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  To the Moon

  Copyright 2014 Shannah Arner

  License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook my not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  About This Collection

  To the Moon

  Grandmother

  Canadian Geese

  Round Barn

  The Autumn Damp

  Sweet Earth Soldier

  Little Robin

  goneland

  About Shannah Arner

  Connect with Shannah Arner

  About This Collection

  Take a walk through the countryside and it won't take long to hear the rustles of trolls behind you or see the flicker of fairies out of the corner of your eye. There are still wild places left where you can taste the magic in the air. But, in the depths of the woodlands, folks are further from the larger culture - for better or worse. This collection of stories and poems is inspired by my childhood in the Ozarks, a place sprinkled with hidden alcoves untouched by “progress.”

  To the Moon

  Let’s move to the moon

  And bring the air with us

  I’ll bring the grass

  You bring the cows

  We’ll catch stars in canning jars

  Then drift through celestial froth

  We’ll get water from the moon men

  And give flowers in return

  We’ll plant a crop of moon beans

  And write with inky space

  The sun will rise at dawn

  The earth will rise at dusk

  I’ll hold your hand and kiss you

  Then you’ll say goodnight

  Grandmother

  A sickly woman alone in the wood

  lay still in her dying bed.

  A hairy trickster doused her life’s flicker

  then awaited the girl in the red hood.

  A high muffled voice could be heard

  through bristled muscle and fat.

  Though villain suave, Red lost her calm,

  and she shrieked strands of jumbled words.

  The greatest stand only to fall

  amongst their needled neighbors.

  Craggy faces patrol open spaces

  till the cry of “Timber” warns all.

  The axe man heard the panicked yell

  over the boom of crashing giants.

  He left his trees to mind the needs

  of this nearby distressed damsel.

  The old woman occupied a fresh womb,

  A whole person, yet she was not.

  The damp dark ate at her heart

  until by a split, she fell from the room.

  Bested, the fraud scampered away,

  though none noticed till later.

  Crone dead, the maiden crawled in bed

  and with her, the axe man lay.

  Canadian Geese

  There were sirens outside. I looked. They were rescuing Canadian geese. The domesticated graylag geese don’t get into this kind of trouble. Oh, they get into other sorts of trouble: shootings and public drunkenness and assault. But, leave the damaged property and unexplained disappearances to those subversive Canadian geese. I can always hear them through my double-paned windows shamelessly yelling obscenities at each other. I’m considering moving to a different neighborhood.

  But, tonight, a little after seven (curse these autumn evenings too excited for dark! Bringing out the worst in the geese…), I first heard an ambulance, then a fire truck, and finally the police. Such confidence I have in our first responders. But, shortly, I heard more sirens and when I stepped onto the balcony, I observed an entire skein of fire trucks flying down the street. All the Canadian geese were shouting and gossiping and I honestly couldn’t understand a word of it. But, the international language of flames vehemently assured everyone they had best relocate for the time being.

  I called my friend, Mary. She lives on the other side of town but knows everything about everyone. “You’ve heard about the geese?”

  “The Canadians? Of course.”

  I watched a gaggle of firefighters swoop into the crude apartments. I assumed some goslings were still inside, caught under a beam or too afraid to leave their room after their parents’ reaction last time they strayed into the family room at an unapproved hour.

  “Any word of how the fire started?” I asked.

  “You know my cousin, Bobby? His neighbor’s friend said his brother owed a gander money and when he didn’t pay up, well, things got heated to say the least.”

  “Again? If I owned a building, I’d never let a Canadian goose live there. It only leads to unsavory situations.”

  An officer in blue was off to the side of the crowd now. Apparently, he could speak Goose (at least one always does in this neighborhood). The others were chattering amongst themselves now and I could only hear the occasional outraged shriek. The EMTs were going from goose to goose checking for smoke inhalation and burns. The firefighters were coming out now – their arms filled with goslings, some nearly geese in their own right now and some barely out of the shell.

  “Mary, I’ll call you back.”

  Four firefighters were carrying two flailing, ashy ganders. A flock of police officers rushed over and cuffed the birds. One medic shuffled towards the mass while the rest huddled near the ambulances. The tiny squad wrestled the birds into an ambulance each and I couldn’t say what happened from there. I would think they were subdued or maybe quietly put out of their misery. Obviously, they were the fire starters. Anyone could see that. And, even if they weren’t, who would complain if a couple more Canadian geese were off the streets? City improvement at it’s finest, that is.

  Round Barn

  Missouri used to be full of men

  and women of the rocky earth.

  Barns popped up across the wilds:

  littering creek sides, clearing oak

  forests, renaming counties.

  Back home on a nameless road

  is a round barn and it mimics

  the curve of the road it nuzzles.

