I was still wearing the same pajamas I had on when they stole from me. 

Just a t-shirt and bottoms. 

Nothing special.

The neon pink light of the club beckoned me, whispering promises of a haven, where the fallen could finally be laid to rest. 

Inside, women clustered into small orbits, their voices hushed like a child’s lullaby. It wasn’t like the usual nightclubs I frequented—you know, the ones where pulsing blue strobe lights illuminated intoxicated bodies, illuminating the wild, the wicked, the darkest parts of man. 

Here, no one danced. No one laughed. The air was thick with screams unheard.

I made my way to the bar and leaned in.

“Sorry,” the bartender murmured under her breath. “Non-alcoholic drinks only.”

Her eyes roamed my face, sweeping over me before settling on the dried blood staining my sleeve.

“This your first?” she asked in a low voice. 

I nodded imperceptibly, glancing around to make sure the shadows weren’t listening.  

I tilted my chin towards her. “You?”

Her mouth was drawn into a tight line, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then softly, bitterly, “Second. But this time he finally went through with it.”

Her words seeped into my bones, rattling the cage that once held my soul. 

And then, from somewhere behind me—

“He spiked my drink.”

A pause.

“—left me on the side of the road.”

A whisper, barely more than a breath.

“I didn’t even know him.”

We gathered closer, stories slipping between us like a secret language, binding our fates together.

And then the door opened. A child entered the room. She couldn’t have been more than four or five, her Ariel dress trailing behind her, the pink sequins catching the neon light.

She was too young for this place. 

But innocence had never protected any of us. 

The people who stayed took it harder than the people who left. Those going could always return: if things didn’t work out in Float, they could have a fresh start on Earth. Wait half a year, and it would be a whole new planet—about a decade passed for every month gone. For those who stayed, the departure was just another death.

Minnie was a rare case: traveling alone. Few boarded the shuttle to Float without someone acting as a witness to who they’d been before. She savored the relative solitude of the trip, knowing on arrival she’d be installed in one of the living-housing communities. She’d chosen the Single Moms Clan, thinking some extra help would be welcomed, even if she didn’t quite match the Ideal Candidate description.

Her first look at Float was disappointing. The town mimicked Earth exactly, and Minnie felt like her Earth self exactly. Still, she smiled at Frida, her Clan Representative, who hugged her over the baby strapped to her chest. The sight made Minnie worry about dribbling milk, even though she’d dried up long before during the weeks on the shuttle. Frida acquainted Minnie with her Float responsibilities, only one of which caused Minnie chagrin: Dating-Pool Party Attendance. It was mandatory for unpartnered Floaters, but Frida assured her they were almost fun.

The DPP Organization Committee, ostensibly to increase the chance of population growth, threw themed parties, retrofitting the storage unit assigned to them into a new sort of date night each month. A seedy bar, complete with a sticky floor. A movie theater, minus the movie, popcorn inexplicably pressed into the recliner cushions. A downtown rave, with lights clipping every which way and too-loud music meant to draw people closer, into pheromone-range, if they wanted to be heard.

There, she met Nick, who had a mustache, who could somehow make a black t-shirt and jeans look pretentious. They would get drinks together. They developed a teasing sort of rapport, and their hours together would slip by, as quickly as Earth-time.

One day, they were laughing and joking and singing song lyrics at each other as a discotheque mirror ball orbited above them. Other single Floaters tried out the supplied rollerblades as pinks and blues strobed across Nick’s face. He belted out an old Earth song from their youth. “Hey-ey-ey baby, won’t you have my bay-ay-ay-ayby.” A strange sense of de ja vu: She’d somehow swirled back to the very moment that always undid her, where she would forget high risk had anything to do with her, where she’d misbelieve one more try would be enough to get it right—just one more try, and she’d show the little stone there was more to this world than sinking. Except this time, even the hope had turned rancid. Her old fashion tasted only of its bitters. The party was over.

Minnie boarded the next shuttle for Earth without telling a single soul.

“Excuse me,” Ted said as he squeezed through yet another pair of conjoined twins on his path toward the burly bouncer. It was slightly unnerving how many conjoined twins stood in line for the nightclub.

Unfortunately for him, this pair wasn’t as congenial as the others he passed.

“Hey, we were here first,” the lankier twin spat at him, moving to close the gap between Ted and the next person ahead. His brother nodded in support.

Ted couldn’t risk starting an argument. He was about ten people away from reaching the entrance of the pulsing nightclub. He could clearly spot the velvet rope and the six-foot, hooded bouncer who barely let a single soul into the club.

