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At 4:00am, 24-year-old Olivia Ang passed away silently in her car from carbon monoxide poisoning. It happened in a carpark in Los Angeles, California. At 4:00:3578am, Moon came to Earth.
During the period that newspapers called The Black Sky, meteorologists were puzzled, the careers of many a weather girl was seriously threatened and conspiracy theories were flung around like faeces in a monkey enclosure. Unfortunately, one of the most popular ideas claimed that the lizard men had crawled out from the sewers below and swallowed the light in the sky. Some said the world was coming to an end, but Moon always thought that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “It is so human of them to think their existence is threatened now they can no longer ignore something they always have,” she said. She really believed that no one peering up would miss her, especially when the brightness of city lamps, billboards, motel signs and endless stream of headlights illuminating highways often obscured her own view of our planet.
The sky missed her, it called for her through the wind, through the blaze of the sun, in the ever so subtle tremors beneath the soil, rock and sand she walked upon. It called for her to return home to the deep and luxurious solitude. But Moon wasn’t ready, she had made the long and calculated journey of 0.3578 seconds for a reason. She was in love. The affair began way back in the early 1970’s but for something as old as the moon, time is an essence, a figment imagined by man to contain infinity. You might have known it as the Space Race, where Russia and the United States of America were competing to send astronauts to the moon. She watched on with amusement, it reminded her of the days when people would worship her. And it was a significant improvement from the era when she’d be blamed for the hysteria of women and their monthly bleeds. She told me that was one of the most frustrating times to live through and she had often wished the plague would make a comeback but of course, that isn’t in her power. I reminded her that they had the measles to contend with and that was bad enough.
Moon was in love with an astronaut. His name was Max Johnson. I have personally looked up all of the Max Johnsons in the United States of America (not really but I like to say I have) and there were 710,000 of them at the time. To be specific, this Max Johnson was one of the unknown men that travelled to space. He was also the first astronaut that didn’t stab her luminous expanse with a flagpole and because of this, she took notice. He was shy at first and mostly remained in his shuttle. Moon could hear him within, talking to someone back on earth. He was talking about her and she could understand the English language enunciated by an American tongue through its distinct vibrations. When he walked upon her, he would float so painfully slowly before landing in soft thuds on her surface. He spent a full cycle with her. Moon came to realise, he was as lonely as she.
“It’s time to go and I’ll probably never see you again. Not like this anyway, but from down there. Where all the muck and noise live. From here it looks so beautiful, with the greens and blues.” He took a long pause and turned a fraction of an angle, which was enough to take in the vastness of her beauty. “But it’s nothing like looking up at you.”
To be continued in Part II