Free Light of the Moon by David James Page A

made my way back towards my tiny home just after midnight. Mrs. Little hadn’t wanted me to walk home, but I convinced her that I was getting picked up by my Mom the next block over. I needed to walk, to have a little more time all to myself.
    I needed to be alone, even though I didn’t want to be.
    The sky moved like ink alit with a gray, foggy darkness, and even though there was a chill in the air, I felt warm. The edges of my mouth felt sore from smiling too hard.
    I felt light.
    For the first time in days, I felt like writing a song, and I thought of the words I might string together to make something beautiful:
     
    Happiness like a bittersweet lament cried-
    by a thunderstorm in the middle of a furious sea.
    A fallen tree in the middle of a forest sleeping-
    on a bed of wild roses.
    So cold the river, so fast-
    that the stones polish to gems-
    a thousand of them glistening under a sun-
    so yellow it’s gold. The sun falling down-
    painting the trees orange-red.
     
    I walked slowly with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, my backpack slung firmly over my shoulder. A brush of wind licked at my face and then went on to touch the leaves of the trees beside me. Even though it was autumn, I felt the warmth of summer; everything was light beneath the shadows.
    I looked down and focused my eyes on the sidewalk, looked at the many cracks and uplifted stones molded in the pavement.
    Interesting, I thought. Nothing is ever perfect, always cracked around the edges somewhere.
    Maybe that’s what perfection is: Flawed.
    Suddenly, a breeze carried an uneasy feeling my way, but I pushed it away before it meant anything.
    I reached down to stroke the jagged leaf of a weed, finding it to be much softer than I anticipated. The bristles woven tightly into the vein of the leaf felt prickly, and they seemed to shock me when I touched them.
    The night was electric. I could feel it like the beginnings of a storm, the way the air ebbed and pulsed around me like a liquid current. I felt powerful, like I always did days before a full moon. When I was young, I used to think I was a superhero, someone made real by belief. But, no. Still, my walk was stronger, my stance more firm. Out of the corner of my eye I could almost see flickers of electricity dance on wind.
    I was deep in thought when a voice called out from behind a tall bush to my right, making me jump and drop my backpack from my shoulder.
    Just when I thought I could forget, a memory came back as cold and real as before; a raspy voice twisting like dark shadows in the night: “Hello, Calum. Calum! My little boy.”
    My feet froze, taking my whole body with them into an icy, unmoving coma. I knew the voice so well, it crushed against me like a brick wall.
    Dad.
    “How have you been, little boy? You look well.”
    The wind gushed against his voice, slamming into it in steaming puffs of fog in the black night air.
    His voice was higher than I remembered, different. No matter how much the wind howled, I couldn’t erase the memories I had of that voice screaming at me all night long.
    In a second I was five years old again.
    “Dad... Get away,” I breathed.
    A sharp shiver ran up my spine.
    I found my feet and forced them to step back.
    I stumbled. My hand reached down and grabbed at the cement. I felt the tiny, loose stones dig themselves deep into my palm and pull blood out.
    I needed to stand.
    I needed to run.
    Move! my mind screamed, but I did nothing. He shouldn’t be here. Why is he here?
    He reached out a hand but pulled back almost at once. He looked away and down, as if he was listening to something.
    I tried to breathe but choked.
    My bloody hand was still glued to the sidewalk, the salt-like pebble tears of cement burning through my nerves.
    He stepped forward with his arms open like he expected me to run into them for a hug. His tongue reached out, licking his lips.
    I dug my hand further into the ground and pain shot up my arm. Then, as fast as I could, I stood.
    He