Nora Nadjarian

The Face of the Moon, And Another Story

We sat and looked at the moon, the way its face changed, and the way it didn’t. Of course, I said, it’s not the moon that changes, it’s us. We change by the minute, we grow older, and we see things differently. For example, I never noticed that the moon had eyelashes, not until tonight. You said you couldn’t really see that, not at all. You preferred the fact that the word “lunatic” sounded like an attic on the moon, and that it must be the only empty attic in the universe.

We talked for a long time. I said “awesome” several times and pretended I was cool, and American. But of course I am not, never was, can’t be, not even in my dreams. I’m no more cool and American than the moon has eyelashes. And yet, I can pretend. We can pretend to be at the edge of the world, as if we were the first people to discover America. We can pretend that maybe one day some old couple will find their old photos in an attic, and one of them will be a black and white photograph of the moon. We can enjoy all this pretense, drink red wine, get drunk on suppositions.

I must admit the moon looks very full tonight. Even you look–how can I put it–different in this light. That’s the other story: that I made all this up one night while you were asleep. The window was open, your face was bathed in moonlight. I wanted so much to be a part of your dream that I almost woke you.

CP

Nora Nadjarian is a poet and writer from the island of Cyprus. Her work has appeared in various publications throughout the world, most recently in Staccato Fiction.

DsD

On the Phone After Work

Don't sigh at me like that!
I deserve a beer.

Of course he does.
We have beer
at home, though.

My sigh wanted
to encompass
declined credit card,
potty training, & the fact:

I deserve to be held.

CP

DsD lives and writes in the raw. Trapped in a cave, she tends her cubs by day and licks her wounds at night.

Peggy McFarland

Left Out in the Cold

Too loud. Mom had kicked them out of the trailer for the afternoon. Daddy needed his sleep. She locked the door; he could not be disturbed. The teary-eyed sisters shivered as they sat on the wrought iron step, bored. Both wished their father worked days.

The frozen dirt driveway held nothing of interest for the three and four year old sisters. A sagging chicken wire fence bordered the back of their tiny lot, a visual divider at best between the trailer park and a forest of scrub pine. The girls gazed at the forbidden woods but did not want to chance their mother's anger. She had warned, "Stay close."

Bonnie's red tights and plaid skirt did not keep her warm from November's biting wind. The cold nipped her exposed skin—last year’s winter coat did not reach the waistband of her skirt. Karen’s coat was also too short but denim overalls protected her skin. Bonnie hugged her shins and rested her chin in the dip between her knees.

With a sidelong look, Bonnie watched her younger sister wipe her nose with the back of her mitten. Green snot stuck to the blue yarn. Karen tried to shake off the glob. She snapped her hand and then stopped to inspect. Still stuck. She flung her hand sideways. Bonnie shrieked. The offending mitten brushed against her skirt! Eyes gleaming, Karen jumped to play a new game: chase big sis and rub snots on her. Karen could play a long time; her nose oozed plenty of ammunition.

Bonnie ran to the fence. Another shriek pierced the quiet afternoon as Karen aimed another strike. The older girl ripped her tights on a jagged tine of chicken wire. Karen squealed but stopped before the fence. Fairy tales warned that woods were dangerous. And so did mom's hand.

Quick to spot weakness, Bonnie taunted her younger sister: baby, baby. Karen clambered over the fence.

***

Anna heard their muffled shrieks. If he didn’t yell, she could ignore the girls. Heartless maybe, but he'd hit her if they woke him.

She should be outside, with them, playing, laughing…. Anna allowed her defensive voice to beat down her guilt. The girls had to learn to take care of themselves and not depend on others and that life wasn't fair.

But, they looked so vulnerable. Anna reminded herself, they knew to stay-in-the-yard. Her right palm tingled, memory residue from the time she swatted (thrashed oh god she gave what she got oh god please forgive her) their backsides.

Tired. So tired. Of him, of the guilt, of the responsibility, of this shitty white-trash life. She needed sleep. Not now, with a basket full of his wrinkled shirts and the threat of a shiner.

With the television volume on low, she escaped to the glamorous world of her soap and allowed the monotony of ironing numb her.

***

The setting sun spotlighted red threads against the wire. Dried blood blended into a rust spot. Dead pine needles cushioned a tiny pink sneaker, its frayed shoelace loose in the bitter wind. The approaching sirens did not drown out the papery rustle of dried leaves, or the crow's abrasive caw, or her husband's ranting blame, or her own crushing conscience.

CP

Peggy McFarland writes one nanofiction story daily at twitter. Follow her at twitter.com/peggywriter, and soon you may read her blogs at http://www.pegjet.blogspot.com/