*Magnify*
SPONSORED LINKS
BY ONLINE AUTHORS
Printed from https://writing.com/main/books/item_id/2307664-The-Hunters-Moon
Printer Friendly Page Tell A Friend
No ratings.
by Nicki
Rated: E · Book · Other · #2307664
A very short story
Dinner was a bland affair. Sundays are dry in the county...steaks and salad paired with lack of conversation is a little sad on the best of nights. I recall wondering if the normal chatter and laughter through dinner had more to do with the wine than how well we get along. When the check came we didn't linger; his temper seemed short with me and I was wrapped in an overwhelmingly thick blanket of sadness. We had driven separately; I had come straight from work work while Skip met me from wherever he had spent his Sunday afternoon. We parted in the parking lot with a brief kiss. The moon caught my eye as I unlocked the car. The Hunter's Moon. From a purely scientific perspective there is nothing particularly special about the Hunter's Moon....the first full moon of the Autumnal Equinox. But there, in that moment, it had a presence. I was captive to the huge, pale orange ball hovering above me. Just briefly, it was me and the moon, alone in the universe. Then I was back in the parking lot; tired, sad, ready to go home.

         It is exactly 5.2 miles from the only steakhouse in town to our house, five of those miles do not include town. We moved here in the spring looking for small town, country life and, that is what we got. I turned on to the highway and was once again greeted by the enormous, orange moon painted into the sky. It sat straight ahead lighting my way as if it were some remote destination. As a general rule, I do not like driving at night. My sense of direction is hobbled at best, and I navigate by landmark. In the dark the landmarks become difficult to find. The moon was lighting the way but seemed to be distorting my perception in some way that I could not exactly put my finger on.

         I passed the giant, color, dynamic messaging sign for the Swampy Baptist Church. There is no church to be seen from that point on the highway however, the Swampy Baptist Church has the biggest, most colorful sign greeting potential worshippers I have ever seen. Among the messages that flow across the screen is a large red arrow point toward the gravel road disappearing into the woods. I’ve often wondered how far I would need to drive before I found the Swampy Baptist Church and if it would meet the expectations laid out along the highway. That big orange moon was still beckoning me along less than a mile along the highway when I passed the Tabernacle Holy Church.

         The Tabernacle Holy Church has the distinction of being the first location Skip and I had our version of an actual fight after the big move. It had been a spring afternoon; we had been to lunch at the one Mexican restaurant town had to offer. One too many margaritas and I felt Skip should probably not drive. This kind of decision making never sits well with him so, a tone was set as we headed home. I don’t recall what turn in the conversation sparked an actual argument, what I do recall is that the car was suddenly too warm, I could not think clearly enough to articulate any coherent thought and I knew that I could not bear to be confined there a moment longer. I pulled over into the Tabernacle Holy Church parking lot and got out of the car. As I stepped out of the car a rush or warm, damp, southern air hit me. I could smell cow manure, swamp water, and the woods…an earthy mix filled my lungs and cleared my head. I just stood there, in some strange stupor, Skip shouting in the background. Eventually his words caught up to me… ”What are you doing? Get back in the car. Are you crazy?” For just a moment, I could not think about him rationally, he could have been speaking to anyone, they were not words meant for me. Then the church caught my attention. I was struck by the huge panes of glass that made up the front of the building and the two staircases that spiraled within. The chandelier bounced sunlight all around the interior. Skip was still saying things, I turned to look at him until his words slowly became meaningful to me again.

“What are you doing?”

“You can drive home.”

“Get back in the car.”

“I need to walk.”

“Get back in the car.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Get back in the car.”

         I started walking. It felt good. Long strides, breathing in the air. He followed me, driving off the shoulder of the road with the hazards on. Pulling along side me at intervals to give me pieces of information… ”This is very dangerous.” “You look like a crazy person.” “I can’t do this all the way home.” (But it seemed he would) By the time I could see the white picket fence on the opposite side of the highway I got back in the car.

         The next visual aid on my path home is the white picket fence on the left-hand side. It runs for roughly half a mile or so and culminates at a business called the Ammo Depot. The fence is a good point of reference; it covers a great deal of area and is bright white. One of those random questions that pops into my head from time to time; I wonder if it is wooden, and the owner paints it frequently enough to keep that vibrancy or if it is made of some other, synthetic material. Under the light of the Hunter’s Moon, it has taken on a pale orange glow, it is almost as if the fence is no longer firmly affixed to the ground but hovering there held by some power of that enormous moon that has taken over the sky.

