Tags
Faye Brinsmead, flash, flash fiction, life, micro fiction, moon, quarantine, short stories, short story, vss
by Faye Brinsmead
They quarantined the moon. She might be infectious, they said. To distract us from our grief, they offered the temporary lustre of substitutes, changing them every night. A Stilton cheese the size of Liechtenstein. A replica Zeppelin. A tinfoil piñata which, when struck by a missile, rained marshmallows on the Chihuahuan Desert.
Next came the illumination sequence. They gave prizes for the first correct guess. A smudged orange thumbprint moon (Whistler), a misty sliver (Goya), a blur (Turner), a buoyant peach (Yoshitoshi). The Van Gogh swirl made the website crash — way too obvious.
Since then, the night sky’s been empty. Maybe they figure we’re over it now. I guess they need to print money for other things, like food stamps and phoney wages.
If I lie down in the middle of the field behind my house and squint a certain way, a ghost moon appears. Like a flickering white blob in an old film. Sometimes, just for an instant, she stops jittering. That’s when I see ghost me sketched on her surface. Ghost me looks wan and sleep-deprived. I shout encouraging messages up to her. It’s gonna be okay. You got this, girl.
I’m not sure whether she can hear me. But when I head back inside, the ghost moon scribbles on the sweet grass and my bare feet find their own way to bed.
Faye Brinsmead’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, New Flash Fiction Review, MoonPark Review, Ellipsis Zine, and others. She tweets microfiction and poetry @ContesdeFaye. She lives in Canberra, Australia.