  A stealthy pond echoes the white

  cattle sprouting then fluttering

  away in puffs like dandelions.

  The mass decays daily:

  sides buckle, roof caves.

  Throwaway society can’t

  fathom the idea of new

  paint for old boards or

  re-shingling a roof that isn’t.

  “If you pass the round barn

  you’re just about there,”

  they say through crinkled lips.

  “Its right past the Jesus

  bridge where those boys killed

  themselves with a train.”

  Now He watches sullenly

  from beneath the tracks

  over the rusting dairy farm

  signs. Tourists take this scenic

  route. Locals take the highway.

  The Autumn Damp

  The autumn damp descended

  upon the boys: raspberry cheeks

  wind burnt and crystal cold.

  Sweat still slicked their hair

  though. And they marched

  through the yard, baby fingers

  poking out of two-for-a-dollar gloves,

  and the stooped now and again

  and again to pry sharp rocks from

  the almost rockier ground.

  They could see
them since the weeds

  had dried then died. They threw

  the offenders over the property

  line so, come summer, the lawn

  mower wouldn’t fling them into

  the kitchen window again.

  Clumsy stitches can’t heal silky skin

  much better than duct tape

  can heal shattered glass.

  Sweet Earth Soldier

  Fairy mists and emerald hollows,

  hints of dewy felt.

  When onyx eyes meet yours

  fluffy flicks of white

  pure as sweet morning milk

  are sure to follow.

  Hooves dance through

  the undergrowth like

  the melodies of birdsong

  echoing in the mossy alcoves.

  Take chase.

  Get lost.

  Stray from the muddy path.

  Learn to love the burrs and

  the blackberry barbs in your

  hair, clothes, skin.

  Find dilapidated carousels

  and stone ruins

  and maybe-human-maybe-

  horse-too-scared-to-get-

  close-to-find-out

  skulls and other fragments

  progress left behind.

  If you step under the arch

  of a vine when the moon is

  full, you’ll enter another

  realm. Water collected

  from the tree root pool

  will heal all wounds. Scour

  the dry riverbeds because,

  one day, you’ll find

  a mermaid’s comb a salmon

  brought back from the sea.

  Keep scrambling up

  slick hills and skidding

  down almost cliffs. Mind

  the neighbor’s barbed wire.

  if he’s in his field,

  hide or he’ll shoot.

  Keep on, keep on,

  sweet soldier of the earth.

  Someday, you will make it past

  The stormy woodland eye

  and all its outlying branches.

  Someday you’ll emerge on

  the other side and there,

  you’ll find him waiting.

  Little Robin

  Last summer, Frank took up bicycling: in the mornings and in the evenings. Everyday. Before, he’d had a burgundy hatchback he had bought for his daughter before she had gone. But, she didn’t need it anymore and neither did he.

  His coworkers teased him over his sweaty pressed hair and his sponge baths in the second floor men’s room. And his wife thought he’d gone on a health plight and was pleased as his belly shrank. But, Frank was doing neither of these things. Nor was he getting back to nature. No. It was something else entirely. He had dropped the key along with a handful of dirt. It was in the ground, buried now. He couldn’t get to it.

  At first, that didn’t matter—it had happened on a Friday, yes, but he could call the locksmith to come Monday. On Saturday morning when he rose to water the grass, he heard a wild flapping between harsh thuds. Upon inspection, he saw a robin – it must have been a female because its red was muddy. No matter, Frank thought, I’ll let it out Monday.

  But, on Sunday morning when he climbed into his wife’s silver car for church, he peeked in and saw the bird laying on the driver’s seat, head angled to the left. The bird reminded him of his daughter, but he knew Monday would come soon.

  Monday was Labor Day. Frank had forgotten. He and his wife, Karen, rode their bikes around the lake just down the road. Tuesday then, he thought. But Tuesday came and went, as did the next two. Everyday he peeked in at the robin and dreaded calling the locksmith. It was easier to rack up miles on his bike than to think about the smell. Later, he bought a tarp and tossed it over the car. He didn’t want his wife to see the small bird bloating.

  He didn’t really need to worry, though—Karen tended to spend the majority of her time inside. This summer she had taken up scrapbooking and collage-making. She spent hours each day rifling through all the nooks in the house: the drawer under the TV, old film canisters, and even their daughter’s most recent yearbooks. When Frank wasn’t rearranging the ceramic toads and hedgehogs in the garden, he walked past the veiled car and into the garage to access the attic. He pulled down dusty boxes to make space for new ones, then brought the dusty boxes to Karen so she could rediscover forgotten photos.

  Other days, Karen would fold her daughter’s shirts and take down her posters. She would lay them out in a semi-circle on the carpet before shakily placing them into cardboard boxes. She would call Frank up and he would load the donations into Karen’s trunk and the rest he carried up to the attic. On each trip down, the car’s headlights peeked meanly from beneath the tarp.

