Eating the Moon
Jane clutched her stomach and slumped against the wall outside the kitchen door. The sheriff had not agreed with her. Big meals on the last day of the full moon were always a bad idea.
Now the moon was waning again, floating high over the dripping trees in their dark corner of the Wisconsin woods. The sound of a footfall on damp pine needles pulled Jane’s attention back to Earth. Meredith stood halfway between Jane and the outhouse, hair and face lit orange by the flicker of a hurricane lamp.
“Hello,” Meredith said. It was the first word she’d spoken to Jane or, as far as Jane knew, to anyone else at the commune. Her voice was low and sweet.
“Hi,” Jane replied.
“Not that much.”
“You shouldn’t stand out in the rain.”
Meredith came to stand beside her, and the rain fell on both of them. She looked like the ghost of a cheerleader, wide blue eyes and breasts stretching out her T-shirt and flowing golden hair, but so pale. She smelled good. Not like perfume. Like skin and muscle and salty blood.
“You were looking at the moon,” Meredith said.
“You think there were really people up there?” The moon landing had been last July. It was January now, and Jane still hadn’t seen so much as a picture. She was avoiding it, maybe. It seemed wrong that this force that ruled her life could be just a lump of rock for some man to stick a flag in. Continue reading