(Carrying on from Milk Moon)
There
were a dozen moons that night. She counted them from the wheelbarrow as George
raced them around the perimeter of the barley fields, a stray blade tucked
between his teeth in concentration, his hands clutching both handles. Laughing
in delight, counting one, two, three, four, each moon greeted her with a
different expression: the peekaboo moon slotted between the trees; the heavy
gawping orb weighted on the horizon; the undulating glimmer; the milk moon face
of May.
A
siren sounded, catching in the faltering turn of the wheels as George came to a
momentary halt, howling as if it were drawn from the mouth of the moon and only
rising in insistence as the wheels turned once more in the direction of safety.
Again they raced, only this time with an urgency that frightened Celia deeply,
feeling the sharp jolts from the earth that ran with them, jarring her vision. Caught
in momentum, the only constant in sight was the horizon, now divided between a menacing
umbra and quaking light. The moon arrested her in different expressions: bleeding
in dissolution; screaming in its constant, fractured light; gathering form
again in permanence; bearing its eternal witness.
I have a terrible habit of never finishing what I set out to write and you know what? That’s fine. For me, writing is a progressive, evolutionary act and so I try to publish in short, first drafts to give myself less of a hard time and the freedom to capture whatever I feel at a given time.
You can follow along on Instagram with the hashtag. I’d love it if you added your own, too.
