3474 words

Before he died, my dad fished stars for a living. Sucked them straight out of the sky with a glorified mechanical fishing rod. Of all the possessions that I inherited, the starfisher was dad's truest legacy. I picked up where he left off, expanding on his star smuggling business as he would've wanted. All I had to do was find the people who'd wished on stars when they were children and offer them one of two options: pay me to keep their star in the sky or pay me to fish it free. Most clients paid a hefty fee to let their star fall by natural means and make their wish come true. Others regretted their childhood wishes and wanted me to pluck them from the sky before they could be fulfilled. There was money to be made in either case. At least until the starfisher broke.

"Totally dead," I lament. "No power. Can't reel in any stars."

Loirelle threads her spindly fingers through my hair where we lay in bed. Twin moons cast a purple sheen that peers inside our bedroom as if it knows a joke we don't.

"Hire someone who can take it apart and tell you how to re-charge it," she says. Her fingers snag on one of my curls. I wince and pull away, rubbing at the sore spot.

"If I have someone look at it, I'll give away the secret to the family business."

She blinks at me. The light is dim enough that the horizontal slits of her eyes look nearly circular. She had them modified in her twenties when the technology wasn't as refined as it is now, but I think she was impatient and didn't want to save for something better.

"But it's patented," she finally says. "They can't legally copy it."

I fall back on my pillow with a sigh. "This isn't strictly a legal business, though."

She leans forward until she hovers above me. "Well. Okay. That's true." It's not exactly an answer, but I'm not even sure what I'm asking at this point, so I let it go.

Dad's patent for his 'fisher was approved as an alternate power source. Not to extort money out of people who either wanted their dreams to come true or who regretted them so badly that they'd pay for the service in either case. Dad himself belonged to the latter category. He built the starfisher because he made a bad wish as a child. One that he came to regret only when his own father was killed in a mining accident on Earth's moon. His mother should've been happy with that outcome, given her husband's temperamental behavior, but children don't understand how that kind of happiness really works. Ever since then, guilt had painted black lines beneath dad's eyes every hour of the day. It was why he'd left earth.

I drag Loirelle's head down to rest on my chest. Her cheek is hot against my skin.

Speaking into her hair, I mumble, "There's only one person I can go to with this."

Her shoulders tense. I knew they would. "His asking price will be too high."

I inhale deeply. "But he'll honor any deal I make with him. Unlike others."

Her fingers skid across the lines of my stomach, skittish in their travel although they've followed the path many times before. She clearly understands what I have to do—those fingers tell me as much—but that only makes the situation worse.

As I fall asleep with Loirelle sprawled across me, I think of my own secret star up in the sky. Of the decision I've put off for too long and must make before it's too late.

#

As soon as dawn bruises red across the horizon, I sneak out of the house and onto the rain-slick streets. Loirelle is still asleep. My mind is set, but not enough that she can't talk it into circles. I can't afford that, though, and so I leave home without risking it.

When I burst into Glimm's shop, buffeted by the rain, everything looks as I remember. It's a mess, of course. All tinkerer shops are messes, especially independent ones, but Glimm's has a particular bend. I used to help stock these shelves. At first glance, a lot of that inventory is still here. Too much, considering its worth and rarity.

I don't want to dwell on that, so I yell for the man himself. "You've got business!"

Glimm lumbers free from the back of the shop, big body stained by sweat and soot. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. I don't wait for him to talk but drop my dad's starfisher onto the nearest clean surface. It makes a dull sound when it lands, swaddled in pale fabric that does little to brighten the cluttered space. Placing a steadying hand on the fabric, I say, "I need to know how to power it back up. It's dead. Just name your price and let's be done with it, okay?"

Glimm doesn't move. The moment is staticky. I feel it run along my skin like cheap soap. I wish I had soap right now, but nothing could fully cleanse me of this place. It's not the first time we've seen each other since I left, but each time still feels like the first. I wonder if that will ever stop. If either of us will ever break our professional ties now that we no longer have any personal ones. But I'm the only person out there with a starfisher, and Glimm is the only repairman and tinkerer that I'll trust with dad's legacy.

