Look Down Fair Moon

by Jeff Baker

(Title from Walt Whitman)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was written from the last prompt posted by Paula Wyant. Two words: “It’s Coming.” I sometimes used her suggestions on her “Paula’s Prompts” feature on her site and the picture of the rising Moon went into it too. I always enjoyed Paula’s words (although we never met) and how she made the “Rainbow Snippets” https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974 Facebook group a welcoming little community. This story’s for her.

—–jeff

“It’s coming,” Raymundo said, rushing into our living room from the kitchen. Eyes big, black hair dripping with sweat, somehow looking pale. An Aztec whose gods had actually shown up to watch the sacrifice. “Doug, it’s coming.”

“I know,” I say from my place, glued to the sofa watching the cable news.

“No, it’s coming now!” Raymundo says. “Big. Swelling. Gray-blue beach-ball not blending with the afternoon sky but big. White with shadows. Falling. Here, right here.”

The news anchors are displaying a graphic depicting the Moon spiraling in it’s orbit, heading toward Earth. Now heading actually toward US.

We’d opted not to try and flee; where would we go? Months ago, they had published calculations of where the Moon would hit and people had made plans to be elsewhere. But everywhere would be shattered. The calculations were off and we were the target. Our house. Our life. No time for the Battle at Armageddon.

I stand up and grab Raymundo’s arm.

“Only time for this.” I say.

I guide him into the backyard. Trees, grass. Wide-open sky. A swelling Moon at the center of the sky, a cap on the zenith.

Raymundo and I hold hands and don’t let go. Nothing will pull us apart.

The air calm, birds winging to and fro in panic. Their nest, the Great Nest being invaded by the biggest egg ever.

“Songs in our head!” Raymundo says. He speaks of “Light Of the Silvery Moon,” “Shine On Harvest Moon,” even “No Moon At All,” and then Beethoven.

We reach up; close enough to touch yet? We see Moon shadows on lunar surface, dots from mountains moving as the Moon shifts unnaturally.

“Telling time by the Moon,” Raymundo said. “Our time is up.”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Only time for an epitaph,” Raymundo says. “Not in a bed or battlefield but here on this plot of green that will be our plot for an instant, and then gone. So,” he stares at me. “What words? What words do we say to mark this occasion, this last occasion?”

I stare up. The Moon fills my eyes.

“Last words!” Raymundo says. “Meaningful! Profound! Maybe the last words spoken anywhere.”

I stare at Raymundo. I grin. I look up at the Moon.

“Well,” I say. “Here’s another nice mess you’ve got us in.”

I look at Raymundo, his face stunned. Then he laughs, pulls me towards him and kisses me. I glance up; the dark side of the Moon swelling, creeping, covering craters, mountains we were close enough to see.

We kiss again as the wind rises up and the ground rumbles to welcome the Moon. We hold each other as the darkening Moon fills the sky.

—end—

—for Paula