The Starry-Eyed Child
The air was rich with rowan trees, sea salt, and buttermilk, all the while the starry-eyed child was captivated by the sight of a falcon perched in her cereal bowl. It had a certain matter-of-factness about it, with its narrowed yellow eyes and the smile it managed to wear, occasionally tapping the carton of milk on the table beside it. If it could have reached from its spot, it would have pecked at the box of cornflakes, too. Of all the places in her house, she thought, it had decided to divert her entire day. After all, the world’s order depended on the way breakfast was had.
In a pair of overalls, glittering blue gumboots, and a stripy long-sleeved shirt, the starry-eyed child crossed her arms. She wanted to frown, but it just wasn’t in her yet. After all, she hadn’t had her cereal yet.
It stared down at the bowl. It was plastic, pale green with splashes of every other colour all over that, and beneath one of the falcon’s talons was a bronze spoon that had since been bent by ice cream. Rainbow flavoured, of course. When it gazed back up, it seemed to nod. ‘Yes,’ it was surely saying. ‘This is indeed a bowl.’
“It is,” she answered. “Now step onto the table, or I’ll have to eat you instead.”
‘What if I eat you first?’ it seemed to ask.
She puffed her chest, the way only a child with uneven, high-tied pigtails can. “A brown bear was this bowl yesterday. It didn’t believe me, and so I ate it. Down in one gulp. Now let me eat my cereal or you shall meet it in my tummy, falcon.”
It cocked its head to gaze at her, its eyes turning equal parts humoured and inquisitive. The falcon believed that the child had eaten a bear, and so after roughly seven seconds of thought, it stepped out of the bowl. As promised to the falcon by the falcon, it tapped at the box of cornflakes with its beak. The starry-eyed child sat down.
“You are only the third to believe me, falcon,” said the child as she poured the milk in first. The falcon watched the motion intently. “There have been many more who did not.”
‘Do you always pour the milk in first?’ it wondered.
“I do,” she answered. Then she smiled, but she refused to reveal the thought behind it. “Such revelations would be boring, falcon.”
‘And how old are you, child?’
“I will be six. How old are you?”
The falcon seemed to shrug. ‘I do not own a clock. Do you eat many animals?’
“Only the ones that don’t leave my cereal bowl.” The starry-eyed child filled her bowl to the brim with cornflakes, then without stirring, began to eat the flakes.
The falcon and the starry-eyed child had a pleasant enough conversation. They spoke of the weather, of breakfast, and of shiny things. Of the animals that had long since been eaten.
“I take them with both hands and I eat them. Down in one gulp, falcon. Then I have some orange juice.”
And with that, the starry-eyed child ran to the fridge close by — stacked between dated beige and green countertops and a brass coat stand covered in crocheted scarves and a single jacket made entirely of 50-cent pieces. When it moved, it was rich was silence. At its foot, a schoolbag already packed, painted pink. She yanked it the fridge door open and pulled a two-litre carton of orange juice out.
The starry-eyed child, whose face was always rosy and contained no missing teeth — all of them bright white, as if she’d been to the dentist just five minutes prior — grinned at the falcon and sculled the whole two litres down in only 15 seconds.
Upon her setting it down, the falcon seemed to ask, ‘Young child, where are your parents?’
She stood up and did not return the milk to the fridge. It occurred to the falcon that the smell was not of buttermilk, but of the milk in her bowl. The starry-eyed child shrugged.
“Last week, daddy was in my cereal bowl. The day after that, mama too. They so rarely listen. You’re only the third, falcon.”
The starry-eyed child swiped a clot of curdled milk onto her finger and set it onto her tongue.
‘Young child, why must you have put the milk in first?’
The starry-eyed child shared a sure stare. Then, before the falcon could fly away, the child ate it as well. Down in one gulp.
She looked down at her tummy. She smiled. “Because that is what all monsters do.”
With that, the starry-eyed child grabbed her schoolbag and left for school. And just as she had promised, the falcon did indeed meet the brown bear. Many conversations were had that day, among which one thing could be agreed:
Only monsters dared put the milk in the bowl first.
Heyo! I hope wherever you are, you’re having a most beautiful day and that you’re staying sane inside amidst the chaos of COVID-19. For those who are still working, I hope you are safe and well. This story is my brain needing a brief reprieve from my not-writing – it
was inspired by three things: the first was having spent an entire day largely on the road and being unable to read given it was quite the nighttime, the second being I've been reading Douglas Adams. The third is that my broskis all think that there's something terribly wrong with me, seeing as I myself place the milk in before the cereal. (Small disclaimer: this is not an autobiography. I do not own glittering blue gumboots.)But that’s all from me today. This was a very spur-of-the-moment exercise for me! All the same, thank you for reading, and I hope you have a most beautiful day!
— Charis.