"You don't get to order me around," he finally says. "Not in my own shop."

I want to haul the bundle of fabric back over my shoulder, but I channel that energy into loosening my jaw instead. "Name your price, please."

"Think you can buy me." It's not a question, but he ambles closer. He's interested.

"I know I can buy you"—I flip the fabric off dad's device—"with this, yes."

"I know what it is," he says, sucking on his bottom lip. "Don't need to see it to know."

I flip the fabric back over the metal device. Glimm flinches as if I've struck him. He falls back with a sneer, dropping the dirty rag he's been holding until now. His thumb is bloodied. Of course he'd try to stifle an injury with a dirty rag.

I'm about to ask him a third time—the last time—when he speaks.

"I want your star," he says.

"My..." I trail off. Then I hiss, "Did your brain melt outta your ears?"

My star connects me to a time when dad was still alive and our relationship was untainted by money and business. Glimm can't have that. Nobody can.

He smirks. "If I can't have your heart, then I wanna be your wish."

"You wouldn't be my wish, Lim. You'd just own it. And you can't do shit with it. It'll be dead and gone once you're holding it between your greedy-ass hands."

"But that's my price. Your star. Your wish." He's unrepentant. It's an ugly look and not one that I associate with him. He has been many things to me, and he still is something to me, but this might be what breaks the last of it. I don't know what to say. I'm floundering.

I finally settle on, "I never should've told you about it."

We know from history that wishing upon stars used to be only a metaphor. Something said and done out of desperation. But at some point, it became a thing—and then it became the thing. Everybody did it. Still does it. Not all the stars will take, of course. Some years are better than others, as with crops. There's a whole field of study aimed at reading the collective mind of the stars. Meanwhile, I'm trying to read the mind of the man that has asked me for my own star instead of my heart that he lost a long time ago.

"If you hadn't told me 'bout it," Glimm says, "there'd be nobody to help you now."

I shake my head, dizzy with it. "You'd have named another price, that's all."

But he has me. He knows he does. That's why he says nothing more. As he waits, he presses his bloodied thumb against his palm, curling his other fingers around it until his hand is a fist. He's nothing like Loirelle, but in many ways I miss that.

"I already plucked it free," I say.

"You're lying. It's still up there."

"And what the fuck do you know about that?" I bite my lip and backtrack. "Okay. Say it's still up there. Then I need to get it for you, right? But I don't have anything to get it with, do I?" I let the silence linger for a strategic heartbeat. "So if you want my star, Lim, then you need to fix dad's 'fisher first. Otherwise, I can't damn well get it for you as payment, can I?"

Star smuggling is ripe with grudges and hurt feelings. When you deal in dreams and regrets, you're bound to step on a lot of toes. That's why I've kept my own star under tight wraps. Glimm knows because he's Glimm. That used to matter. Perversely, it still does.

"I'll take your word for it," Glimm says. "Promise me and I'll deliver."

Our eyes meet. I imagine mine are about to fall out of my head. "You're asking me for my star of all fucking things, but you'll take nothing but my word for it?"

He holds my stare. "Is your word no longer any good?"

I'm not sure what either of us is trying to prove to the other, but I don't blink when I answer, "Oh, no, it's never been better. The surest currency you'll ever have."

Some people have water under their bridges. Glimm and I have the driest of deserts. Every little thing sticks to it like glue. Melts right into the sand. Lasts and lasts and lasts.

I leave the shop behind, thinking I should've let Loirelle run me in circles.

#

When I come home, Loirelle is there. Paint is smeared across her clothes. She's working from home today, in the studio out back, where she sells paintings made from seashells and driftwood. There's enough of that here. Enough rain. Enough ocean. Loirelle isn't just a piece of art herself; she also makes it. She sees it everywhere. One of her trademark paintings hangs above our bed. It's fluorescent with starlight.