         The Ammo Depot comes into view; it is the last landmark before I need to make a left onto the county road. My thoughts on the Ammo Depot is that it may be some sort of meth lab fronting as a legitimate business. It is warehouse sized with a fence and a parking lot. The sign on the front of the building looks authentic enough. From time to time there are cars in the parking lot. Skip stopped by one day, was greeted at the door by two good old boys. When he asked if they were open for business, he received an unequivocal “no”. He was ushered out, one of the good old boys stood in the parking lot until he drove away. Maybe not meth but, probably not legitimate business.

         As I passed the Ammo Depot and moved into the left lane to turn, I caught sight of the moon. For just a moment I felt like I was slipping; the car, the road, the world were moving just a bit faster than my own body. I pulled into the turn lane but cold barely take my eyes off the moon. It seemed as if I should be turning and it should be stationary but, somehow defying the laws of physics, it was turning with me, following me down the county road. Once I’d made the turn I stopped, sitting in the dark, trees on either side listening to y breath. The moon was back in its proper place, hanging over my right shoulder, huge and bright. I drove the final quarter mile home and turned into our drive.

Turning into the drive I could see that Skip’s truck was not there. Seemed odd, he had pulled out of the restaurant parking lot ahead of me and, under almost all circumstances he could beat me home. I stepped out of the car to an October chill just as the phone started to ring.

“Hey.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Here, where are you?”

“Here where? I’ve been sitting in the driveway; I think the battery to my door opener is dead.”

“Skip, I’m in the driveway. Where did you park?”

“Where would I park?”

The goosebumps started on my arms. I turned a slow circle in the driveway. The Davis’ house next door was dark, there were no cars on the highway, I could hear distant sound of the cattle in the field but not a single light; it was the darkest I’d ever seen it out here.

“Skip?”

“I can barely hear you.” He sounded far off, as if talking through a tunnel. Then he was gone.

         I reached into the car and hit the garage door opener. As the door went up, a flood of light from the garage put me and my car in a little spotlight. This made the rest of the world around me somehow darker. The only other light was the huge orange moon now standing watch over me. Everything in the garage and then in the house seemed perfectly normal. My shoes by the garage door, Skip’s hats on hooks lining the wall. Inside Skip’s dishes in the sink and an empty beer bottle on the table in the den. Billy, the sizeable Maine Coon, judged me from the kitchen table as I moved from room to room trying to understand my predicament. After an exploration of the entire house, I made my way back to the kitchen. I tried calling Skip, I tried again, I tried three more times, after 10 or so I stopped. No rings, no voicemail, just a weird click and back to the beginning. The TV worked, I took strange comfort in the ability to watch reruns of Murder, She Wrote while the moon watched through my back window as if I were the only person left in the world. Billy judged from the arm of the sofa.

         I woke the next morning finding myself on the den sofa, it seemed I had the strangest dream the night before. Making my way into the bedroom, I began to realize that it wasn’t a dream after all. The house was empty and cold. No Skip, the bed had not been slept in, his truck was not parked outside. I tried the phone again, it was dead now…no bars, no connection, no Google at my fingertips. From the laundry room I could see the Davis’s house; last night it had been dark, this morning I could see that there were no cars in their drive and the garage door stood open. I made my way over for a visit.

         It was surreal crossing the yard to the neighbor house. What I could hear, loudest of all, was everything I could not hear. The quiet was almost deafening. Their garage door stood open, tiptoeing in I found the door to their kitchen also standing open. Inside it was if they had been plucked out of a normal Sunday evening. Toys were scattered across the kitchen. Food and a sippy cup sat in an empty highchair. I called out names only to hear my voice echo in the quiet house. My immediate reaction was to run, bolt, terrified. My head swam with fear. I waited, took a breath, another breath; started measured, careful steps back the way I had come. I went through my own garage, into my own kitchen, picked up Billy and sat down in the den to watch TV. I sat there just long enough to know I could breathe.

         I have passed the time over the weeks since I found myself here watching TV or sitting on my front porch steps watching the moon. Some nights as I sit here, I wonder if the moon is talking to me, trying to tell me something, give me some hint. It is the only thing that seems to have changed over the course of the past weeks. Each day the same food is in my kitchen, the same silence is outside my house and the same sanity is held on to through the TV. Only the moon has kept to its routine, changing from pale orange ball to the silver thumbnail that hangs in the sky tonight. I have not had the courage to take the car out of the drive and venture back to the highway. I fear the silence I may find in town. I fear that I may not find my way back or whatever I find waiting for me here when I return may be worse. My mind has started drifting back to eighth grade Astronomy. If I am recalling correctly, another 10 days or so should bring the next full moon. The Beaver Moon. While the beaver is stocking up for a long winter, I will gather my courage and venture back to the highway. If one moon can bring me here to this strange place where the only voice I hear is my own, perhaps the new moon can take me home.
This book is currently empty.
Printed from https://writing.com/main/books/item_id/2307664-The-Hunters-Moon