Shorts – S J Lister. Author

The Wolf Moon

So this is part of a larger project about the moon. Not sure if I will get all (currently planning 14!) stories completed. But this is a first draft of the first one.

Hope you enjoy 🙂

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The crisp crackle of snow underfoot, the soft breeze through leaves that refused to fall during the dark months, each whisper from the branches tells the wanderer one thing. He is lost. Slowly the furs around him are pulled tighter, he has led the hunt for many years, he has yet to fail to bring back food for those waiting for it. There has always been something exploring the snow.

It is said a good hunter can smell the scent of blood in the air, to become part of the surroundings aides the hunter feel where nature has moved. The old stories told over camp fires to the young make the stoic hunters sound mythical, but once you are out there, your mind focuses on the cold, the trees, the trail. Searching for something to help you bring back another meal. You will, eventually, realise the truth.

In the snow, the hunter sees the faint traces of a track. The snows falls steadily so this can’t be old. All his senses tell him he is close. Slowly the bow is loaded, slowly he moves, slowly to try dampen down each crackle of the snow so nothing can hear him. The more he moves, the deeper the tracks become. It is not long until he finds what has making the trail. Low. Just as he was taught many cycles ago by his father. The bow is pulled.

Release.

The arrow flies through the air and finds its target. It wasn’t where he aimed for, but sometimes you get lucky when you miss and hit something better. The trail is now the red line as the animal tries to flee. Even at his age, the hunter can keep up, the chase is all important, not keeping quiet. The snow breaks as each foot pounds the soft powder and quickly goes from ankle deep to near his knee. In a clearing the animal lies, its final breath hangs in the air as it goes from its warm lungs to the cold surround it.

The hunter lays his hand on the beast, a life should never slip away without a thought. Especially if it is given up for others to continue their own.

A small knife is brought out from inside the layers of warmth, the edge caught in the moon light. The first cut on the rope to prepare the beast to transport focuses the hunter. The stories of battle, hunt and crafts come from his youth to now in every nook still visible on the blade.

With his focus on cutting and preparing the beast to help it be carried home by the group when they arrive, it is not until a shadow appears with the crackle of snow heard in front of him, not behind like he would expect.

He looks up and instantly sees what he had forgotten to be weary of. Age can hone the skills, but can also let them slip away. The wolf is grey with scars on his side. Like his own its face has seen many winters, and what was once two glowing yellow eyes, is now one dulled with age. But the teeth are still ready to eat the next meal.

Slowly the hunter reaches for his bow which is just out of reach and needs to look away to get to it. Breaking eye contact means a charge, but the wolf looks like a charge will not be as quick as it once was. They look at each other, they both realise that they are not as quick as they were, a fight will mean they both will not see the winter through.

As the wind pushes past the hunter the wolf begins to crouch, a smile on his face tells he knows they have arrived. Crouching slowly from the tree line are 3 hunters, younger, speedier, eager. Without breaking eye contact the hunter raises his hand backwards. The 3 new arrivals pause. Looking for instruction for their next move. One wolf, 4 hunters, the odds were good.

Slowly, shadows appear from behind the wolf, the pack arrives. But stops shortly after they have been seen. The glimmer of a tail moves and the new arrivals, young and hungry, pause.

The hunters hand begins to move back to his side lays a hand next to the beast on the ground. By hunting rights the beast is theirs. But hunting rights are not what is in question, survival trumps the honour of ownership, the strongest claim.

Slowly he presses with his knife. Looking at the lead wolf in his one good eye. The flow of movement for his hands, a practiced piece of artwork he has shown the young many times over. The care needed to now slit parts of the beast to keep the meat fresh and ready to be eaten. To not spill that which would foul the rest.

The only sound that can be heard is the knife slicing through. Slowly, the beast is split, then tied. A hand motions for one to come forward, a wrapped finger motions for the hunter to move slowly.

The young hunter comes and does what the motions tell him. He picks up and begins to drag half of the beast back towards his fellow hunters. With the beginning of removal of the beast two wolves start to move. The first to react is the lead wolf. He growls. But not at the hunter, at his own. A tail flies in the air with snow kicked in each direction. But the eye stays locked.