Like a piece of driftwood, Loirelle sidles closer to me. "So?"

I pour a glass of water and drop a pink painkiller into it. "So?"

She purses her lips. "What did he ask for? You haven't brought the 'fisher back home, so you must've left it with him. You must've agreed to his terms, yeah?"

I down my glass of water and smack my lips at the medicinal aftertaste. Loirelle stares at me. Waits for me as I search for my words. In the end, I give up, telling her plainly, "He asked me for my star."

"You..." She draws back a little. "You have one?"

She doesn't know, is the thing. Only Glimm knew. And dad, of course.

"I do." I drop my glass into the sink where Loirelle must've cleaned her brushes minutes ago. Clotted paint surrounds the drain. "And now I guess I don't."

"You have a wish." Loirelle crosses her arms. Or hugs herself. I can't tell the difference right now. I'm wearing my insides on my outside and every thought hurts with the exposure. "You have a star," she says, "and you never told me."

"Because it's just a star, Elle. I deal in stars every day."

"But it's your star," she insists. "That's no regular thing."

"That doesn't really make a difference to me, though."

Loirelle softens at my obvious lie. "What did you wish for? Is it still in the sky?"

I lean against the cupboard and pick at a particularly vicious hangnail on my middle finger. An image of Glimm's bloodied thumb springs to my mind. I rip off the hangnail with a wince. Then I ask Loirelle, "Did you know my dad wished for his dad to die? He wished it upon a star and it came true?" I'm aware that she doesn't know, of course, so I don't expect an answer. "My grandfather didn't treat my grandmother well. Nothing as bad as what my dad thought at the time, but... all the same."

Loirelle slips an arm around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder. I accommodate easily. "What does Glimm want with your star?" she asks.

"To frame it and display it somewhere, probably." I rest my cheek against her scalp. "That's the best-case scenario. He might eat it. Might jerk off on it. Who the hell knows."

The seconds linger. "Come," Loirelle says, pulling me away from the sink and towards an empty canvas. "Help me settle on the color palette for this commission."

I follow her lead, both of us pretending that I'm the one helping her when she's really the one helping me. For all the talk of stars in the sky, I have my own star on the ground.

#

Glimm calls me about a week later. He says he's discovered the power source for the 'fisher. I don't waste any time getting to his shop, although Loirelle stops me on my way out to plant a kiss on my mouth. I wish I had let her do that the last time I went.

I don't have to find Glimm when I arrive this time. He's already waiting, sitting on a three-legged steel stool with my dad's 'fisher spread across his lap.

"Doesn't look fixed to me," I say. "Looks as dead as before."

"It is," he agrees. I'm about to puff up, but then he adds, "It runs on star power."

My world narrows to a slit of angry, pulsating light. I hate that I've never once considered this answer myself. I'm a fool. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Not kidding you. It runs on the power it's patented to harvest."

"So how did he catch the first one?" I ask, but I already know the answer.

"There's only one way," Glimm confirms, sliding off the chair with the 'fisher.

Your star will come to you, falling from the sky when your wish finally comes true. When the conditions are right. The wish is spent, but the star lives on. At least for a while. Dad must've used his own damn star before it could die. It fell when his wish came true—when my grandfather died in the mines—and he must've used its dregs to power the 'fisher all those years ago, but was too ashamed to ever tell me as much.

"If you want me to fix it right and proper," Glimm says, depositing the 'fisher on the worktable. "I'll need to do a trial run. Maybe two."

"So you need more stars from me."

"No need to get snippy 'bout it."

"Those stars put food on my table."

I sell the stars that I fish from the sky for extra profit. They make for a great alternate, if rare, power source. In hindsight, it seems obvious that dad powered his 'fisher with stars.

"You ain't starving," Glimm says. "And you need more of them shiny buggers in the future, don't you? Seems to me this is a pretty easy puzzle. Give it a think. But I keep the 'fisher till you're done thinking."

