René Zadoorian
For the second time in his life, Levon lay in the rose garden with a tiny grey moth in his hand. Moments prior, his best friend Arthur slapped it away, causing the insect to fall onto the grass below. As Levon lifted the bug—gently—it became clear that the creature could no longer walk nor fly. It moved almost lifelessly as the wind picked up, its wings serving as sails in the ocean of Levon’s sweaty palm. Hardly noticeable, a thin tongue navigated its way from the moth’s mouth towards Levon’s skin, reminding him of the butterflies he raised as a kid.
“Want me to put it out of its misery?” Arthur asked, leaning his face close to the mutilated being.
Levon nodded.
“I don’t want to be a witness.” He turned his face away as Arthur took his hand, squished the moth between his palm and fingers, and wiped off the stain of death.
* * *
Levon learned a lesson on boyhood during middle school when he found a ladybug on the grass field. It took mere minutes for a prepubescent classmate to take the red and black treasure hostage and execute it under his Chucks. Rather than rage, sadness flooded Levon’s eyes. The last time he cried outside the refuge of his bedroom walls, the other boys called him a gyot—a faggot. This time, rather than crying, Levon went home and printed a photo of a ladybug to honor his short-lived peer.
“Inches anum?” His mother scolded in Armenian, angry at his wasteful use of the printer’s color ink. It became clear that boys don’t mourn bugs—they kill them.
Despite this consensus, Levon rebelled. During his visit to his home country of Iran, he was no longer surrounded by misbehaving boys. A break, he thought. They had called him gyot so many times that he was starting to believe that they cursed him. Despite the boys’ cruelty and passion for crushing small creatures, Levon couldn’t help but feel attracted to their figures. Many of their voices had deepened and Levon’s mind ran during their mandatory gym period, where his peers showed off their new muscles.
In Tehran, he was surrounded by no boys his age. His cousins, all girls, enjoyed his soft temper. Although disgusted by the dead cockroach on the stairs of the apartment, they watched silently as Levon picked one up by the antennae and escorted its corpse to the garden. Together, the children dug a shallow hole into the soil and lowered the body. Torn flower petals and sprinkles of bird food decorated the fresh grave. The children stood in a moment of silence before returning inside to their games.
His grandparents’ home, an apartment in the center of Tehran, also housed a colony of black ants within its walls. The tiny group formed a thick line across the bathroom entrance where they emerged from a crack within the doorframe. Every morning during his visit, Levon squatted by the door with barbari in his hand. Crumbling it into tiny pieces, he let the bread snow onto the city of ants below. Quickly, the insects investigated the food before gathering pieces far larger than their own bodies and rushing them to the door frame. Levon sat watching, wondering if any of the boy ants looked at each other the same way he looked at other boys back home.
“Kesafat,” his uncle muttered as he walked by the scene, shaking his head. He was instructed to stop feeding the ants. He was only making a bad problem worse.
The following morning, on his way to the restroom, Levon noticed the vacancy of small tenants. The crack in the doorframe was glued shut.
Back in California, Levon was determined to own an animal. The status of “pet” applied to any creature seemed to shield it from human destruction.
His cousin, born into American citizenship, had a betta fish. The blue dragon swam around a small plastic tank, protecting the ceramic castle which housed an air bubble. After days of pleading with his own parents, Levon was allowed to have a fish of his own.
“Don’t put two boys together” his cousin warned upon hearing the news of Levon’s soon-to-be pets. “They’ll have gay sex.”
“Are you dumb?” His older cousin interjected, slapping the back of the younger boy’s head. “They don’t have gay sex, the bigger one will just eat the smaller one. Dad told me.”
Staring at the plastic cups that displayed a variety of colorful fish, Levon could not choose between two. His cousins mentioned nothing about keeping girls together. His mind was made up.
Back home, two female bettas in one plastic tank overlooked the kitchen sink.
Levon spent hours doing his homework on the kitchen counter, eyes following his two gems. The red one, Elmo, swam calmly near the top of the water, eyeing the surface for pellets. Nemo, the blue of the pair, floated near her friend, occasionally drifting to the other side of the tank but always making an effort to reconnect. Occasionally, the fish would touch mouths as they swam past each other to investigate plastic plants. Levon wondered if they were in love. In his mind, scenarios of romance painted possibilities that he could not express out loud.
Nemo died first, two years later.
Levon wished he was back in Tehran, in his grandparents’ home where the garden served as a cemetery for the forgotten. Instead, he and his father stood in front of the downstairs toilet and flushed the now grey Nemo down into the apartment pipes.
“When you die, do you just die or do you come back and do everything again?” He asked his father as the toilet water swirled his first pet away. His father was silent.
Now, in the rose garden with the dead distorted moth, Levon was no closer to an answer to his childhood question. Still, he hoped that it would have another chance.
