Lunar Collision

There was never any likelihood that 1900s-born Selen and 70s-born Michael would meet. That is, until the daughter of an infamous French scientist attempts to capture the moon, to understand its erratic red-shifts, and the son of a nobody-knows writer travels to meet his destiny. What follows is a love story of two very different lands.

Every first Thursday of every other month, Selen would lift her eyes to the crystal sky. An orange moon hovered almost inches from her outreaching fingertips, but no matter how much she tried, all her childhood years she had had tried, Selen could never remove the image from its sky.

Every first Thursday, such as the arc of a chilling April evening, Selen travelled up to the balcony that lay just beyond the roof of her house for a reason: not to catch the amber in the eye, but to understand why a non-fluorescent object suddenly burst into flame, only once every eight weeks.

Selen pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders; although the evening was warm enough not to need a full-length coat, there lingered a bite to the bare arms that could not be warmed. A watch, diamond, caught her eye deliberately.

“Oh, do hurry.” Selen flexed her ankles, bobbing as she waited. In less than a minute, a smile split her lips; as if it had been caught in a bright beam, the moon burst into red light.

“Time of explosion: 10.23 post midi.”

Secondly, Selen noted these directions into her notebook, before turning and heading inside. A bell rang in the distance, so Selen darted to a tube lodged into the wall.

“Yes, mama, I apologise for my lateness. I am on my way to attend to you.”

Before leaving her bedroom, Selen unpinned the felt hat resting upon her brownish head. She left it to float onto her bed, discarded in the unsubtle propensity of the harsh red light, humming, calling.

Selen strode from the room, letting a strain of her lyrical music slip from her lips. The hallways of dark roe-wood constrained her quiet figure as she walked, but that was all they kept; not even the music from her lips came to be trampled upon by the constraints of the evening, lit by flickering electrics.

“Seventeen minutes late. Capital.”

The End

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