My Moon -- Prologue

“My moon, my moon! Touch it, have it!”
A child’s voice echoes like rain in the brisk November air. It has been a typical Michigan autumn, and Papa carries me through it like flight, the wind dousing my hair with cold and night-smell. I am just a child still, and the stars shine brighter, colder; the wind blows sweeter on a child of seven.
Papa cradles my baby hand in his, pointing it up, higher still, into the star-speckled blackness. I try to grasp my obsession, the moon that haunts my dreams, drawing orbits behind my closed eyelids and pulling me like the tide to its brightness.


Eleven years later I wait in the russet candle-cast shadows of the bar, inhaling them, becoming lost in their enfolding breath. This is the darkest part of the night, that space between sunset and moonrise. I am rarely active in the day, except to find new haunts for the night. I have never been here before.
I notice you immediately. You are tall and lean, with a head of wild black curls and a trim beard. Alone, you sit near the window with a view of the splendid city, with all of its myriad lights and bustle, even in the night.
I pretend to be tipsy enough not to feel the flutters as I move towards you. There is nothing stopping me, especially not the few drinks I’d ordered before you arrived.
“Hello. May I sit here?”
You stare at me, and I notice with delight the blood that rushes to your cheeks as you take in the scant clothing that clings to my curved body. You seem surprised that I should be speaking to you, so surprised that you err in your response to me. “Um…sure.”
I sit, leaning a little into the light of the candle so that the clear plane of my face is thrown into chiaroscuro. I smile winningly, letting the warmth reach my eyes because I can feel that you are special.
“I’m Tarra. What’s your name?” I query as I tilt my head, imagining the shadows shifting and melting into facial hollows, darkening my cheekbones, my nose and eye sockets.
“Chander,” you reply. “My name is Chander.”
I can feel myself smiling again, genuinely now because this is your name. How fitting, how perfect – you are special, I can feel it.
The night plays out well – you drink a little and I offer you the invitation, which, after another charming blush, you accept.

I enter to find you sitting upon the unmade bed, more present than you have ever been. Beneficent and terrifying love, your face is blue in the dawn – bluer than a drowned man’s – and your eyes are pink with sleeplessness.
Chander, my Chander, my moon. Let me grasp you again with a child’s hands, reaching up from the bed to touch your white, stained face.
But the dawn is here. It seeps into the pillows, drips its grey light from the window and onto the floor. It blurs your nose, your eyes. It stains them blue.
“What do you want from me?”
Someone said it, I believe it was you. Although in the morning light your nose juts out and casts a dark purple bruise across the bottom half of your face, so that I can’t see your mouth.
The air is unbearably heavy and honey-sweet. It coats everything, everything but you, with a permanent dust; it is denser even than the shadows in the corners of the room.
The silence continues, so you close your eyes and turn your face from me. Your cheek is a silhouette in the watery window-light.
“You’ve taken it all,” you whisper hoarsely, “You already have everything – you have drained me, I am empty.”
You say it like a psalm to heaven, a plea to stone and stars to hear your prayer.
At first I do not reply, I cannot, I wish you could see. I have given you more than you ever could know, and yet all you comprehend is that which has been taken away. I reach up searching fingers to touch your face, but you flinch away.
The dirt is all gone, don’t you notice?
I want to hold a mirror to your face so you can see that all that was there in the beginning disappeared with the love that we made in the night.
Your feet touch the icy ground; I can almost hear the bones rattle with cold. No, I think. Please stay. I am a lighthouse in the sea of blue dawn, but you don’t notice me. I cannot bear to be left again, to have to wait for the next and newest moon.
But you leave, crossing the threshold and turning on the light so that the cold bruised blue is scattered and the quick artificial light blinds my tired eyes.

First of all, I really loved your imagery. It was really neat but I found it was used a lot in single sentences. I would also recommend alluding as to what the main character has taken from Chander in the last bit. As much as creating an air of mystery is important, hinting at what could possibly be the cause drags readers in more. Each of the different periods of time seems almost too disconnected as well. Yes, as a child there is reference to the moon and in the others as well but there was really no other relationship or relevance. I did like how the first time change though, you said it was eleven years later. From meeting Chander to the point where he has had everything taken from him, their history is too unclear. How long have they been together, etc? I feel that a prologue is meant not only to interest people but to inform readers of neccesary points for understanding the story. I think a little bit more details to the characters and their lives would make this an excellant start.

