#FTT 15 : When The Moon Exploded…

“When the moon exploded…”

“No!” I screamed. “Not another apocalypse tale!” I shook my head, and slammed my fists on my desk. “We’re done!”

The writer laughed. “It’s not an apocalypse tale.”

“Then how does the moon explode?”

“As I was saying. When the moon exploded with colors, everyone knew Graphsans had pulled off the most impressive, audacious, and artistic graffiti stunt of all time.”

I stared at him, “Graffiti?”

“Yes. The moon explodes with color. Yellow, red, orange and pink. In a tie-dyed pattern,”

“Tie-dyed?”

“Yes”, he grinned. “It’s the story of the greatest graffiti artist in history performing his greatest work. Painting the moon, so everyone can see it. A work of art that lasts for centuries, slowly fading as the solar wind erodes the paints.”

I shook my head, “But, how would you explain the paint? The artwork?”

“A private rocket, launched at the moon.”

I wrote a few quick notes in my notebook. “Thank you.” I nodded at him, “Your idea is certainly different.” I stood, and held out my hand. “We’ll make our decision in the next couple of week, and we’ll be in touch.”

After he left, I sat there, “A graffiti artist paints the moon?” I shook my head. “Really?” I wrote a few notes to put into a more detailed review to present to the board. Then I used push-to-talk to have the next writer sent in.

After he introduced himself, I asked what his proposal was.

“When the moon exploded…”

What was it with these people? Did everyone want something with the moon exploding in some way? I interrupted him, “Not another story about the moon exploding.”

The writer sighed, “When the moon exploded, its surface covered with mushroom clouds, destroying the invading robot armada’s solar system base, everyone rejoices. It is a turning point in the war, when we take the war to the aliens.”

Once more, I took a few quick notes, thanked the writer for his time, said we’d be in touch, and had the next writer sent in. As I waited for her to enter, I wondered I my mother was right, and I should have picked a sensible career, like explosives technician, or underwater safety inspector.

But like any son, I’d ignored my mother’s advice, and entered show business.

I shook my head. “Gods, but I’m such an idiot sometimes.” And I wondered what other insane ideas for a science fiction movie I’d have to wade through before it was quitting time.

415 words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for Week 15 of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.

#ThursThreads Week #73 – I Will Feast On Your Blood

It was the perfect night. The moon was full. The bats and owls had not come out yet, they would rest for another hour or more. The humans, on the other hand, came out in droves. They always did when there was a full moon.

Some of them stared at the moon, stupid happy smiles on their faces. Some of them raised their binoculars to their faces, and looked in more detail. Some brought out there telescopes. Most just did human things. Like grilling burgers, or lounging on the front porch with the neighbors.

I cruised through the air, searching for the perfect target. One that wouldn’t notice I was there. I’d seen too many of my comrades attack the skinny humans. The ones with sensitive skin. And get smushed. A single human could smush hundreds of us. They were deadly. But their blood was the best there was.

I always looked for the cans of Off, the ThermaCells, the citronella lanterns. I was careful. I was cautious. I’d survived far longer than my comrades had.

That’s when I saw him. Face down on a lawn chair, on a deck, by a swimming pool. There was a nice, cushy layer of fat all over him. He wouldn’t feel a thing. As I dove, I screamed my war cry. “I will feast on your blood, human!” I landed on all six legs, and sunk my proboscis deep into the skin on the back of his hand. I feasted well that night.

250 Words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 73. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.

#12DaysBop : Day 12 – Camping In December

It’s Day 12, the last day of Stacy Hoyt’s 12 Days Of Christmas Blog Hop. The last prompt is the gift of moon. And I’ve always liked the full moon…


We went camping at False Cape every three months. Our first trip was in March. We spent two nights in the park so we could spend an entire day exploring. We saw so many wild flowers just starting to bloom. The trees were just starting to leaf out. Many of them filled with flowers. The Dogwoods were especially pretty. She liked the pink ones best.

In June we’d walked the beach all the way to North Carolina. She’d loved it. Watching the dolphins out at sea. Watching the pelicans fly in their precise formations. Several times, we’d stopped, and sat down on the sand, and watched the sand crabs digging their holes and skittering along the sand.

In September, we watched the sun set into the sound on the west side of the park. And the sun rise from the ocean in the east. We had fun, watching the rabbits forage for food. I lost count of how many deer we saw.

In December. It was cold, but we had fun exploring trails in the park. They ran all the way to North Carolina. We loved hiking together. That night, after the sun set, we took a walk by the ocean. The way the light of the full moon reflected off the waves was stunning. We stopped, and watched the endless waves.

And on the sand, in December, beneath the full moon, we closed our eyes and listened to the music of the ocean.  While she still listened, I reached in my pocket, and pulled out the ring. I got down on one knee, and when she opened her eyes, I asked her to marry me.

She said yes.


Please go enjoy the rest of the stories in the blog hop. There are some really gifted writers out there. It’s well worth reading their work. You can find the other entries here:

The 12 Days Of Christmas Blog Hop, Day 12 – The Gift Of Moon

Crushed Stardust

The moon was full on that October evening. Waves of fog were drifting in from the lake. The moon’s light glancing off of them, transforming them into waves of crushed stardust drifting in. Elain was there, on the shore, waiting. Dressed in black, as she was each year. She’d always dreamed of living by a lake. With a little walkway, and a light she could see by. I’d found a way to bring her dream to life. We use to walk the gravel path each evening. Stopping by the light. Holding hands. Watching the sun set. Watching the moon rise. Watching the fog roll in.

That was years ago.

I watch the bird silently fly in, landing on the light. She never turned it on anymore. Not since the night I’d gone swimming by myself. Beneath a full moon. I never returned from that swim. I remember diving beneath the surface, going deeper than I ever had. I remember feeling the cold water of the lake as I let it fill my lungs. I remember the release I felt. The freedom I felt. Knowing I would be free from a life I could no longer face.

My only regret was Elain. To be free, I’d had to leave her behind.

And since that night, when the moon is full, Elain always takes a walk by the lake. Dressed in black. Her long hair flowing past her shoulders, to her back. Tears falling from her eyes. She always stops when she reaches the light. And stands there. Looking out on the lake. As if she waits and hopes for my return. Tough she knows I never will.

I wish I could wrap my arms around her once again. Hold her close. Feel her hair brush against my cheek. Inhale the smell of her, and her perfume. Feel our lips meet one more time. Tell her everything was as it should be. Tell her how much I loved her. Tell her I was sorry I’d hurt her as I had. Find some way to heal the wounds I’d left on her heart and soul. Explain to her why I’d left. Why I’d gone on that swim that night. Why I’d never returned. That I’d had to do that. So I could be free. So she would understand. And I could see her smile once more. Hear her laugh once more.

Instead, I rode the fog as it washed ashore in the light of the full moon. And watched tears fall from her eyes. And listened to the question she whispered in the moonlit fog. “Why? Why did you leave me?”


This wrote this little piece of fiction in response to the prompts for the 36th #SatSunTails flash fiction challenge Rebecca Clare Smith holds each weekend. I’d intended to enter the challenge. But, there was no way I could cut this piece back to just 150 words. The piece would have lost all its magic.

Please go visit the #SatSunTails, and read all the entries this week. They are always 150 word works of art.