Peach Moon by Kristen Wildfire

The moon hangs low upon the night sky, round and saturated with hues of orange, pink and red. You can see it everywhere, spilling from behind the blackened jack-pines which line the road. Once I cross the bridge, there are no more streetlights ahead. Behind me, they fade in my rearview mirror like crystalline droplets on a chandelier, after the lightbulbs go out. Now it is just me, the darkness and the light of the heavy moon.

            It is a blood moon tonight.

Autumn is approaching its end. The air is chilled, but sweet with the scent of decaying leaves, coiled ferns and mosses which wait to be covered by their beckoning frosty blanket. Where I live, the leaves change faster. By early November, there will not be a single one left upon a naked branch. But, I am thinking ahead. It is only late October and, despite having quite a lot to look forward to, as well as look behind at, as I drive my car into the deep blue-black, I know what I need to do. Admittedly, I am not very spontaneous anymore. Yet, this is different. If I do not stop to take in this special sky, who knows when I will make that choice next.

            Tapping my turn-signal, the green arrow on the dash makes a click-click. I turn onto the start of my road. It is a county road, sliced through the swampy wilderness like a slithering snake. The start of it is less lonely. The houses are more close together at the beginning. Even so, there are no streetlights. Just porch and backdoor lights, round and yellow, like fireflies in the dark. I park beside the community mailbox, as close as I can get without scraping the side. I leave my turn-signal on. If I do not, if someone came along and turned too fast, especially at night when no one is around, they would hit my car for sure.

            Click-click!

            The night is full of rambunctious crickets and the distant drone of the highway, when I leave my car behind. The flittering of my flashers send pops of artificial glow upon the damp pavement, topped with occasional stray gravel from the shoulder. The heels of my boots tap against the ground and my keys jingle in my pocket, as I take a few steps toward the main road.

            Click-click!

            Standing in the night, the jack-pines along the road look like raven’s feathers against the sky, the brightness of the blood moon tinging them with a fiery kiss. Darkness and light, light and darkness, and all the shades in between — that is the way of the world. Like the moon, we phase, even if we forget to keep track of where we are on the cosmic scale.

            Click-click!

            Staring into the celestial sphere dipped in sanguine, I am small and still, and lively and electric. It almost feels like if I reached out, I could grasp the blood moon in my hand and pluck it from the night branches like a juicy peach. Saccharine and tender, fragrant and soft, and so easily bruised. I wish I could bite it and feel its celestial flesh sink into my stomach. Maybe, if I could do that, a moon-tree would grow from my gut and shoot me to the sky. Whether that is grotesque or poetic, I do not know.

            All I do know is as I gaze at something which has always been part of us, of our magic, even though we have attempted to bury it with pathetic shields made from easily-splintered structures, metal and fumes, my cells join the air. Refreshingly brisk and sugary with the promise of decay, slumber, enchanted dreams and rebirth, my skin hears the atmosphere whisper. My flesh prickles beneath my dress, wanting to split and reconstruct, and stay the same all at once. My hair stands on end and comes alive, like beautiful Medusa’s serpentine crown. Unlike the gorgon’s well-deserved victims, I am unable to petrify and crack stone with my gaze. Human eyes are not made for the night. We are weak beneath the astral darkness. Fumbling and frightened. Intimidated and inspired. Mystified and captivated. Transformed and remade. That is why faerie-fables from all over the world, from each and every culture, warn rowdy children to stay safe at home with tales of terrors lurking beyond. If you stray too far, you might never return. Yet, if you stay where you always are, you might never discern the mysteries of that eternal shroud.

            Click-click!

            Whilst the tips of my hair lick the bright moon’s light, the transition of this moment compared to my previous one does come to mind. I was behind a desk only thirty minutes before, on the evening shift, placing papers forged of mutilated pulp into folders composed of compressed tree-marrow, dyed fluorescent red, yellow and orange.

            Now, I am here, on a dim roadside, flanked by the cricket-choir, basking in the reality of existence, forming a plan on how to take a bite out of the moon or let the moon take a bite out of me. I think we all dream about being acknowledged and partially consumed by something greater than us. It is simply our nature.

            Click-click!

            To be seen.

            Click-click!

            To be understood.

            Click-click!

            To be known.

            Click-click!

            To know.

            Click-click!

            To be cherished.

            Click-click!

            I will not forget you, if you do not forget me.