Ted glanced over the twins’ shoulders. Millions of heads glared back at him. Just twenty-million more heads down was his spot in line.

When Ted first found out that he was dead, his initial thought was: at least this is better than being stuck in that bed.

Ted’s body had been rotting in the same hospital bed for the past month. He had first arrived able-bodied with a mild fever. Now, his human body was trapped in a coma, and his only options were either waiting in the back of a line to what appeared to be a nightclub heaven or waiting in a hospital bed of hell. It was laughable how slim his options were. The first thing Ted was going to do when he got into that nightclub was ask for the manager. He had a few questions, concerns, and complaints about Mr. G-O-D.

Ted  held a finger up to the lanky twin. “Hang on to that thought for just a sec.” Ted didn’t bother waiting for their reply as he quickly slipped around them.

The nightclub’s looming doorway and echoing music welcomed him as he neared the entrance. On his way up, Ted had pondered what this moment would be like and what he would finally say to this emblematic bouncer. But when Ted finally approached, all his words left him.

“Um. Hi,” He finally said. “Can I…go in?”

For a long time, there was silence. Ted was sure he was going to be manhandled back down to the end of the line.

Then, the bouncer finally spoke. “Once you’re in, you ain’t coming back out.”

As Ted stared at the long arched doors and golden lights seeping through the cracks, he felt an incredible warmth. An inviting embrace that whispered Come on in, Ted. You don’t have to wait any longer.

It was both scary and comforting. But Ted was ready.

Then, a sharp pull at his spirit yanked Ted into a white tunnel.

Piercing fluorescent lights invaded his vision, and as he blinked and gathered his surroundings, he could barely discern the face in his peripheral vision. But Ted didn’t need a clear vision to sense he was back to square zero.

“He’s alive!” Someone shouted.

Goddamnit.

Marlene stands with her back to the bar because her miniskirt won’t zip. She can feel the place just below her waist where the metal teeth split into a y, the clasp digging. Dead, and still trying to suck it in. Dead, and still caring what size she is. Well, maybe the real question is: Why is she any size at all now? She takes a sip from the amber-colored liquid in her glass–Paper Plane–maybe the last thing she drank before she…? Maybe the first? Briefly panics that she can’t remember and wonders if she’s already losing herself, a losing that happens slow and then all at once. But then, it comes to her.

Amaretto sour.

Takes another sip and frowns, the taste of rye shifting to the taste of almond. Strange place, the afterlife.

 Makes her uneasy. Makes her distrustful.

The dance floor looks like it’s bathed in navy velvet from the moonlight, white folds and fuzzed shadow sheen. Bodies sway. A disco ball descends and then it’s all Donna Summers and Madonna, and she wonders if they pick the music based on which generation is in the majority. It does not make her want to dance, so she drinks instead.

There’s another woman at the bar, much older, with gray ringlets. Her dress, Marlene notices, is zipped up to mid back.

“I hear it doesn’t count when you’re dead,” this mystery woman says.

“What doesn’t?”

She raises her eyebrows, nods at someone young, probably one of the 27s in his wide-legged pants, lurking at the edge of the dance floor. He doesn’t know how to move to the music and instead of endearing, it just makes Marlene feel old. Sad.

“Not for me,” Marlene says, and the woman shimmies off.

She looks down at her glass, thick and beveled with rounded lumps. At her hand wrapped around it. There’s a ring there and she remembers when Dave gave it to her, on the pier in Santa Monica. Hears the waves crash and a seagull and there’s something close to a keening in her chest, something she can’t verbalize. She looks for the exit.

“Who makes a nightclub without exits?” she says to herself.

The claustrophobia sets into her bones, the back of her molars. She notices the rising temperature escaping in steam off the not-yet-cold bodies, pressed together.

Thinks that even now, especially now, her ideal night out would be rotting on the couch, Dave’s feet set on her lap, or his head pressed against her arm. She presses it then against the bar but it’s too hard, too cold, too solid. Remembers, briefly, a fairytale about shoes danced to pieces. The music switches to something older, something Cohen. It’s brief, his croon, because then an alarm sounds, rain prickling across her skin.

The sprinklers, she thinks.

Health and safety, she thinks.

Water streams over her eyelids, blurring vision, and she wonders,

Where can we even go from here?

She stands by the bleachers in an auditorium that had been demolished years ago—a vision in a pale blue taffeta dress she’d worn to our high school prom. I stare at her, afraid to blink.

“Am I dead?” I ask.

She laughs, and the sound washes over me. Her cheeks flush as she smiles. “No, you aren’t dead. Just—elsewhere. For a moment.”

