Stirring Point

The following is a short fiction essay crafted from a writing prompt about the moon:

Last night, the moon seemed to say something. “Follow me,” its cool light beckoned. I stood up and peered out the window. “This way,” it called, and like a man under hypnosis, I grabbed only what I needed and walked out the door.

I placed one foot in front of the other, climbing a snowy rampart that cut a path up the mountainside. Pine trees wrapped the trail’s edge, holding fresh snow in clumps on their rounded shoulders. My jaw clicked with the gain in altitude, while my lips cracked with each sip of dry mountain air. Every breath had its own weight, as if my inhalations could be placed on a scale and measured. My lungs begged me to slow down, while the moon urged me to press forward.

The mountains at night have a stillness about them, as if one were stepping into the dimensions of a painting. No wind, no flutter, no scurry or scuttle. The landscape was fixed and any motion or stir betrayed the tranquility. The only sound for miles was the crunch of fresh snow beneath my feet.

The moonlight emanated with an audible hum, and like a snake-charmer to a cobra, I danced up the mountain to its every note. Ascending the path, its call shifted from a beckon to a push, taking to my back and shoving me forward. Tight hips and heavy boots slowed me down. The moon continued calling. Burning thighs and stilted lungs tempered my progress. The moon kept calling.

Turning corners gave way to lurking shadows, darkened gullies, and rocky outcrops. Paranoia quickly shattered the spell of safety. I fought the urge to click on my headlamp, thinking the action might offend the moon. Though its lumens were paltry, the headlamp seemed sensible, like a child with a security blanket or finding solace in a quick suck of the thumb. Would it keep a stalking mountain lion at bay?

My hands remained idle and I placed my trust in the moon. I begged for its protection and submitted to its control. It shoved me upward toward a crest in the ridge and brought the mountain’s peak within sight. I trudged the last steps to the old fire lookout station that stood sentry high above the city. The lights below spread out like a picnic blanket made of fireflies.

I absorbed my surroundings and took a huge drink of the cold winter air. The calories from the view were enough to satisfy any hunger. “This is my view,” the moon said. “This is my version of your world. Take it in.”

The lights below spoke to me from a distance. “You are one of many and there are countless stories beyond the walls of your own life. We are those stories.” They cast a glow wider than the gaze of any one man. They told stories of a world in motion—a world with and without me in it. “Take stock of this moment,” they said. “Soon it will belong to someone else.”