“Want me to put it out of its misery?” Arthur asked, leaning his face close to the mutilated being.
Levon nodded.
“I don’t want to be a witness.” He turned his face away as Arthur took his hand, squished the moth between his palm and fingers, and wiped off the stain of death.
* * *
Levon learned a lesson on boyhood during middle school when he found a ladybug on the grass field. It took mere minutes for a prepubescent classmate to take the red and black treasure hostage and execute it under his Chucks. Rather than rage, sadness flooded Levon’s eyes. The last time he cried outside the refuge of his bedroom walls, the other boys called him a gyot—a faggot. This time, rather than crying, Levon went home and printed a photo of a ladybug to honor his short-lived peer.
“Inches anum?” His mother scolded in Armenian, angry at his wasteful use of the printer’s color ink. It became clear that boys don’t mourn bugs—they kill them.
Despite this consensus, Levon rebelled. During his visit to his home country of Iran, he was no longer surrounded by misbehaving boys. A break, he thought. They had called him gyot so many times that he was starting to believe that they cursed him. Despite the boys’ cruelty and passion for crushing small creatures, Levon couldn’t help but feel attracted to their figures. Many of their voices had deepened and Levon’s mind ran during their mandatory gym period, where his peers showed off their new muscles.
In Tehran, he was surrounded by no boys his age. His cousins, all girls, enjoyed his soft temper. Although disgusted by the dead cockroach on the stairs of the apartment, they watched silently as Levon picked one up by the antennae and escorted its corpse to the garden. Together, the children dug a shallow hole into the soil and lowered the body. Torn flower petals and sprinkles of bird food decorated the fresh grave. The children stood in a moment of silence before returning inside to their games.
His grandparents’ home, an apartment in the center of Tehran, also housed a colony of black ants within its walls. The tiny group formed a thick line across the bathroom entrance where they emerged from a crack within the doorframe. Every morning during his visit, Levon squatted by the door with barbari in his hand. Crumbling it into tiny pieces, he let the bread snow onto the city of ants below. Quickly, the insects investigated the food before gathering pieces far larger than their own bodies and rushing them to the door frame. Levon sat watching, wondering if any of the boy ants looked at each other the same way he looked at other boys back home.
“Kesafat,” his uncle muttered as he walked by the scene, shaking his head. He was instructed to stop feeding the ants. He was only making a bad problem worse.
The following morning, on his way to the restroom, Levon noticed the vacancy of small tenants. The crack in the doorframe was glued shut.
Back in California, Levon was determined to own an animal. The status of “pet” applied to any creature seemed to shield it from human destruction.
His cousin, born into American citizenship, had a betta fish. The blue dragon swam around a small plastic tank, protecting the ceramic castle which housed an air bubble. After days of pleading with his own parents, Levon was allowed to have a fish of his own.
“Don’t put two boys together” his cousin warned upon hearing the news of Levon’s soon-to-be pets. “They’ll have gay sex.”
“Are you dumb?” His older cousin interjected, slapping the back of the younger boy’s head. “They don’t have gay sex, the bigger one will just eat the smaller one. Dad told me.”
Staring at the plastic cups that displayed a variety of colorful fish, Levon could not choose between two. His cousins mentioned nothing about keeping girls together. His mind was made up.
Back home, two female bettas in one plastic tank overlooked the kitchen sink.
Levon spent hours doing his homework on the kitchen counter, eyes following his two gems. The red one, Elmo, swam calmly near the top of the water, eyeing the surface for pellets. Nemo, the blue of the pair, floated near her friend, occasionally drifting to the other side of the tank but always making an effort to reconnect. Occasionally, the fish would touch mouths as they swam past each other to investigate plastic plants. Levon wondered if they were in love. In his mind, scenarios of romance painted possibilities that he could not express out loud.
Nemo died first, two years later.
Levon wished he was back in Tehran, in his grandparents’ home where the garden served as a cemetery for the forgotten. Instead, he and his father stood in front of the downstairs toilet and flushed the now grey Nemo down into the apartment pipes.
“When you die, do you just die or do you come back and do everything again?” He asked his father as the toilet water swirled his first pet away. His father was silent.
Now, in the rose garden with the dead distorted moth, Levon was no closer to an answer to his childhood question. Still, he hoped that it would have another chance.
René Zadoorian is an Armenian writer finishing up his undergraduate degree in creative writing at California State University, Northridge. He was born in Tehran, Iran, and now resides in Los Angeles. His short stories lean toward themes of queerness, SWANA culture, and bugs! He is a reader for Fahmidan and Orca: A literary journal. His short stories have been published in Beyond Queer Words, Blue World Literary Journal, Northridge Review, and Valley by Valley.
Twitter: @fastspermcell Instagram: @lammpshade
Twitter: @fastspermcell Instagram: @lammpshade
