Moonlight Mime

My offering for Master Class Monday, from Our Write Side




Donna couldn’t sleep. Too much on her mind. Too many decisions left undecided.

After lying awake staring into darkness, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her toes rooted about the carpet seeking her fluffy gray slippers.

Feet embraced, she shrugged into her robe and shuffled to the kitchen. As she filled a glass of water from the tap, her gaze was drawn out the window.

The meadow behind the house was aglow with silvered moonlight. Enchanted, she let herself out the back door into the early fall night. The air was crisp, but not uncomfortably so. A light breeze carrying bits of leaf and pollen became a magical shower of light as the full moon reflected from countless surfaces.

She sipped her water, eyes captured by the meadow. There, a seductive sway of moonlit foxtails allowed to grow wild through the last lazy days of summer. Bowing into shadow with each gentle breeze, springing back to bathe in the sterling light.

Donna left the glass on the deck rail and tiptoed down the steps. She crossed the manicured back lawn and into the meadow.

The breeze wafted, grass swayed, silver and ebony. A dance of light and shadow. She unconsciously began to move with them in silent rhythm. Arms outstretched, she wove through the blades. Light and shadow. Her body responding, bowing to the shadow, lifting to the light.

Her eyes closed as she mimed the shush of leaves and whisper of foxtails.

She didn’t see them gather, wings spread to the caress of breeze. Iridescent spans reflecting the luster of the full moon.

They watched, timid of her presence. Then curious. When they discerned no threat, they joined.

Weaving and bowing. Swaying and bending. Silver to ebony, moon light to moon shadow.

As the dregs of wakefulness left her, she lay down amid the grasses and let sleep claim her. They covered her against the dew in blankets woven of spiderweb and thistledown. While she slept deeper than dreams, the Fae danced guard around her.

Moon Drawn

Tightrope – 100 Word Song


I'm ba-ack...with my always slightly different(read twisted) view.  So here are 100 words inspired by Janelle Monae’s Tightrope chosen by Deana aka The Bobina.

It was on the clearest, coldest nights she felt the call.  Her back rigid as she watched the full moon set, only a few more hours before sunrise let her breathe normally again.

She pulled the cloak more tightly around her shoulders, tugged the hood farther over her flame red hair.  Emerald green eyes reflected the pale moonglow.  How easy it would be to just let go.  

Only an ancient binding spell kept her human.  And her will to resist the call.

But, oh how easy it would be.  To step off the thread thin tightrope between beauty and beast.

Moonlight Artist

I saw the lovely image following this story on the page of  The Grumbling Gargoyle.  



On certain late summer nights, when the air was still, yet thick with honeysuckled perfume, the surface of the lake was smooth as silk. On those nights the gracious hosts held grand soirees at the  manor on the shore.

The invited guests floated across the pond on silent skiffs powered by muscled pole.  

Women wrapped in lace and pearls, escorted by men in soft suits of velvet armor, stepped lightly onto the dock.

The full moon traced the manor and its gardens in silver light.  

Music and laughter filled the night as the gentry danced 'til dawn.  Then hastened to their waiting fleet, to be carried, yawning, home before the garish sun burnt the glamour gone.


But, gracious hosts grow old. Lace tatters and velvets mold.

The manor on the shore is ruined. Threshold and hearth are the only remains. No skiffs moored at  the rotting dock. The gardens untended, fall prey to hardier strains. 

But on certain late summer nights, the air is still, yet thick with honeysuckled perfume.  And the surface of the lake is smooth as silk.

Whispers of music hover in the night, as the full moon sketches reflections of silver white memories across the empty pond. 





Santiago Caruso : The Spectral House / Ink and scratching over paper / 32 cm x 24 cm / 2013

Dance

Hush!
The moon is calling. 
Will you answer tonight?
Will you dance in the field?

Shhh!
The stars are singing. 
Will you listen tonight?
Will you dance in the field?

Hush now!
The breeze is whispering. 
See me tonight. 
Come dance in the field.