Man in the Moon

Man in the Moon
Category: Literature

The scent of rain swept in through an open window of a dank and dingy, one bedroomed flat. The walls had been painted in white industrial strength corporation paint, but had gradually become a dirty yellow as tar and condensation mixed, then ran down the walls in a dense liquid.


His hair was a single wispey strand of silver and grey combed back from his furrowed brow. His eyes were tired yet passionate and his body trembled whenever he stood.


Yesterdays discarded clothes were left in an untidy pile on the floor and stale bits of catfood clung to the carpet which added to the pungent smell. He started coughing insessantly, his chest wheezed like one of those party whistles. He clutched tight at his left clavical as the violent, involuntry actions pulled
the muscle throughout his body. He let out one final pathetic cough then began to utter blasphemies to himself, his lips barely moving as he went on through gritted teeth.


The television had been left on all night as he hated the silence but now the monotonous drone of the news reporters voice began to ring in his ears. He stood up straight, lifted up his head and angled his chin defiantly, then walked over to the television and switched it off. "That's better", he thought to himself, now he could finally hear himself think.


"How does one begin to write about their life, and where does one start?" he questioned himself as he stubbed a tiny rolled up cigarette into the ashtray. The reasons for this overwhelming urge to write an autobiography to him were not yet clear, nor did he question them. It was just one of those things he knew he would get around to doing someday, and now that time had come? but still he wasn't sure about where to start. Should he start with the more portentous aspects of his life? they would be the easiest to remember! or should he tell everything, every last detail right down to his earliest childhood memory.


His fists tightened as he tried to remember the first time he became aware of his visual existance, but it was all just too blurred and none of it made any sense. He opened the drawer from his desk and got out a tin. It was about the same size as a small cashbox, black with a red criss cross pattern on it. Inside it consisted of mainly junk, broken watches, old novelty lighters and some photo's. Many of them stirred memories of his life as a child. He opened up the tin, it clanked and creeked as finally it reached it's full capacity. He pulled out a pile of old photograhs and sifted through them with his dirty, nicotine stained fingers. The one which always caught his eye was one of him and his mother. It was a very
old, black and white photograph, it had white lines running through the middle were he once tried to fit it into his pocket. He was three when this photograph was took, he wore a white short sleeve shirt, black tank top and a pair of grey kneelength shorts, sat with legs crossed reaching his hand up to his mother offering her a toy aeroplane. He could remember the day almost in colour.


-Mummy


-Yes darling, she said with a smile


-I want to play aeroplanes, he replied as a boeing 247 unsilently made it's way
across the blue sky.


This was his earliest memory, the day this photograph was took. He could even remember his father who took the picture, falling over an upturned slab into a bush of thorns only seconds afterwards. In fact he remembered it clearly now, afterwards they went inside and sat in front of the fire. His mother made some tea on a tray and brought it in to them. His smile grew wide and his eyes sparkled as the precious memories came flooding back. He lowered his head and scribbled into his notebook - still smiling.



© 2007 Juliet Forshaw