Lunar Cycles

With the insipid nature of a rock I sat all day in the chair and stared out the window from dusk till dawn. Contemplating. Breathing. Tasting memories and bubbling thoughts. The sun came and left and the moon took its place. And soon the sun will come back and trade places with the moon. The cyclical nature of the world casts thoughts onto the surface of our eyes and we scan them but never even think to question them. I saw all in a days blink the ghost, the eerie consciousness that looms just behind the corner, the coincidence lurking in the air; a metal taste. A taste that forms in the salivary buds of my tongue, and also a taste that registers in my mind. The clock ticks insipidly in the background. Like a voice on Tv. It's there but in reality it's just a synthetic impostor. The sky seeded early in the morning, and ripened at dusk, when the sun sank in the horizon, bursting below the surface. The moon blinks, aware.

 Now is when the cycles should cease to repeat themselves. At night you can always expect the same characteristics of the people in the community. The darkness, or should I say, the lack of light, is what frightens people. People expect terrible things to happen in the darkness, and this negative energy renders bad things to happen. But when the moon is present after a long absence, it tends to have a significant influence on the population. There is a limit, of course, to what the lunar activity can do, but there tends to be a chemical change in cycle, that disproportions the nature of events that proceed in the night. As I sit in the chair the moon sits up resting in its web, a silvery cloud floating near its glowing eye, a scapula of burning white. In this moment I am changed. I am awake. I decide to go for a drive... 

Driving down the streets in the middle of the night outside of myself, just cruising, listening to jazz and sipping wine from a green goblet, I laugh occasionally from time to time, don't know whether for sure if it is my Voice that I hear reverting out of my mouth, seeking notions in the darkness, passing windows with gathered accompaniment with golden smiles and warm bodies to embrace and here I am alone inside the machine that stalks the moon like a predator and my heart beats violently, painfully on the other side of my chest, reminiscing of the pains and joyous sorrows of the past memory, for the taint of magnetism in the oxygen infests my lungs and my voice becomes reversed into the solstice, the tar and gravel of the road secrete pebbles that the aura of the night clothes, glowing yellow feels bright, colored mellow, a black scream in sight the cold hymns a bellow of murk and cloudy skies bruise and scab until rust rains. 

Every once in a while pictures will surface on the screen of my sorrow while the darkness impedes itself, mailboxes whiz by, contents unknown an undeclared and unsatisfied by the mailman's hand who placed it there, little earthly awareness I will never know, stopping at every stop light to inscribe a tear duct on the face of some quiet, burst star, sequestered in the sleep of space. I'm not even alive inside my body, and yet crickets vibrate their melodies to the ear of existence, birds pillow their fragile eggs, churning liquid larva squirming, frogs inhale and grow warts on their spine, rats steal yellow diamonds from rusting plates, babies fed with silver spoons and cry with the ability to laugh. The machine hums, immobile at an inanimate red hand forcing me to cease. Out of wine I toss the bottle out the window into a ditch, possums scurry in paranoid fear. The machine stalls, chokes, and dies. Perhaps it knows that it is made alive by the hands of a drunken moron. Laughing. 

When I got home I looked so deeply into the depths of my blind sight, into the walls of my closed eyes, that I saw a faint glimmer of teeth flash from behind a jagged smile-- those red lips had kissed my memory and left its decaying crust on my tired, spinning, horribly introverted mind. She was near, she was here, she was there, she was goddamn everywhere. I had to wake up from this sallow dream or swim deeper into the core of her undeniable presence. 

 While tickling the ivories my cerebral cortex spews several spurts of dainty recollections composed of nothing but tremors of tenors. Biting her knuckle Seraph opens her eyes and lets her jewels fall into her open palm. She can hear the echoes of my fingers but her conscious eyes permits her to deafen the proximity in which we revel. Linked together our quaint conversations are, voices stuck in a bind, vowels knotted. She stands all to suddenly and her head shoots through the ceiling, alabaster spraying like translucent rain beads. Her neck is elongated to the stars; she says something from atop the roof but I cannot make out what she says. I rush outside to carry on our colloquy and find that her head is lost in a cloud, and when it begins to rain I cant help but try to calm her down.

Author's Note

I don't recall the moon

Reviews

[A. H. Pinley]

This is a different piece than what I'm use to reading. Keep at it.

[Chadvonswan]

Thank you kindly!

[Riley Justine]

The imagery in this is insane. I love it. Awesome job on this

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks a bunch bromaestro (:

[Jennie Baron]

Wow! Such eloquent, inspired imagery and metaphor. This is well worth the prize and I'm pleased to have read it.

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks for the review and the read, much appreciated!

[Mila]

Congratulations on winning the Need Reviews? IV Contest!!

Very well written, I thoroughly enjoyed it!

-Mila

[Nadia Gerassimenko]

I like how reality and fiction intertwine together here, creating something absurdly alluring.

I always wonder why is it that we fear the night. And our fears realize. And now it is to be expected and even necessary, because that is what the night means - crime and danger. I always wonder why people go to bars and clubs at night, but never in the daylight. I guess it's socially unacceptable, hah.

The last paragraph made me think of the Cheshire cat for some reason. I guess because "her head is lost in a cloud." Makes me wonder, what the heck did the protagonist consume? Or maybe the night is so powerful, it has full control over our imagination.

[Chadvonswan]

There couldn't be reality without he fiction, and vice versa. Besides from the wine, I hope he Didnt consume anything too ridiculous. He could just be a Lunatic.

[Nadia Gerassimenko]

He could just be Edgar Allen Poe.

[Gaston Villanueva]

Thought-provoking and enjoyable
My favorite part was "The machine stalls, chokes, and dies. Perhaps it knows that it is made alive by the hands of a drunken moron. Laughing." Haha, well done