Pink balloons scatter across the old wood floor as she steps toward me, the edges of her dress whispering against her bare calves. Freckles dance like stars across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. I love her freckles.

“Are you gonna stare at me all night or are you gonna ask me to dance?” she asks.

I hold out my hand and realize I’m seventeen again, wearing the same ill-fitting suit I had mowed thirty-seven lawns to buy. Her hand slides into mine, and I feel my pulse pound everywhere our skin touches.

Heart in my throat, I lead her to the center of a makeshift dance floor blanketed in low draping lights. She raises my arm above her head so she can spin underneath it and winks at me over her shoulder. A smile breaks across my face, one that turns into a laugh when she tries to spin me under her arm.

She always knew how to do that. How to crack me open when I hardened, to bring warmth to my bones when I froze.

My hands shake as I pull her close, as she leans into me. “I Only Have Eyes for You” plays through the hazy speakers. The song she sang in the car, in the shower, in her studio as she painted. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, and she smells like summer flowers and sunshine, like soft rainfall on a Saturday morning, like cold nights curled under warm blankets, like love and laughter and all the dreams of the life we would have together. The life we built.

Tears fall down my face. She kisses them away.

I clutch her dress, blue taffeta wrinkling under desperate fingers, fearing she would disappear into old music and dusty memories.

“Save another dance for me?”

Smiling, she says, “Always.”

But we both knew I couldn’t stay.

I hold her close until the song fades to nothing.

***

I bring her old CD player to the funeral. I play our song.

My smile, sagging behind wrinkles of age and time and wear, wets with tears. But I can still feel the warmth of her palm on my chest, on my heart, as we danced among twinkling lights and pink balloons.

I don’t know where she went when she walked through the auditorium doors. But I knew that I would find her again. Someday.

And I knew that—wherever she was—she was saving me a dance.

After Wenyi Zhu’s “Magnolia Moon”

It was I, Daughter of the Stars,

who plucked the milk moon from the earl gray sky,

brewed a new cup with her magnolia petals,

stirred to life with my spines.

Her steam is sweet to breathe,

Sakura spirits caressing the blue craters of my eyes,

blushing my pale sick skin.

Sweeter to sip,

as she weeps bright tears upon my lips,

soft spins silk upon my tongue.

She makes me smile,

wraps me in the warmth of her halo,

fills my belly with the promise of life.

You’ll never know coldness,

or darkness,

or starvation

again.

My child,

you’ll never know.

I smile,

and I smile,

And the moon bleeds black

and smiles back

as the world fades to purple dust.

Eli has officially been declared a missing person. I trudged through the snow, my boots leaving deep impressions, while I watched my breath escape in shivers. We had one flashlight and six people’s worth of determination to find Eli.

Max was ahead of me, shouting into the void: “Eli! Come on Eli! I know you can hear me, dammit!”

I jogged to catch up, my breath shallow in the cold.

“Max, we have been searching for hours.” I said, through choked back tears.

“He’s fine, Kit. We are going to find the idiot. Okay?”

“Okay,” I sniffed back.

I could feel something was wrong. It felt like the tether tying us together had snapped and Eli suddenly went loose.

We would always go for walks along the river together. Giggling, cracking jokes, howling up at the sky like the goons we were.

I took a turn through the woods and headed down the hill towards the riverbank. I kept walking, mindlessly, not really sure what I was even looking for. A body?

I was looking for a body.

The police found Eli’s car at the trailhead. His phone, keys, and wallet sitting in the front seat.

I continued walking along the rushing water of the partially frozen river, rubbing my hands together from the biting cold. I had been out here for hours, looking, longing, hoping.

As I continued down the riverbank, I stumbled into a clearing. There was a perfect opening lit by the moon; a tree poised so it hung gently over the water.

And there he was.

I dropped to my knees and screamed up at the sky. The kind of scream that stained memories, burned lungs, and caused aches in your bones.

Max and the others came running from behind and took in the scene. Max dropped down and wrapped his arms around me. We huddled there together in the snow—the moon the only reminder the Earth was still standing.

The corners of Dolly’s eyes are marked red so that the cameras can find them; secretly, it’s so I can always see where she is looking. From the wing, I can tell that she is making eye-contact with every single person in the front row left to right. Each word, she sings especially for each of them, the clear notes of her voice dancing in the air like flakes of early-December snow. Where I stand, though, it isn’t snow so much as ash from a nearby fire. From behind the cyclotron, the spotlight glows a rusty red—as red as the tilled dirt in their tiny town, red as her heart-shaped lips, red as the Republican party. It hangs above me, her, and the entire auditorium like the strawberry moon— but only I can see the red. The audience only sees white, and she only sees the audience. The strawberry moon means that fruit is ripe and ready for picking—shouldn’t all those yokels be at home, harvesting?

