would also encounter someday….one we all have to encounter. That of death.

“Dad,” I whispered as one tear rolled down my cheek.