Sequentials

What Did You Expect?

As far as first impressions go, Debra was not impressed.

The guy seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He waited for her shocked reaction which never came, and frowned in obvious disappointment when her eyes merely flicked in his direction before returning to her novel. The fluff of white hair on his head looked to have the consistency of a truffula tree. His skin was almost the same color, a translucent hue that made Debra think of vampires and basement dwellers.

He blurted out something about being the moon and how they were destined to be together. When she didn’t respond he continued. “Haven’t you felt like you’re just waiting for the right person to meet? I mean, let’s face it. Greg didn’t turn out to be much of a keeper, did he?”

Debra set her book down. “You’ve been spying on me.” It wasn’t a question. Lunar deity or not, it was an invasion of privacy.

“Well, spying is a bit harsh, I’d say. I’d prefer ‘hidden admiring’.”

You’re the one that’s been watching me. “You’re the one that’s been giving me goosebumps for no reason.” She jabbed a finger at him with each accusation. Nearby conversations fell to a whisper, ears hoping to get their daily dose of drama.

“Er, well. Isn’t that sort of, you know, old-fashioned and charming?” He gave a weak smile.

Debra stood up. “No. It’s creepy and weird. Stop watching me and get a life.” She scooped up her book and turned to leave.

“Wait!” the moon said, pushing back his chair. “Aren’t you even, like, a little curious?”

When she looked him in the eyes she saw right through him, and he didn’t look like the moon at all. Just a sad and lonely man desperate for companionship.

“No,” she said, and walked away, leaving the moon as it will always be.

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Flash Fiction, Sequentials

Deliberate Intentions

I suppose that I decided to go down that next day. It had to be during the day, or else Father would know that I left my post and be very cross.

Debra Lemming was on my mind again, and I called up the all-seeing face of the moon and watched her usher out the messy fool she had been with the night before. Good. She had come to her senses. No doubt she knew that she was meant for someone greater. The coffee he made for her must have been weak, for she tossed it down the drain and left shortly after, making a beeline for the quaint cafe across the street.

I crossed the length of my chambers to regard myself in the mirror. I had fashioned an outfit suitable for the likes of Earth. A black t-shirt stretched down my thin frame, and black denims.The color contrasted well with the stark whiteness of my hair and pale skin. You’ve got to work with what you’ve got. I turned and admired myself. Today was the day I would make Debra Lemming my queen.The Moon would be alone no more.

Debra sat down at a small two-person table in the corner. Hanging on the walls to either side were acrylic paintings of both the sun and moon, respectively. It was as if she were expecting me. Perfect, though the painting showed a few more pocks than I would have preferred. The sun was more flattering, as always, and my thoughts turned to her. Though she didn’t know it, my sister’s light would be hiding me in plain sight while I went down. Oh Ama, we must reconvene sometime soon. It has been too long.

With my mind fixed upon Debra Lemming’s table, I took a step off my rocky home and was there. I sat down across from her, and before lifting the veil that kept me hidden from her eyes, spoke aloud. I have always had somewhat dramatic inclinations.

“Hello, Debra Lemming.”

And there I was.

Flash Fiction, Sequentials

The Man in the Moon

For years, many have held on to the belief that the moon is deeply connected with woman, and the sun with man. Yes, those early misogynist shapers of the world. What else could man be associated with, if not the sun that gives life? Hubris blinded them, as is its nature. How they would toss and turn in their graves if I were to but whisper the truth to them.

For I am the moon. And I am man.

In the swirling blackness of night, once my sister has retired from the world, I lift my chambers high and view the Earth from the heavens. I sit right here in my chair and I watch and shine my light down, peeking from behind a waning crescent.

I watch as Debra Lemming slides a dress over her delicate frame. She takes a bus downtown and meets a man at a bar. It is the first time they have met in person, but they have talked online for two weeks. She feels as if she knows him. The man smiles a lot. He wears a beige Henley and dark expensive jeans. I cannot hear what they say to one another, but he buys drink after drink for her. Her head lolls and her eyes droop slightly, and the man rests his hand on Debra Lemming’s lower back. He whispers something in her ear and she giggles.

I watch them take a taxi back to Debra Lemming’s studio apartment. The lights do not turn on and I watch as they commit an act of spontaneous love. As I observe, I wonder what it would be like to grasp at another being with such desperate fervor. To twist and turn and entwine until two becomes one. Foolishly, I imagine that I am the man with the dark expensive jeans clutching at Debra Lemming. I allow myself this one small moment of impossible fantasy. One moment when I can pretend to not be alone.

One moment, perfect and fleeting.