Free Quarrel with the Moon by J.C. Conaway

most reliable drinker? Of course, he had always wondered why Josh spent so much of his spare time out drinking. He sure as hell wouldn't, not with a dish like that Cresta waiting at home.
    Harry looked over his left shoulder at the tent and sighed wistfully. It glowed from within, making it resemble a giant wedge of pink cheese. He tried not to think of what was going on inside that wedge. But the simple act of two young people making love triggered a memory he couldn't resist.
    Gracie Ferguson was the eternal party girl. If there was no party to be found she made her own. Harry and Gracie had dated on and off for more than fourteen years. It was a stormy affair full of good times, hangovers and hot loving whenever Harry was in town, between assignments from the institute. He had often asked Gracie to accompany him on his trips, but she had always turned him down: "No thanks, kiddo. I'm an indoor girl who dislikes sunburns, insect bites and fresh air." Had it not been for that difference and the long stretches of time Harry was gone, perhaps they might have married.
    Years of hard living had caught up with Gracie. The last time Harry had seen her she was beginning to show the strain of her lifestyle. Her skin was as pale as skimmed milk and her hair was dull, dry, and lusterless. She had begun to lose weight. She was no longer the voluptuous, well-rounded Southern belle who, after thirty years in New York, hung onto her accent as tenaciously as a drink. Still they had a good time together.
    The next time, when Harry returned from a long stay in Mexico, he found that Gracie had died during his long absence. Her liver had fallen apart like so many of her booze-soaked dreams. Sometimes when Harry was out in the field, he would suddenly think, "When this stint's over, I'm going to go back to New York, look up Gracie and marry her. But wait, I forgot, Gracie's dead." Funny how the mind worked to block out the pain of those things you couldn't face.
    Harry lifted the bottle and took several long, hard swallows. The drink caused memories to buzz in his head. He closed his eyes and smiled. It was 1972, New York City. O'Lunney's Bar and Grill. Gracie had just played her favorite song on the jukebox and she was waving to him, urging him to come and dance with her. The stray tune tickled his memory. He moved his lips and tried to find the words to fit it. He found the words he was searching for and began singing to himself. "After ... you've ... gone ..." His eyes filled with tears which rolled down his dusty cheeks, leaving trails like transparent ribbons. "And ... left ... me ... cryin' ..." A stray breeze picked up Harry's words and carried them across the treetops, then cast them upon the waters of the river.

6

    From their vantage point on the mountainside they watched. They lifted their heads to sniff the air. It was pungent with the smell of the humans. They milled about, shifting their weight, touching and drawing strength from one another. It would be needed later. They began to grow anxious and lightly snapped at the air.
    A short time later their dark forms moved with stealth down the mountainside, stopping at the edge of the clearing, across from the campsite. The human scent was stronger now, and they savored the sweet warmth of it. Saliva rose in their mouths and dripped from their tongues. They watched the tent and the shifting silhouettes. In the distance, outlined against the furtive moon, another human dozed, his legs drawn up under his chin.
    Their leader, his ears pricked forward, detached himself from the confusion of the shadows. There was no sound except the river and the wind. Suddenly the tent went dark and the leader gave the awaited signal. He lowered himself to the ground and the others followed. They began moving forward. Slowly at first, and then with more urgency.
    Ted had fallen asleep first. Amy cradled his head against her breast and listened to the night. Only after a moment she realized there wasn't