Category: Literary Fiction Publisher: Fields of Gold Publishing, Inc.
ISBN-10: 097462960X
Pages: 160
Copyright: November 19, 2003
ISBN-13: 9780974629605
A collection of short stories whimsically told from the moon's point of view of life on earth. The moon shares stories that convey what he has learned about this planet, as well as his curiosity about it. The moon is a spectator to some of life's most poignant moments. If you have never heard the voice of the moon, perhaps you might enjoy reading what he has to say.
A series of short stories that are narrated by the moon. The table of contents is as follows:
Prologue: A few preliminary remarks
Ch. 1: In the proximity of Moonlight
Story about a career woman who returns to her small hometown.
Ch. 2: A Doorway to the Moon
Story about two sisters who are very different but still close.
Ch. 3: Painting the New Moon
Story about two artists, one successful and one struggling.
Ch. 4: Gibbous Dreams
Story about a baseball player who dreams of making it big.
Ch. 5: Moonbeams and Magic
Ghost story where a teenage boy's dog gets lost when the teenager is out causing some mischief with his friends.
Ch. 6: Waxing and Waning
Story follows the different owners of a ring through the years and how the value of the ring changes depending upon the situation.
Ch. 7: A Waning Light
Story about a musician who father d
Excerpt
Chapter One
In the Proximity of Moonlight
The moon is particularly bright this evening. He seems to be smiling at some great satisfaction. I can see him clearly through the silhouette of the barren trees. I look up at him through a cloud of my own frosty breath as I remark aloud that it's a fine evening. I watch the puffs of frosty breath disappear, and then I hear him speak for the first time.
"The evening is too fine and my light too magnificent for anyone to spend this time alone." His silvery voice shimmers down to my ears.
I first turn around to look behind me, although I had clearly heard the voice coming from above. "You are not deceived." He smiles kindly at me. "It is I, the moon."
His voice is like liquid poetry flowing through me. The sound doesn't stop when it reaches my ears; it continues to resonate through my entire body.
"How is it that you can speak?" Now that I know him better, the question seems foolish. But at the time I was dumbfounded and didn't know what else to say. After all, what does any mortal say to the moon upon first conversing?
"I speak when I choose and to whom I choose. No one can hear me speaking, except for those I wish to be my audience." This is part of his magic. If there were anyone standing nearby to whom the moon wishes to remain anonymous, the person would fail to hear the moon's voice or to even see his face. The moon would appear as nothing more than a stoic mass of illuminated stone in the night sky.
"Do you speak to many people?"
"A few," he remarks with an air of pretension that tells me more than his words. He chooses his audience carefully. "I speak every language -- even those of the stars, the animals, and the trees. But I wouldn't advise talking with the trees this time of year. Every autumn they fall into the depths of despair and insist that their leaves will never return. They're quite dramatic about it all. Of course, the leaves return in the spring, but there's no use explaining that to a melancholy poplar. I simply don't bother with them." After giving me this off-hand advice, his tone becomes playful. "I have watched you for some time."
"I have watched you, as well. But I never dreamed that you were capable of watching me."
"It makes me by far the better observer." He smiles knowingly at this thought. What things might he have seen? What knowledge he must have! His smile conveys it all in a single moment.
"What have you seen that might interest me?" I inquire with anticipation. He is fanciful and content, all at the same time. Clearly, he's pleased that I'm so interested
in him. The sparkle in his eyes becomes more spirited as he prepares his answer.
"In one night, I see enough interesting events to last a human lifetime. But the most fascinating of all these things are the effects that individuals have on one another. Perhaps this is the essence of life: that it is not entirely independent." He closes his eyes in a thoughtful manner. As he raises his eyelids, moonbeams splatter shimmering rays from his eyelashes and fan out across the galaxy. "Take you and me, for instance," he continues, "two entities cannot exist without influencing each other. Even if the two beings never acknowledge each other, the mere proximity of one will have an effect on the other."
"But how close must two entities exist before their effect upon each other is made known?"
"Proximity is relative. You and I are far apart, yet we influence each other nightly. When I look down at earth, I see that proximity is never farther than my moonbeams
can reach, and that is nearly everywhere. You only have to be on the same planet to have your life affect another life." He pauses. I think this was for effect, rather than to collect
his thoughts. "The earth is a good example. There are many people who seek isolation, but it is impossible. It cannot be. Mere existence requires interaction. It is inevitable." He pauses to sigh. I admire his incandescent stream of breath as it rushes through the heavens, dancing a meandering path through the starry night. His breath moves more like an illuminated ballerina twirling across a stage than a wind through space. It glows brilliantly. "I am reminded of a story." And here he began his first narration of many.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was after midnight when Sydney turned slowly onto Main Street. She recalled walking this same route with her father when she was 10 years old. The image imbedded in her mind was of how she had vigorously tugged at her father's hand as they leisurely strolled together. Perhaps it's better said that Michael, Sydney's father, strolled. Sydney was more of a bouncer. She skipped and hopped with exuberance while asking question upon question about everything she saw. She'd been down Main Street hundreds of times before, but she was a curious thing by nature and always had new inquiries. Maybe that's why she'd left Samsonville as soon as she turned nineteen. She simply wanted to know what else was out there.