The solstice heat was sticky and oppressive, although it was nearly midnight. We laid in the untouched plot of land behind her house. Her father kept trying to grab it, but the zoning office found new ways to thwart him. He is the mayor, for Christ’s sake, she would rant to me. Secretly, I was grateful—I didn’t want to see all the wildflowers mowed down to make room for cow pasture. The way her blonde hair was splayed out on the grass only confirmed my opinion. It looked like the ring around Saturn, a halo to her big round face. She stared at the stars, and I stared at her.

“One day, we’re going to get out of here.” She affirmed, then rolled over and kissed my cheek. I nodded and looked up to the big strawberry moon. “We’ll move to the big city—Nashville, or St. Louis—rent a tiny apartment, and we’ll meet men that aren’t farmers, and—”

She glances back over her shoulder as she turns for water and casts a wide waning-crescent smile. The glare of the spotlight casts her lace dress and the teeth I know to be brilliant white a faded shade of cadmium. The light glances off of her celestial body, and I understand now. She only reflects. Never produces.

When she turns to face the audience again, I walk out the stage door to the parking lot. I look up at the sky, drinking in the stars and satellites and bits of space junk; I drink up Venus and Mars, but I spit them out again, because they aren’t mine to hold. I try to hang on to the harvest moon, but it vanishes from my hands in a red puff of smoke. I brush off my dusty hands and go back inside. Dolly will need her Diet Coke soon.

The child’s joy was contagious. He had no idea this would be one of the most symbolic moments of his life. He emanated sunlight, smiling.

Moments of happiness and recurring lucidity. Life previously so turbulent became a blue ocean of calm. We fought for the first time, the hurt flowed like rain, and the world collapsed after the relapse. I asked myself several times, “Does no one like me?”

Months that used to pass quickly now pass slowly, dragged by force through time.

At the end of the year, the bright star passed by so quickly that almost no one saw it, but that hopeful child did. He requested to have one more chance to change an uncertain future.

Just like the stars that shone that night, the notification appeared. In the middle of the pitch-black, hope rose again with one simple question, can we still be friends?

Maybe I was too hasty. Maybe I should have thought more. If I leave, will you remember me? It’s sad to know I no longer have you with me, smiling. It’s sad to delete the memories of good and magical moments. It’s sad to see you moved on, and I’m still standing at the same bus stop. Now, I’m the one asking the question, can we still be friends?

Top Notes:

Crisp, elusive, clean.

Like the dried orange peel that flits from fingertips into the shallow of the beach water with the moon draping beyond, and the sand particles drifting past lips when the wind kneads hair into twisted knots while the brine never dries.

Pores opening to inhale scent. Mouth opening along with little holes in my skin, and I can almost hear the crunchy, grainy, salty sand rolling in my mouth. I am the voyeur, standing alone in the middle of an open beach.

My unintentional gift— the orange peel— where did it go? It should have sunk underneath the salty waves and laid motionlessly on the brown sugary sand. It should still be there, stagnant, stationary, waiting to be picked up and returned to my hand. And yet, I don’t see a glimpse of murky orange underneath sand-filled water. The moon nods winks at the beach, it pulled my offering away, but I hadn’t had the chance to see it leave.

There exists no orange by the shore.

Middle Notes:

The top notes are long gone and the remaining concoction blooms into a deep creaminess. The velvety middle notes melt into my skin, but my mind yearns for the clean scent of an orange peel flying away. I can’t delight in the taste of time gliding out of reach.

A cycle of fingertips presses down on the oblong perfume nozzle. Spritzes of chemicals grace the air. I exhale. Sniff deeply to replace the remaining air in my lungs with a glimpse of the dried orange peel that has long since flown away into the ocean by the moon’s accord. There’s a nervous haste to my actions. A senseless, irrational desperation for something I know is transient, a bit too ephemeral, something better left in the past.

Base Notes:

The remains after the disintegration of the baked orange and soft cream. The brunt of the burnt metallic base note lingers and settles into my skin. It pockmarks the open gaping holes, an excess of chemicals sunken in because of my earlier desperate spritzes.  

I can smell it. I feel it sinking and carving a territory into my skin, and I thrust my inner elbow underneath my friend’s nose. Trust me, it’s there. But when they try to breathe the chemicals into their lungs, their nose denies its existence. I hunch my back and dive into the juncture of my elbow and inhale. It’s not there in my nose, but I feel it burrowing under my flesh. The pain triggers memory as a reliving and relieving of the process of the death of The Moon by Planetary Pull.