Cautiously, the hunters collectively carry the half of the animal back behind the tree line. A whistle can be heard to motion to the old hunter they are clear and the crackling of snow tells him they are moving away. He rises, his form caught in the full moon. A scar on his own face, a hand wrapped up too tightly to have all the fingers. Slowly, backwards, a slight limp on one side from the passage of time on his frame. As the moon light fills the opening again and the hunter joins the tree line. The old wolf paws the ground, to begin sharing the meal with the pack that moves out of the trees.

The wolf pack will feast on the food to survive another day. As both aged hunters know, the truth for hunting in scarce times, it knowing when to hunt, when to lose, when to attack.

I Hate the Moon

This is a piece submitted to, and published, by @what_theme_zine. So proud to have had this piece included as is the first time I have had someone print out my name and something I have written. The theme for all pieces was simply, ‘I hate the moon’. They have some amazing pieces collection, here is mine.

Dear resident,

Have you ever looked at a bird, the way it moves? How the wings flutter in their delicate dance to move that plump little body around? Ever sat down and looked up at a giant redwood and thought, wow, this is big. Looked at how it is held together by the cells that make it?

Seen the oceans? I am sure you have. Look how far they go, the way they keep the land in place by the simple force of there weight on them, this wasn’t an accident. The variety of life that lives there and how it all flourishes, again, this was on purpose.

I know you have seen these things and thought these questions, and more. You have the likes of David Attenborough showing you all these wondrous things out there. You sit there with your big TVs and gawk at the images brought to you from around the world. But I also know you look out of the window and wonder what is out there. You know, space.

The wonders of the burning stars, turning hydrogen into helium. The galaxies out there with the equations far beyond your brain comprehending why they move the way they do. Even though people like Brian Cox try to help. The power in those black holes and the balance of a nebula to birth new stars from. All these things in that thing you so elegantly, and simply, call ‘space’.

But you know what your species has spent most of the time looking at. Painting pictures of. Gazing up at.

The moon.

The blob of rock that I put there to keep the rolling oceans moving to give you waves to surf on. To keep the current going around for life that is full of colours and variety. Textures and tastes (since you all like to eat everything you find. I didn’t make things poisonous to you at first you know. That was an edit to slow your kind down).

But no, the thing you sit there and stare at. The thing you gawk at and consider to be such an amazing sight is something that simply reflects the light from the sun. You know the sun, it’s that thing that allows life on your planet. That ball of gas burning that also gives you the shows of light on the top and bottom, or bottom and top if you are from New Zealand, on your planet. That thing that burns just strong enough to not burn you all into dust!

The moon is a by product to keep things running. To give light at night so you don’t bump into things when walking around but also not there sometimes to let you sleep and you know, look at all those stars I made for you to think about and make patterns from.

So of all the things I have made, the wonderfully complex eye, the balance of life and co-dependence between life forms from the tiny bacteria to the giant blue whales. You sit there and look at the moon.

This is why I hate the moon, you are amazed by the simple ball of clay, not the masterpieces around you.

Yours sincerely,

The architect

‘Purple’

‘Johnny savoured the moment of gained time, his time. Between needing to work and being dictated to by the whims of the newest member of the family. For some reason checking the price tags on certain items had become the newest hobby.’

This comes from a writing activity given to me when I was able to recently spend an evening a week on a writing course. We were given two descriptions of people (Will explore this activity to focus on your own writing skills in a future post), and then given a setting and a scene at random. As you can probably tell, the setting is was a ‘supermarket’ and if in doubt, the scene was ‘crisis’.

Outside of about 2 people, this was the first thing I had ever shared publicly, and was certainly the first (and only) piece I have read out loud in public.

I have attempted to play with inner monologue of the main character while also building on the description of surroundings. After multiple drafts, this is the one I am so far most happy with.

Please leave any comments below.

—Purple—

A red glow engulfs the car, matching the colour around his eyes. The colour taunts him at the end of a double. It envelops his space as the fog surrounds his car. This fog is getting thicker each morning.

