Working toward sainthood this summer solved some of my problems. For one, my daily-Mass-going mother got off my back about getting a job and moving out permanently. Plus, it gave her something to brag ... [+]
Gillian O’Shaughnessy is a short fiction author from Western Australia. She has stories in a range of journals and anthologies including Night Parrot Press, Jellyfish Review, SmokeLong Quarterly and ... [+]
I arrive at the bus stop heading for work and see the moon has fallen from the sky and is resting in a crater where the Bell Tower used to be. I'm struck by how unimpressive it looks close up, beige and lumpy, like old porridge.
"Nothing special," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth to a man clutching a briefcase nearby.
"Pardon?" he seems startled.
"THE MOON," I say more loudly. Perhaps he's hard of hearing. I smile reassuringly and gesture towards it, "NOTHING SPECIAL IS IT? NOT VERY "SILVERY?" I make the air quotes.
He looks over his shoulder in the way people do when they think you're talking to someone behind them.
"MATE," I say, arms outstretched, "THEMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON."
"Please leave me alone," he sprints down the street like his arse is on fire.
"Bloke's lost it," I appeal to an old lady crouched over her shopping trolley.
"Piss off kid," she gives me the finger and looks away.
I'm at a loss. As I watch, a crane teeters and with a shriek of metal settles heavily against the side of the moon.
I'm about to dial emergency but the bus arrives, it's a ten minute wait for the next one, and I've been late for work three times this month already, so I think sod it, hop on, and off we rumble down the street, swerving just the tiniest bit to avoid the moon.
"Nothing special," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth to a man clutching a briefcase nearby.
"Pardon?" he seems startled.
"THE MOON," I say more loudly. Perhaps he's hard of hearing. I smile reassuringly and gesture towards it, "NOTHING SPECIAL IS IT? NOT VERY "SILVERY?" I make the air quotes.
He looks over his shoulder in the way people do when they think you're talking to someone behind them.
"MATE," I say, arms outstretched, "THEMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON."
"Please leave me alone," he sprints down the street like his arse is on fire.
"Bloke's lost it," I appeal to an old lady crouched over her shopping trolley.
"Piss off kid," she gives me the finger and looks away.
I'm at a loss. As I watch, a crane teeters and with a shriek of metal settles heavily against the side of the moon.
I'm about to dial emergency but the bus arrives, it's a ten minute wait for the next one, and I've been late for work three times this month already, so I think sod it, hop on, and off we rumble down the street, swerving just the tiniest bit to avoid the moon.