“Are you breathing?”

The girl felt nausea in her nose all at once. Saltwater rose from her stomach, through her throat, and out of her mouth as she spat out bits of the sea trapped in her lungs. The woman standing above her frowned, but the girl didn’t answer her query. What kind of question was that, anyway? Could she have answered if she was not breathing? No.

Shuimu looked down. She was dressed, which was the most important thing. A black dress stuck uncomfortably to her skin, no shoes. The pulse of the waves pushed the fabric of the pants closer to her body, and it irritated her. She moved to her knees, pushing the woman’s hand away.

“What land is this?” Shuimu barked.

“You don’t know?” the woman answered. A smirk played across her face and a silver robe covered most of her frame.

Shuimu looked past the woman from her new resting spot. A blank darkness stared tauntingly back at her. The only light came from the woman, as if she had stolen the moon’s brightness and trapped it inside her. The waves continued to lap on the shore, but no sound came from them. Shuimu laughed out loud. She placed both hands on her chest, took a deep breath, and started chanting.

The Shurangama Mantra came out deep and strong from her lips. The pace was quicker than usual, if only to make the spell work faster.

“What are you doing?” the woman shrieked. “You can’t do magic at night, it’s forbidden here!” Shuimu opened one eye to watch the woman waving her arms. Shuimu smiled at the hysteria and continued her mantra.

“NAMO SARVA TATHĀGATA SUGATĀYA ARHATE SAMYAK-SAMBUDDHĀYA,” she called. Give praise to all the Exalted One, the Well Attained One, the Perfected Disciple, the Perfectly Self-Awakened One! Let us call the power of the Sun!

As she reached the end of the verse, she felt a shift in the air as the woman lunged at her.

Shuimu reached up to wrap her hand around the woman’s hair, twisting it and her head back. Shuimu pulled the woman’s head towards her own face so they were looking at one another upside down.

“Enough games, hag,” Shuimu hissed. “Take me out of this dream and back to my people.”

The woman feigned shock with a wide gasp on her face. She cried out, “What are you talking about?”

Shuimu brought her left hand down onto the woman’s throat and pressed until she heard the quiet, last gulp of air.

The woman’s body disappeared and the light within her died. Just as Shuimu guessed, the woman was none other than the shapeshifting moon in her human form, come to murder her. Too late, you tyrant, Shuimu thought. The horizon faded back into view. Trees on fire lit up the beach as the war against Shuimu’s people raged on. The uprising was here. There was no more time to waste.

a woman at night is like a man in the morning

except in all the ways she is not

for there are no means for the mounted streetlight to feel as warm

on skin

as the unrobed mid-day sun

nor can the sweet chirp of mothers to their young in the nest atop that big old birch

quite compare to the cricket’s night

interspersed by those phantom voices spun

by the hungry winds

gusty manhandling of autumn’s last branches

the moon for all her virtues

cannot give the time

no more than the sun can refrain himself from his merry traverse

on the trail of east to west

from dawn until dusk

when man’s wondrous telescope finds itself wrapped under a tarp

bearing the dirt of good fun

hoisted onto something so naturally manufactured for liberation

a Jeep, perhaps, or a pickup truck

 sans the sort of thing resembling a cover or door

or perhaps onto a back naked without the indentations of a bra

braced upon loud clunky feet that squelch down the mud path

they have never learned to tip-toe around uncles in living rooms

and meander to kitchens where mothers pour libations for thirsty throats or

to hush the patter of hurried footsteps

and avoid the big old lurker lying in the shadows

or to use inside voices when not inside

and listen for those foreign fingers hungry for tender necks

and to stay away from bad manners and shadows

no matter if the shadows transport  

to a poppy field

their pearly whiteness more spectacular night’s canvas and in it

where a patch of grass has

been worn down by calloused bare feet

in the same way man may fall to his knees

look at stars in skies

as the Romans did when Jupiter struck down light’s mandate from His celestial mantle so

too must woman fall

but to scatter rings of salt in the dark

knees resemble meniscus

at night man will delight in the moon

but know that she is nothing without sun’s light

woman could never think to look up

and arrive at this mournful realization

amongst the manic thrum of

howls erupting from the menagerie’s wolves menacing

the walk from car door to home door

uniformed silhouettes brandishing woven manacles

breeding fathers’ Mendelian gaze on adolescent breasts

dead men

and wandering fingers reeking of menthol and vapor

she hears them all in the menial silence of dawn’s darker precursor

senses heightened by menarche

and tragically

the scent of her own traitorous blood is what does her in before morning