The Moon Writer (Friday Fiction)

This week’s Friday Fiction is hosted by the talented Joanne “JJ” Sher, over at her blog, An Open Book. Click here to read and share more great fiction.


Author’s Ramblings: Well, my mind is drifting again. I’m sure you can tell when you start reading this piece. I haven’t the energy to edit it, so please excuse any glaring errors that I am certain are hiding somewhere within it. The week has been long and exhausting between school and life and I need more sleep than my poor FMC in this piece. ^_^ Since I didn’t receive any votes for continuation for Esther’s story, I’m posting a bit of random fluff for today. It was part of a writing prompt for yesterday, with the idea being to pick a writing quote close at hand and write something based off of it. This is what I came up with and I’m afraid it’s terribly nonsensical and pointless–from my POV. Enjoy and happy weekend! 

If I don’t write to empty my mind, I will go mad~ Lord Byron.

These words trouble me every time I read them, because I know how true they are. It is as if he reached into my soul, gathered up the dust in the corners and squished it into a tangible sentence. He watched my reaction, stared me in the eyes and then decided that those words would be best in describing me.

It is true.

It is so true that it scares me.

Sometimes it scares me so bad, I almost stop writing and then I realize that I can’t let that happen. I have to keep my hands moving. I have to keep the words coming. I have to let my mind work.

I scare people sometimes. I don’t even try very hard to do either. I know I’m creepy. I’ve always been creepy, but that’s not my fault. I just write what I have to. It isn’t my fault if they don’t like it.

They should try writing.

They should try being.

They should try living.

They should try to see beyond the point of their own crooked noses.

Ah, but this going too far, yes? No? Maybe? I don’t know. There is so much I do not know, but what I do know, scares me.

I can’t stop writing. I have to keep writing. I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I already have, but it isn’t my fault. It really isn’t my fault. I’ve tried my best and my best is all I have to offer at this point.
If it isn’t enough for them, then that is not my problem. By trying, I am improving, by improving, I am making progress. This progress that I make, these changes that I struggle through, it is all a process.

I am growing.

Maybe, perhaps, I am not quite sure yet, but something is happening. And it feels so good sometimes, I forget how dark things are. I forget to think of my mind, I forget to think of my heart, I forget to think with my head.
I forget that I am alive.

It is a bliss, a pureness, a feeling that is almost like love. I don’t know what it is, but I know what it isn’t.
It isn’t disdain. It isn’t fear. It isn’t appreciation. It isn’t something I can hear. Maybe I can touch it, because I can feel it. It is real. It is an experience. It is something I feel I must live for. It is something I will never share.

I scared my editor today. At least, that’s what I call him. I don’t know who he is, but he brings me paper and I write. This makes us friends. I think of him as my editor, because he takes the filled pages away and sometimes he comes back to ask me to change something.

I think that is what an editor would do. They would help and be nice at the same time. How strange to see for real, that such a human being exists. I know I scare him. The walls were real today. I couldn’t keep it from happening, so I let it happen. It was fun. I miss it so much, being able to run free under the light of the moon, running barefoot in the dewy grass and throwing away every care to the wind. I had to give in. So I did.

I loved it.

It had been so long since I’d finally given into to it, that it hurt—just a little—to let it all out again.
I waited until night came and then called the moon to my cell window. I waited until the clean, white streams shined into my prison and then I called them to life. In the darkness of my own emptiness, I breathed newness to life.

The light became whiter in my hands, until I could gather it by handfuls of sparkling goodness. I sprinkled it all over myself and then threw it all along the corners of my wretched cell. It brightened up the gloom, if only for the night and it gave me what I craved, the medium to write.

From the white sparkle of moon, I wrote on the blackened, shadowy walls. I started at the top, all the way at the corner and I wrote until my fingers bled. When I couldn’t take the pain, I sucked on the sore fingertips and put my feet to work.

I am not writing in normal words for normal people to understand. I am writing in a language that every heart will know. I am seeing and feeling and living and being. I am doing nothing as I sit in the center of this cell, with bleeding hands and feet, an idiotic grin plastered on my face.

There is joy bubbling out of me in places I’d forgotten existed. I’d tried so hard to let it go, but I couldn’t. It was impossible. I had to write. I needed to write. If I didn’t write, they would go mad.

I knew it.

They knew it.

I didn’t dare speak of it. They wouldn’t dare tell me of it.

The pain is fading from me and I know this means that sleep is drawing nearer. I can’t sit still, even though it pains me to move. The story is not yet finished and I cannot leave it like this. The moon is moving, it is almost out of sight for me, I struggle to see it through the bars on my window and will it to stay for a moment longer.

It’s blameless rays turn the tears on my cheeks to a healing essence that soothes my soul. I lay on the floor of cold, stone floor and lift my eyes to the black ceiling. It is dark enough that I cannot see it, but I trust it is there, for I now need it.