As amber teases him with the potential of being released from the lane, Johnny hears the engine of a car next to him. The indicators flashing with a flapping driver looking at him. With a wave of his hand the car pulls out into the green fog, down the lane towards the shop.

Only one reason anyone would be out here at this time, just show me purple and I might get some sleep tonight.

The car park is nearly empty. A soft glow from the brake and reverse lights create patches within the dark. Who would go shopping this early? Most normal people are sleeping. The car was parked close to the door and Johnny trudged towards the entrance. The cold always made the doors stick. He tried to look down but caught his reflection in the glass.

This face used to be on covers? He surveyed the site. Touched his eyebrows that kept the shape they were made into each week. But stubble was showing. He began to count the late nights, early starts and broken sleeps with each line on his face. This was the sight that would greet his family when he got home. Where had the man gone from before? He touched his face to feel how the skin moved, the bone beneath felt almost separate. His clothes covered from the double shift at work. As the doors slid open, his reality was met with the rhythmic beeps and a shudder as the air conditioning met him. The hunt was on.

He began to recall a conversation, that felt so long ago, even though it was just that morning.

“The Purple one, don’t get the red one as it just comes back up straight away. But also don’t even think about trying to save money with the cheaper ones, they don’t work”.

No, I love you. Have a great day dear. Thanks for doing a double to help with the birthday party coming up. Nope. Just get the purple one.

Johnny savoured the moment of gained time, his time. Between needing to work and being dictated to by the whims of the newest member of the family. For some reason checking the price tags on certain items had become the newest hobby.

Lettuce – £1.20

Steak – £4.59!

Oat milk – £1.75

Crisps – £2.05

“Excuse me, could you reach the packet on that shelf”.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

A shorter person stood adjacent to him nearly half his height, pointing at one of the items on the top shelf. Johnny reached for one but on seeing the expiry date, paused.

“Are you eating this today?”

“No, it is for the weekend”

Carefully, Johnny collected one from near the back and passed it to him. Ironic how shorter people will always be forced to collect the things with the shortest dates.

For a moment Johnny moseyed aimlessly through the aisles, taking in the different prices and offers with bright colours. Then he saw why he was there.

Hanging from the ceiling. Blue sign. Medicine.

Sleep was close.

Johnny first caught sight of the floral women as she floated through the aisle clutching two brown paper bags. These bags were not from here. Showing everyone the other shop. Johnny didn’t go to that part of town. They were out of his way, but also buying bread there would mean dinner would simply be, a slice of bread. Johnny saw how her dress held its form as she wandered down the aisle. Her hair lightly bounced. Had he been awake he may have noticed that she had similar lines to his, although far less in number.

The redness around his eyes had grown from the lights, however, there was a momentary reprieve as he caught sight at the last remaining bottle of purple liquid on the shelf. Placing it in the basket he could feel sleep calling her faithful tune.

‘Oh is that the last bottle?’

Oblivious, and with the hunt complete, Johnny began to walk down past the floral pattern dress, heading straight for the automatic tills. The beeps had become a countdown to a baby crying followed, hopefully, by sleep.

‘Oh drat it is. Excuse me sir, could you spare a moment’.

The light touch on his arm broke the spell of the beeps for the floral women to be met with red eyes, trimmed eyebrows and a face that showed more shifts than sleep.

He was met with a this is why I don’t come to this part of town smeared across her face.

‘I see that you have the last bottle available. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to let me purchase it for my little one’.

Johnny will be crying through the night.

‘No’.

‘But you don’t understand, my little one is so very poorly and our baby sitter won’t work over the weekend.’

‘There is the red one over there’.

‘Oh thank you so much, I will get that for you and swap’

‘What? No. Wait? That’s not what I meant’. Rubbing his eyes to try to stop the piercing luminous bulbs. ‘I mean there are red ones you can use instead’.

‘Oh, well, little Billy doesn’t like it and can make an awful mess. We like to get him the other one so we can sleep easier at night’. She passes the red one to Johnny.

His hand quivers vacantly over the basket.