Prologue
The Legend of the Moonrakers
The moon was making its journey downward. It was ever so slightly waning, and as it hung in the western sky, a right arm wet with blood rose up to meet it. The arm’s fingers scraped the sky, unable to grab hold.
A male voice boomed out.
“Did you just try to grab the moon? Derangement must be setting in.”
The tall man was standing a little ways away and wearing a hood that covered his face.
“This country has a word for people like you: moonrakers.”
The hooded man sounded amused.
“They’re fools who try to rake the moon’s reflection off the surface of a pond—just the way you’re doing now.”
The other man wasn’t quite sure how to respond to the dismissive accusation. It took him some time to put the feeling welling up within him into words, and he let out a long sigh.
He was lying on his back. He couldn’t feel his left arm anymore, and it was gushing a tremendous amount of blood.
All he had was a strange sense of purpose. He needed to rake them. He needed to gather up the fragments of the moon he’d seen that night.
No Comments Yet
Post a new comment
Register or Login