What yonder?
It lights the waves and, depending on your point of view, is either a portal to the past or a ride into the future. Bats fly in front of it.
The Twilight Zone
While I was captive on the moon I at least had the good fortune to be part of sexual experiments that gained me delicious access to moon maidens possessed of gravity-defying bazoombas.
The thing that grew on the moon
It were high rise and it conquered. It were formed from leaves of grass. Delicate to the eye yet deadly to the touch. It would smash you. Smash you good.
It formed from brick dust and the threads from old flags. It looked like melted cheese but was neither cheese nor melted. It were rock-like to touch when it smashed you. It had a burrowing nose. It peered down craters. Modules and stuff landed on it.
It began – as many things begin – in a petri dish. Next to a pestle and mortar and bubbling test tubes and stuff. Green vapour clouds clouding our view. A hiss growing louder.
Observatory fun
The telescope. Ink on the viewfinder.
It goes with your hair
Soft velvet night and the moon as big as the moon. Of course. An expert in mimicry, he whispered soft velvet delicates into the ear of this girl who, here in the dark (set beneath perfect, dazzling teeth), seemed even more milky white and even more of an invitation to touch. The moon, naturally, egging him on. Hypnotise her or something, sing her the sweetest of your lunar songs.
It’s bound to take your life
Lycanthropes of particular bent are fast this night. Out with the witches, they are mercied to the full moon, gnashing and dribbling, milky white throats fuelling their wolfish imaginations. Schoolgirls preferably: skinny virgins. A dormitory of schoolgirls, only sealed windows and silver-bulleted headmistresses ‘tween them.
June and spoon
I’ll sneak into your head to steal your happiness.
A sense of gravity
Danst-X1, a lowly planet from somewhere beyond the nether regions, has submitted a request to replace the moon who, it claims, has: “Compromised its mystery by allowing the silvery footprints of man to stomp all over its pockmarked face.” The Committee of Interplanetary Rocks and Associated Debris has refused to officially comment on Danst-X1’s submission. But off the record, a CIRAD spokesman said: “While the moon is indeed no longer a gasping thrall to the gawpers below, its familiar presence is unlikely to be troubled by the self-serving grubbings of a minor planet that, let’s face it, would struggle to cut a dash in my attic, let alone within the majesty of the earth’s night sky. Furthermore, it should be noted that Danst-X1 isn’t even from round these parts, which leads me to wonder what the fuck it would know about anything going on in our solar system.”
Wolves of memory
Neat and half-moonish cuticles are the splash of the hit parade where Joe Meek (noted as England’s Phil Spector, sucidalist and landlady murderer) records “a picture in music of what could be up there in outer space” via his Blue Men and the wobbly SF pre-electronica epic I Hear A New World that goes beyond the moon and settles into the nearby clusters of pulpish melodrama and curious self-loathing characterised by a longing for the unknown that is rooted firmly within the known: chipmunk voices and all.
The Whistling Glass: Fictions 