I leave the shop once again, wishing that I'd brought Loirelle along for emotional backup, but fully aware that some wishes are as pointless as can be.

#

I know the exact coordinates of my star that has yet to fall but drags closer to the horizon night by night. The coordinates are logged into my telescope facing out the bedroom window. There's no deadline or expiration date. Your wish can come true seconds before your last breath, but I know mine is getting ready. The conditions are right. The time is right. It's been like that for a while now. I understand the movements of the stars better than anybody else on this planet. Even if Glimm hadn't forced my hand, I would've had to make a decision soon.

Loirelle rustles awake in the bed behind me, but I stay by the telescope.

"I wished to leave," I say, peeling my eye from the lens. "That was my wish."

Loirelle sits up straighter and pushes her hair off her face. It's a cloudy night that obscures both the twin purple moons and my star, but the sweet lines of Loirelle's body are lit up by the painting of starlight, driftwood, and seashells above our bed. As I watch, Loirelle drapes the frumpy bedsheet around her body and stands up, gliding closer.

"Leave?" she asks.

I rest a hand on the telescope and smile. "Leave for the stars."

Her mouth pops open. "Leave... home, you mean? Here?"

"Leave for the unknown." I pause. "Isn't it unfair? To live a life with a star in the sky, knowing that your future is literally written on it? That you wrote it yourself, blinding yourself to all the other futures you couldn't possibly imagine at eight years old?"

"I wouldn't know," Loirelle answers, slow and sure. "I don't have a star."

I remember how I felt that night when I folded my hands, leaned out the window—and wished. But I have other wishes now. One of them sleeps in my bed, shares my meals, and breathes my air. Loirelle is a future that I was too young to consider at the time, but I consider it now. My dad couldn't take back his wish and he came to hate himself for it. I may have inherited his legacy, but I don't have to be like him. I still have time.

"I like the home we've built here," Loirelle says. Her voice is perfectly flat and neutral. She is perfect. So, so perfect. "But no matter your choice, I'll be there for it."

I've done my best to live up to dad's memory for years, long before I ever even met Loirelle. I have never once considered removing my star from the sky. It would feel too much like a betrayal. Like severing my last pure connection to dad that's not tied up in money and business and hurt. It's always been inevitable to me that I'd leave this place and thus also Loirelle. That I'd let my star fall. But then Glimm comes along and demands my damn star as payment for services rendered, and suddenly the situation seems less inevitable and more hypothetical. I know what relief feels like. Gratitude, too.

I know what I'm feeling, damn it all to hell.

When I beckon Loirelle into my arms, she comes as easily as ever. I start to sway us where we stand and Loirelle picks up on the movement. She joins me in the ghost of a dance that nudges the telescope aside until it loses sight of my star in the sky.

#

"Get dad's 'fisher going," I tell Glimm the following day when I enter his workshop with a satchel of stars in one hand. I throw the satchel at him where he sits on his three-legged stool. "Power it up with these. I have clients lined up for all of next week."

Glimm grabs the satchel with a grunt. It's the last of my stash. He can't check the contents—not without the proper protective gear—and I bask in that small victory.

"And my payment?" he asks. "Your star?"

"Yours to do with as you please," I promise with a bittersweet smile. "As soon as you get that 'fisher going, you'll have it. You said my word was enough. This is my word."

I leave the shop with my head held high, unburdened for the first time since my dad died. I've made my choice. Even with the ever-present rain soaking my hair and shoes, I'm confident in the future I've chosen for myself.

Dad never would've wanted me to make the same mistake that he did. He never would've wanted me to let my star fall. Hell, he pretty much shoved his 'fisher at me on his deathbed. I've always imagined that he gave it to me so I could continue the family business, but perhaps he left it with me so I'd always have a choice. So I could undo my wish—because wishes don't have to be written in the literal stars to change your life.

© 2025 A. R. Frederiksen