  One afternoon, Frank was kneeling in the driveway; pebbles pressed into his knees. His bike was wheels-up in front of him and he was tinkering with the chain; it had jumped the gear. A familiar car pulled up next to him. A man in khaki slacks stepped out of the driver’s side and a woman in a blue dress exited the passenger’s side, casserole dish in hand. It was the Dabbses—do-gooders from church.

  “Hey Frank!” Buzz grinned eyebrows raised. “Thought we’d drop in and see how you and Karen were doing.” He offered his hand but Frank just raised his grease-blackened palms.

  “I’ve been working.” He gestured to the bike. Buzz patted his back instead.

  “I made you this lasagna. It’s a special family recipe.” Dolly winked.

  “Oh. That’s…” he paused. “That’s great.”

  “So, how’s Karen,” Dolly asked wide-eyed.

  “She’s great.”

  “How about you, bud?” Buzz asked.

  “I’m pretty great.” Frank stood and brushed the small stones from his skin with the backs of his hands.

  “Why don’t I bring this lasagna in? Say hi to Karen,” Dolly said.

  “She’s busy.” He had last seen her headed upstairs, wineglass in one hand, bottle in the other. “Just set it on the porch. I’ll deal with it later.” Dolly obliged and Buzz gave Frank a nod.

  “Well.” Buzz placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you need anything.”

  Frank said nothing. Dolly gave a sympathetic smile.

  “God bless.”

  “God bless.”

  “God bless.” And they were gone. Frank looked at the casserole dish then returned to his bike chain.

  Karen was dragging her fork repetitiously across her plate: the sound reminiscent of the back and forth of a rusty park swing. She hadn’t touched her square of lasagna. Frank looked down at his own square. He had been picking at it and had completely disassembled the slice. Bits of ground meat soaked in their own juices along with lumps of ricotta cheese and bits torn up pasta. The oils from the mozzarella topping had separated and were now floating atop the meat juice. Enough time had passed that the mass began to coagulate.

  Frank looked up at Karen again. She was still squeaking her fork. Reaching across the table and laying his hand on hers, he slowly guided it away from the plate and towards the table.

  “You need to eat something.” She stared back at him glassy eyed without seeming to really see. “For me?”

  Karen sawed off a chuck of her lasagna square and chewed it purposefully. Upon swallowing it, she pushed away from the table and placed her head between her knees while clutching her stomach. Frank glanced back at his plate and knew exactly how she felt.

  “Let’s get you to bed.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, helped her stand, and walked with her to their room. Karen toppled over onto the bed. Frank laid her on her side and moved a small trashcan near her head. Then, he shuffled into the hallway bathroom and knelt over the toilet.

  At 3:34 a.m. Frank slowly kicked away the covers, rolled on his side, and sat up. He stretched his toes then crept across the room. Once in the hall, he sped up a bit, rounded the corner, and ran through the kitchen to the miscellaneous drawer. He fum
bled through it until he found the old flashlight he bought when he camped. On. Off. Still worked. Good. He opened the door to the garage then pressed the button to raise the automatic garage door. He paced through the cement room onto the gravel driveway. Frank threw off the tarp, switched on the flashlight, and directed both it and his gaze through the driver’s side window.

  “Frank, what are you doing?” Karen leaned on the doorframe wearing a baggy, gray t-shirt of his and a concerned expression.

  Frank was wearing only his white briefs and suddenly felt very naked and stupid in front of this woman he’d been with for nearly twenty-five years. He stared at her. She looked exhausted. A minute passed. Finally, Frank broke her gaze and peered into the car again. Karen cautiously came towards him. She followed his line of sight to what several weeks ago had been a robin. “Oh God.”

  The little bird’s feathers had fallen away and its leathery skin rippled from maggots. The robin’s insides had turned to goo, which had seeped into the cloth seat. Mold was growing on this moist area and flies kept bumping into the glass. A faint odor was escaping through the vents and it only hinted at the pungent scent waiting within.

  The two stared at the small monstrosity; then, without warning, Frank took off into the garage to the tool shelves lining the walls. He tore numerous implements from it, screwdrivers, saws, electric drills, until he found what he was looking for: the crowbar. He ran back to car and began bashing the driver’s window again and again with the ferocity of a man trying to save a life. The glass cracked then shattered, spraying the carcass with a thousand sparkles. The rotten smell of death poured out, swelling throughout the entire garage.

  Frank threw an arm across his face and put the car in neutral. He walked behind the car, placed his hands on the back windshield, and pushed. He leaned his full weight into the vehicle and guided it down the driveway then into the street. Occasionally, the distant trills of whippoorwills broke the soft silence of early morning. Tires crunched on gravel then eventually stopped. Frank had reached his destination.