I look forward to seeing some more!

Jasmine.

I disagree with Jasmine.

This story was beautiful, written with stunning imagery and passion beyond the obvious. You didn't have to tell the reader th emotions of him leaving her, you counted on the fact that they would already know and that was a good move done by you. This story feels as if it is a clouded disformity of a train of thought; combining all the aspects of loneliness, to searching and wanting, to not wanting and being replused. Aye, it was beautiful.

And Jasmine, the prologue isn't meant to inform people about the story, it used to give an insight as to what will happen later on in the story, or what has happened in the past. The vagueness of this prologue is how it should be, it draws the reader in and wants them to know more about this hapless woman who would sleep with a man after one night, searching for love.

Though this story wasn't absolutely perfect, Rose, at least not in my eyes.

You have beautiful imagery, that is for sure, but you have to be careful with it because many times in the story, I was swept away with your imagery and missed the point in what you were actually trying to say. You describe things to offhandedly and they all flow so beautifully together, but the reader misses the main parts. Like what happened with Jasmine. Jasmine missed the fact that there was no relationship. It was a one-night kind of deal. You need to make sure that some points are clear and emphasized. Your whole story blends together and it is hard to discern the main parts. It left me feeling as if I was missing a main part in the story when you had all the details there.

There was also this:

“My moon, my moon! Touch it, have it!”
A child’s voice echoes like rain in the brisk November air.

I believe the voice is the main characters, am I right? The rest of the story is written in first person, and even though yes, this is correct, I believe it would be better if it matched the rest of the story, so just adapt this into first person. I believe you can do so without loosing the effect you have proscured.

And that also brings me to another thing, yes you have great imagery, but in some places it seemed that your forced it to hard, and it doesn't quite make that much sense. Yes, imagery can be abstract, but in some cases in your storym the adjectives didn't even some what relate. You have to be careful with that. Like in that sentence above; It is hard for me to grasp the description of rain echoing. Technically it can, I guess, but it is hard for me to relate because I just can't picture it. And then there is the word 'brisk'. That makes me thing of 'quick', 'forced', 'sure'. None of those words relate well to the November air. I would maybe use the word 'crisp' as in to show the coldness of it. So I recommend you read through the story and make sure that everything makes sense, or maybe even make it more relateable to the reader. For example, this;

the wind dousing my hair with cold and night-smell.

Night-smell. I didn't know that night has a smell. Maybe it is because I have never taken the time to try to smell the night. But frankly, it is hard for the reader to relate. I like it though because the odd description gives the reader an odd feeling of the characterization. What I would possibly do is kind of describe the night-smell stealthily. Like after referrencing it, go on into the next sentence talking about the night-smell, if it is musky, or the coldness gives it a smell. Make sure the reader understands. Maybe if you feel like being really obscure say that it is undescribable, yet tell-tale. That will give a little room for the readers to kind of relate, and picture, for we all know the feeling.

I also didn't necessarily like the 'eleven years later' kind of deal. Time skips usually happen at like a new chapter, but if it does happen in the midst of something, I recommend doing it more stealthily instead of plainly stating. Like say possibly; 'A long time has passed since that time, each year slipped past like,' and then go off on your imagery tangentness. Just don't blandly state it. And that brings me into another thing, make sure the transitions of your scenes are more well known. I had to take a pause and figure out what happened after you mentioned she brought him back to her apartment, and then he was sitting on the unmade bed. It took me a while to realize that that was after shinanigans happened. Maybe add a sentence in there talking about the exchange of love in what ever form your want to make it. Just make sure the transitions are pronounced.

To be frank, I enjoyed your piece, just take what I said into account. I hope to read more of your writing.
~Incognito

I thought this was a very beautiful piece. I can't wait to read more.