"How do you know there really is an 'out there'?" her father had asked when Sydney announced that she was going out into the world. He glanced over the cut-out pattern pieces scattered across the dining room table, where his wife had been sewing herself a new dress. He picked up the bright red pincushion and gently tapped his fingers on the mosaic of pinheads stuck into the facing. "Maybe every other place is just like this one."
"They couldn't all be," Sydney insisted with faint disgust, pulling her shiny black mane into a ponytail at the base of her neck. She held the hair loosely in place with one hand as her mouth turned into a half frown. "That'd be such a disappointment that I simply can't believe it could be true."
"Well, now, there's an interesting yardstick for measuring truth." Michael picked up a worn-out tape measure and dangled the flimsy ruler to the floor as he spoke. Sydney thought he was talking about the sewing instrument, and so she deliberately pulled her mouth into a complete frown. Then she released her hair with a dramatic flick of her wrist, quickly turned on her heel, and left the room. Later the following day she left town.
Quite some time had passed since then. Sydney was much older now and her father had just passed away, though one couldn't really say that he'd left. He would be buried in the town cemetery in two days. Not even death would release him from Samsonville. The small town had a strong hold on most of its occupants. Even Sydney's mother, Karen, refused to come to live in New York with Sydney, but Sydney hoped to change her mother's mind after the funeral. Sydney had two months of vacation, and when she received the news of her father's death, she decided to take it all at once to be with her mother.
Tonight Sydney drove meticulously. She stopped at each corner, even though she knew that no one else would be on the street. Not even the sheriff would be awake at this hour. He was only a part-time sheriff, anyway, and the people of Samsonville were courteous enough to schedule their crimes and misdemeanors for those three afternoons a week when the law was on-duty.
Sydney could almost hear the occupants snoring in unison. Underneath her stylish pants, her legs ached from the long drive. Even when traveling, Sydney dressed well. When she was still a girl, her mother taught her how to be fashionable on a budget. Now that she was in her thirties Sydney could not dress sloppily, even when she tried.
Sydney turned into the drive of her parents' house and listened to the familiar creaking of the gravel beneath her tires. She thought about how everyone would know that she'd come home. This was one of the things Sydney didn't like about small towns. There's no way to keep a secret when everyone knows everyone else. Sydney liked her privacy and she didn't feel like making small talk with anyone she hadn't seen for a few years.
Sydney and her mother grieved deeply during the funeral. Most of the town did, also. Michael was well respected, and even those who weren't close to the family attended the funeral, since it was as much of a social event as the town would see for several months. The entire day was a blur of faces in black. Sydney politely endured small talk with hundreds of people she scarcely remembered, but the entire time she wished she could be alone with Karen and simply cry. When the day was over and she was alone with her mother, Sydney finally felt the freedom to grieve without any restraint.
For two weeks after the funeral, she managed to stay indoors and away from crowds. Sydney had a goal: she'd come to help her mother and not to renew old acquaintances.
It wasn't that Sydney had anything against the locals. She simply disliked being the object of conversation. She'd left the small-town atmosphere for the anonymity and excitement of the larger city. During her stay Sydney was content to keep house and tend to her mother's needs. But one morning Karen decided that her daughter was growing restless, and she made an unusual request.
"Sydney," Karen put down the newspaper she was reading and waited for Sydney to look up. "Sydney, I want you to go down to the City Café and have breakfast this morning."
"I don't eat breakfast." Sydney buried her head back in her magazine.
"You don't have to eat. Just have coffee." Karen waited for Sydney to look up again, but Sydney continued her pretense of reading. "That's where everyone goes for breakfast. If there's any news, they'll be talking about it down there."
"There's nothing new. This town hasn't changed in twenty years."
"News is relative. Nothing seems new to you because you're used to the sensational headlines of bigger cities."
Sydney thought briefly about the City Café. She'd never eaten the food there. When she was a teenager, she swore that she'd rather die than get a life sentence warming the vinyl chairs in the café. It was the central meeting place for the townspeople. But to a teenager, it was the end of the road; like a neon sign announcing that you had become nothing of importance. Teenagers thought adults went to the City Café because they couldn't go anywhere else in life.
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