            Click—

            The clicking of my turn-signal is suddenly eaten by the night mist and given to me. I feel its thrum travel up my bones and creep into my heart, as if it were part of the organ’s bloody beat. My hair hissing and skin singing, as if each cell has linked to a cricket’s melodic vocals, I notice things are different now. Once subdued to the darkness which hushes to the world for half our lives, my eyes feel tight within their sockets. Peering to the celestial sphere, my mouth wishes to open, my teeth longing to chomp, shred, rip and tear asunder.

            I want to know the ancient juice which flows high above and within.

            I want to feel it.

            As my teeth chitter beneath the blood moon, my eyes are pulled up so hard I stumble forward. From the edges of the ripe sphere, I see a shape lurch across its orange-lit basalt. Dark and dreamy, the mass swishes like a tide from one side of the moon to the next, blocking its light and casting darkness upon me in lapping waves.

            Somehow, I am not afraid.

            Every single piece of me wants to be part of this experience.

            In fact, as I manage to raise my arms to my eyes, my skin crackling like lightning, I cannot help but laugh when I see my fingers have sprouted curling claws. My body shivering with myth and memory, a small corner of my mind realizes I am no longer in control and have not been for a while. That is fine. We fear the night because we know it can transform us. It can reveal who we really are.

            But, I want to change.

            I want the moon to take everything from me it needs.

            As the shadow sweeps across the moon like a dark angel’s wings, my limbs begin to strain, just like my eyes did. Gravity yanks me back and forth like a doll. I smile. My teeth are long fangs now. They poke my tender chin as my claws squeeze my cheeks, as if to force out a buried truth. With a shrilling howl, my hair hissing against the air, the pressure suddenly comes to an abrupt end. My sore eyes watch as an umbral mass is ripped from my body. It shoots toward the moon like a starless stream. I swear I see the outline of grinning jaws and a lapping tongue smeared across the astral sphere’s body, yet it is too quick. As soon as the murky-billow is free, the struggle stops. I gasp loudly and stumble to the cool ground. My silent hair laying flat in my face, I try to gather myself.

            Click-click!

            I can hear my car and the crickets again.

            Click-click!

            The motion light on someone’s house flashes in the distance.

            Click-click!

            The highway drones beyond the trees.

            Click-click!

            The pavement is dewy and rough beneath me, and a pebble is poking my leg. I sit there and attempt to think. To form any thought at all. Yet, nothing comes. Instead, I reach for my mouth and feel my teeth. Any traces of claws and fangs are gone. My nails are short and have broken pieces of pink polish on them. My teeth are aligned. My eyes do not hurt. My skin is a bit sweaty, but nothing unusual. My body retains its typical gravity. I suppose whatever happened is over. I should be amazed and yet, whereas I felt fearless before, I am now a little scared. The only thing which makes me move from the pavement is the rumble and lights of an oncoming vehicle. Faster than I think possible for the moment, I scramble to my feet and begin, albeit unsteadily, back to my car. The vehicle stays on the main road. It does not turn onto the slithering path I am walking. Its light passes and sound fades.

            Click-click!

            I open my car door.

            Click—

            I reach over and whack my turn-signal off, but not before noticing something on the driver’s seat. I blink. My heart thuds. A peach, at the end of autumn. Light orange and round with sweetness, just like the blood moon, the fruit sits on the cloth interior, perfectly placed and waiting to be bitten. A little green leaf shoots from its stem. I can almost smell its juice. Swallowing hard, I peer over my shoulder. The moon sits patiently upon its astral canvas. On its luminous surface, I see the outline of a sated, shadowed smile. The grin is not malevolent. Rather, it feels old and affectionate, in a distant, watchful and wild kind of way.

            I understand now.

            We shared something between us, the blood moon and I.

            It saw my true face — maybe it is the only entity which ever has.

            As I climb onto the driver’s seat, I clutch the gifted astral peach to my chest. The fruit is tender and a little fuzzy. I will consume it soon enough. As I turn the key and tap my foot upon the gas, my car jolts ahead and continues its descent down the country road which slithers like a nocturnal serpent through swamps and crackling woods. The blood moon looms behind me and smiles, as I weave my way forth. The jack-pines which shroud the lane are soaked with deepest night. The darkness is so opaque, not even the moon can send its rays through every trunk to illuminate the twists and turns of existence. It matters little, though. The night does not feel threatening to me anymore. There is enough monster in me to comprehend its murk and welcome it. I see that now. I taste it. The flesh of the peach moon upon my tongue.