The long silken strands of my hair rise to the occasion, stretching upwards to the ceiling with tears that sparkle on each tip.

Like a quill or a pen, they write. Dancing across the ceiling with elegant scrolls and weaving the story I do not have to voice.

The calmness is coming, the quiet too. I can feel it creeping in from the back of my mind. In the forgotten pocket of my heart, I allow an ending to slip out. It is the sort of ending to confuse, the sort of ending to amuse.

It is the kind of ending that will ease my suffering.

I cannot always write what is happy. I cannot always write what is sad. I can only write what I am told and what I feel I cannot ignore.

I cannot ignore this gift. I cannot ignore this feeling. If this is what I must write, then I shall write it to the best of my life. I will not refuse it. I will not destroy it, but I will not be told otherwise.

I refuse to fall apart. I refuse to hear their taunts. I refuse to be labeled as nothing. If I do not write, I shall go mad. Because I am writing their stories, every day, every hour, every minute and every second.

If I should stop, then they would die. If I should start over, then they would die. But, if I should keep writing and never give in, then this world that has been born will rise up again. In the black forest of nowhere, under the blue sky of neverland, hidden by the mist of forgetfulness and time, I live.

My name is Shayeora and I am a moonwriter.

I am writing for my existence that that of my world, in a prison camp in the west, where they send those from reality. They think I am mad, so I eat medicine for breakfast and play patient at lunch. I cannot eat their food and I cannot drink their water. But I let them treat my wounds and smile when they tell me.

I write until the pain dulls and I think until the pain stops. When everything melts away, I find inside me, the courage to say, things I must, things I trust and words that must be written. This gift or curse, whichever it is, has been my lot in life.

It is mine to bear and mine to endure, but I shall never fear. For the One who has given it to me, bestowed on my soul since birth, is the same hand that guides me and the voice that whispers, soft, sweetness in my ears.

With this guidance, with His love, I feel the pressure in my head fading out to white. I smile as I lay on the floor and wait, knowing that He will send more words again.

To write the story of their lives and pretend to know otherwise, is my single, unalterable fate. If I should lose my sanity, they would only suffer until I hear His voice again. It is the candle in the night that calls me back from the edge of fright. But time is ticking, the moon is moving and I know it is getting late.

My hands ache, my feet burn and I feel a headache coming on.

Tomorrow will be long, the night will soon come again.

I must confess, I do not hate this strange life of mine. I almost enjoy it. I almost crave it. I almost understand my existence.

I am a girl who will write away her life, under the light of the pale white moon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Is she sleeping yet?”

“No.”

“Writing again?”

“Looks like it.”

“What’s it about this time?”

“A whole bunch of religious babble.”

“Hmmm?”

“You know, the whole Christianity bit.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t realize it’s illegal?”

“Nothing gets through to her, I’ve already told you that.”

“I’ve seen in your reports, but it does tend to get old. Doesn’t she tire of it?”

“No. She’s a bloody mess right now.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. We’ll probably need stronger painkillers by morning. She wrote with her hair again.”

The frail, suited gentleman gave a sudden start. “With her hair?” His voice trembled, betraying his age. “With her hair? The Moonwriter wrote with her hair?”

“Have I missed something?”

“The prophecy, you-”

“Chairman? I need a word, if you would.” The secretary stuck her head around the office door. “There’s been word of some disturbances in the-”

“I’ll be right there. Get out.” The man glared at her until the woman ducked out of sight. He then directed his glare to the medical assistant before him. “I would suggest you read this.” He thrust a wooden plaque into the younger man’s hands. “And then shut your mouth and try harder. We cannot afford to lose her! She has held back time for more years than you can ever–this conversation will not be repeated. Do your duty from this day onward, understand?”

The young assistant watched him leave and then turned his attention to the plaque in hand. His brow furrowed as his eyes squinted, reading the elegant script.

“Take flight?” He asked the empty room, turning the plaque over in his hands. A shiver shot through him, drawing a gasp as he dropped the square on the Chairman’s desk. On the back of the plaque, written in bold, the date had been declared.

“May her God help us all.” He whispered.

The doomsday had arrived.

© Sara Harricharan

Author’s Postscript: Didn’t get it? Me neither. LOL. Since this was a writing prompt and not quite an actual story in the planning/writing sense, I’ll add a note, just in case. The FMC was a moonwriter, who’s job was to keep an artificial world running by writing out the happenings of each individual’s daily life. When it’s too much and she loses it, people in that world die because of it. She has carrying on for longer than her expected lifespan (the doomsday date) and as the current inhabitants desperately want to live, they are trying to keep her from dying. Thanks for reading all the way through to the end!