In my fledgling days of checking out writing blogs I came across a contest. I loved the idea (don’t recall what it was exactly but it had to do with the moon.) I wrote the following story and then hated it, deciding on the spot not to participate in the contest fearing that I would embarrass myself. Ten months later and I kinda like it. What do you think?
Millicent was drawn to it, had always been drawn to it. Its pale luminous shine a beckoning, a warning for her.
Maybe when she was a baby and her crib lay under the window, her bedroom’s pink lacy curtains pulled to each side of a plain box window, and the moonlight spraying across her face…maybe this was the reason for her connection.
Each night, at various times, and sometimes during the day when it played with the sun, she would turn her face towards the moon and feel its whispers in her ears, just a moment, nothing more, and then carry on as before. Her face resolved, reset. Placid.
It was unlikely that anyone ever noticed.
Her mother, perhaps, at times. When she was very small the moon had held her spellbound and her mother would find her frozen at her window, eyes wide, mouth loose, unresponsive but only for a minute, or maybe two. But it had been many years since such a sighting and her mother was busy, very busy and had four other little ones to watch and tend to.
And Millicent was no longer little, she was tall, long bodied, sprite nosed, nubile, on the cusp between the last gasp of childhood and her new beginning as a young woman.
Tonight, she stood out on her deck, looking up, feeling the chill of the late summer evening air, hearing the swish of the evergreen trees that lined her property, smelling their sharp smell and somehow she was as equally far away as she was present, there standing. Trembling, slightly. Knowing that whatever normally whispered to her had grown silent, was waiting, and nudged at her, pulling her gently like tides until she felt that she might pull apart. Her tremble became a quake until she slipped to her knees and touched her forehead to the wood and scrambled forward and onto the grass and touched her forehead there and felt something deep within move and twist, curl and shift and finally gush out of her and down her legs, not a torrent but a dribble, a line and she knew that she was made over and new. After all these years, it was done. They were one, she and the moon, mother and child, sisters, of the same tribe.
It was her Moon Blood.