You can find other entries at
This week's topic is Moon
Standing on her cropped suburban lawn, staring at the August sky and prodding her secret like a sore tooth, Madeleine wished she could somehow control the passage of time, become its mistress rather than its servant.
She could hear Rosemary Stimson next door braying at her long-suffering husband, a man richly deserving future clemency for any acts of justifiable homicide.
Rosemary had no redeeming qualities that Madeleine could see; she was judgmental, caustic, even cruel, given the slightest opportunity.
Madeleine glanced up as an indigo cloud dissolved to shine a corpulent moon upon her, and now helpless, she was drawn to the neighboring house as the traitorous urge overwhelmed her, a tsunami of need.
Rosemary was sitting at her porch window, so near, so near, as Madeleine crept closer and closer and finally in one practiced motion, she turned her back to the house, leaned over, lifted her summer frock, and pressed herself to the glass as Rosemary’s offended shrieks rolled across the house.