the wolf moon

I. New

They tell me I’m a new moon, but there’s nothing new about me. They say I have power, that we’re powerful, when we’re all aligned as we are in this moment. But I feel no strength in the sloping curves of my body, and there’s nothing robust about my slow pilgrimage round and round and round my brother. I simply follow him, fixated on a single point without reason or understanding. I tumble through the sky with no beginning or end.

All the while, I feel my sister watching me. She holds her breath, waiting to see if I will say something worthwhile as we traverse across these inky skies. But I cannot see her. I only feel her heat radiating towards me, imprinting on all bodies, illuminated our surfaces with soft, coppery light. She says I belong to my brother.

A brother who only looks inward, obsessed with the quiet lisping of his waters and the glittering metals hidden within his mountains. Somehow, he rests at the center of my existence, dragging me along through dusty star fields like a pouting child, clinging to his legs.

He tells me that my strength pulses into him, pulling his tides in like a fisherman, tugging his nets. But I don’t feel it, any of it. And before this, I remember nothing. I only know that I’m held against his boundaries: a new and circling moon. They tell me nothing else.

II. Waxing

As my shadow grows, I feel the stars pressing in on me. They watch from their vantage points, marking my path with fixed images that burn into my memory. My brother tells me they’ve been with me since the beginning. I keep quiet, pretending not to hear him although I’m more awake now than ever before. I’m sharper.

He turns away from me. I cling to the silence between us, but the sound still rises. Everything waxing.

III. Full

I hear their prayers as they chase after me, tirelessly rushing along the waters while their boats rise with the tide. Their pleading haunts me, but I can’t do anything about it. Instead, my body inflates with their begging. Trembling prayers of fertility and harvest and navigation fill me. I am ripe with their worship.

My sister tells me to accept this praise.

“Let it adorn you like jewelry. Let it fill you. The same way I fill the skies with light.”

But I blanch at the idea of swelling to her volume. Her heat suffocates. And my light is only borrowed.

IV. Waning

I can’t stop following-chasing-shuffling behind him. And I don’t know where we’re going, my brother and I, as we carve this path across the sky. I ask my brother about this as I trail him, unable to stop my words or body. He only tells me that we continue, as we always have, and that I won’t know him when I wake.

“You’ll have no memory.”

But I’ll be new again. An empty vessel. He tells me that my birthright is to repeat this cycle each month. I ask him what a month is.

“It’s a measurement of time.”

I ask him what time is. He sighs and looks away, as if my questions are too much. I recede into the safety of the darkness, contemplating whether this fate brings me freedom or if in the end, it only makes me a slave.

Either way, I am powerless. And in this moment of clarity, I understand that they’ve trapped me. That my body is only a husk. And now, I feel myself disappearing. My breath rises and falls. It becomes the only sound in the universe. It rises and my heart falls. I try to rise again. I only fall.

I become a new moon.

networking

Cynthia shook the computer with both hands, popping her gum while grumbling to herself in frustration.

“Damn thing, why won’t you connect to the internet?” she gripped the top of the computer so hard that the casing squeaked beneath her maniacal hold. She had spent the last thirty minutes trying to connect, but was still unsuccessful. She tried everything she could think of after following the directions to a tee: hook this doo-dad up to that thingy, connect that thingy to my what’s it called, enter in a password from the box, yada, yada, yada. But it didn’t work.

Cynthia slapped the top of the computer like she was trying to knock some sense into it.

“I should have bought the laptop, instead…” she mumbled.

Then, in a fit of complete anger, she shoved the cardboard boxes off the side of the desk in one fell swoop. Shwoosh went cisco, Fwump fell Dell. Cynthia felt in control, finally. She looked at the packaging that now lay scattered across the office floor, a sea of high-tech flotsam and jetsam.
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trapped in glass

He said “My name is Jimmy.”

She said “I’m not sure what you expected, Jimmy.”

He looked down at his tennis shoes, then pulled a book from his worn backpack and sat down on the tile. He rested the book in his lap, thumbing through the first few pages.

Bell could hear the pages rustling against each other. She stayed standing, watching him press the pages between his fingers. She wondered if he really planned to stay there all night, like he said he would.

Jimmy looked up as if on cue, smiling in a way that made the corners of his eyes press together in tiny, crows-feet shapes. He started from the title page.

“Antony and Cleopatra, by William Shakespeare.”

Bell wrinkled her nose. “Wait, that’s not a love story. It’s a tragedy.”

“I know,” he was still smiling, “but the ending doesn’t matter. It only matters how much they loved each other.”

Bell smiled from behind the glass. She liked him. And she liked that he didn’t mind the partition.

“I don’t mind the partition.” Jimmy said.

Bell leaned her forehead against the glass. And the two of them watched each other as their eyes twinkled in the light.


Just a bit of dialogue that’s been rolling around in my head all day. Something about glass and cages and persistent love…