Full Moon, part 1 of 2

A #SaturdayScenes approaching the middle of my #RiverNovel .

He comes in the back door. He looks in the pot that I'm stirring and says, "I'm hungry. What do you have to eat?" I offer some soup. He stirs the vegetables around and says, "No. I'll eat some of my leftovers." He sits on the kitchen stool and looks at me, attentive as if waiting for a conversation, a standard phrase that is part of our daily chit chat, but we don't have any daily routine to fall back on. I scrounge my mind for something clever (what did I hear or read today?), but my mind is blank. I tremble a little with self consciousness during the awkward silent moment, knowing that he is waiting for me to say the right thing.

As the fractions of a second tick by, what I say next becomes monumentally important. I look out the window for inspiration. Movement might help. "Let's go for a walk."

"I'm going to eat first. I'll come back after. OK?"


As he leaves, the stage lights shut down. I'm back to being me, alone, with my mind flooded with ideas of what I could have said. I could have asked a zillion questions about him and his day. I'll  be ready during our walk.

An hour passes. I consider how long it takes to get to his home, reheat a meal, eat it, clean up, and talk with whomever else might be around.

A second hour passes. The sun is spreading a hazy glow.

He arrives with a "Let's go" as the street lights are turning on. I'm thinking about sleeping, but stick with the plan. 

On our way to the park, I ask him about where he grew up. He doesn't have much to say; just short answers in an uncomfortable manner. He asks me where I grew up, in a rather hostile tone. I keep my answers short and to the point to match his responses. This isn't working. We're silent for a while.

We reach the top of the hill at such a fast pace, talking would have been difficult anyway.

The road winds around. The River and its islands come into view. We stop and gaze for a while, each with our separate thoughts, as the sky and our view darken.

He breaks my trance with "Let's go." He starts to continue around the top of the hill, and I keep up with him.

The sun has set, and the moon is shining almost as brightly. The shadows are darker than during daylight, but the clearings are silvery gleaming. The sky is fully saturated with color. When I concentrate on a certain hue, I see it in the sky's deep darkness, except yellow. I can see red, orange, green, blue and violet but not yellow .

He turns down a path toward a closed-up snack shed that used to be a fine restaurant. Now, it's a grand but run-down old building, patched and boarded up. The cobblestones wobble where the cement broke up over the decades. He pulls out a key and stops by a door that has no sign, no window, no clue to its purpose. As he puts the key in the lock, my questions shift from wondering what used to be behind the door, to what he is unlocking the door for. Words fail to come out of my mouth as I try to find a way to nonchalantly ask him what he's doing without sounding threatening or stupid. I try to conceal my suspicion that we don't belong here right now.


I'm sorry if I'm confusing you by sharing scenes out of sequence. I had no idea that the first scene that I shared at Saturday Scenes would become part of the end of a novel. As you can imagine, I have rewritten a lot of what I posted here to incorporate the new turns in the story. Thanks for doing your best to follow along with me.

#SaturdayScenes is a Google+ community giving authors constructive feedback every week on work in development. You can ask to join us. Click on the link below and then click the red Ask to Join button.

You can find links to all of the scenes that I've posted by going to http://WeaverGrace.com

Photo credits:
Top photo: Ukraine dnepr at krementchug by Lutz Fischer-Lamprecht. Licensed by Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Unported. Modified by Grace Buchanan.

Bottom photo: Dnester_Rozvadiv by Szeder László. Licensed by Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0. Modified by Grace Buchanan.
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