Sarah Of The Moon
Authors: Randy Mixter
| Sarah Of The Moon |
| Randy Mixter |
| (2011) |
ALEX IN WONDERLAND The Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco in 1967. Alex Conley, a part-time writer for a Baltimore newspaper, is dispatched to chronicle the events occurring there. It is June of 1967, and the summer of love is in full swing. Alone, in this strange and magical place, he meets a girl named Sarah, a free spirit who is as mysterious as she is beautiful. What are the secrets of her past? Why does she dance each night under the light of the moon? These are just a few of the puzzles Alex needs to solve in the short time he has in that city. Then there’s another complication. He is beginning to fall deeply in love with her.
Randy was born in Baltimore, Maryland in 1947. He has been writing poetry and short stories since he was a teenager. His first book of short stories, based on growing up in Baltimore in the 1960s, The Boys of Northwood, was recently published by Lulu.com, and is available on Amazon.com and on the Kindle wireless reading device. Randy is currently retired and living in Maryland with his wife, the love of his life, Veronica, and their five cats.
Table of Contents
Sarah of the Moon
By
Randy Mixter
Copyright © 2011 by Randy Mixter
All rights reserved.
Electronic book design: Sarah E. Holroyd (
http://sleepingcatbooks.com
)
PROLOGUE
He dreamed he was in a box.
He was there by himself. His only comfort was a small table, which held a typewriter and a chair. The space was small, about the size of a prison cell. The cardboard ceiling brushed against his hair.
The box had no doors or windows, nor electricity for lighting, but illuminated brightly nonetheless. Seeing his meager surroundings only served to increase his anxiety.
He sensed that the air was thinning. It was stale and smelled of mildew, and he felt his throat burn as he gulped it down.
In desperation, he pushed against the wall, and then battered his shoulder into it. He felt it give a little, but not enough for escape. An idea came to him. He lifted the chair and, holding it in front of him legs out, rammed the wall.
The wall buckled as a chair leg pierced the cardboard’s side, opening a small hole at eye level.
It was enough. Warm air funneled in. He put the chair down and held his nose to the hole. The air was fresh and smelled of flowers. He stayed there for a short while, breathing it in.
The air had a flavor to it that reminded him of his childhood. He realized that he was no longer in fear of his confinement. The ragged opening was escape enough for now.
He heard voices in the air, the sounds of laughter, coming from outside of his prison.
He bent down and peered out of the small opening. He saw a hill in front of him. It was grassy and bare of trees save for one large oak at its apex. There were several people scattered about the hillside. Some sat on blankets, others milled around. They were dressed in bright colors that soaked up the sun. He attempted to get their attention but found he had no voice, not even a whisper.
He heard music, faint and distant. Although far away, he could sense the beauty of the song. It seemed familiar. Had he heard it before, at some time in his past, or in another dream?
Then the breeze favored him by turning his way. The music rolled down the hill and into the tiny hole in his box.
In the magic of the dream, the sound’s enchantment was mighty enough to vanquish his captivity. The box shook violently then disappeared, taking the typewriter, the table, and the chair with it.
Now he was outside, standing at the hill’s base. The song that had freed him swirled about, teasing him like a playful child. Then, abruptly, it began to slip away, moving up the incline away from him. He attempted to give chase but his legs would not move.
He followed the song with his eyes. It led him to the solitary tree at the hill’s crescent. There, where the music stopped its climb and spun about in circles, a girl stood alone. She wore a white dress that flowed around her bare feet. She appeared to be dancing slowly to the music. Her long blonde hair blew about her shoulders and face as she swayed hypnotically to the rhythm.
He somehow knew that he could only watch her. He was not to be a part of this adventure. He was still a captive, not of the box but of a dream with an unknown agenda.
He felt, more than heard, the song ending, and he did not want that to happen. He sensed he would not find this song again, on any wind, imagined or real.
As he looked up the hill at the girl dancing in the shadow of a tree, he saw her stop.
She stood still for a short time then her neck bent back and her face found the sun. She soaked in its warmth, her arms outstretched as if in prayer, as the world went quiet. She slowly turned and looked down until her eyes were on him. He staggered, almost falling to his knees, as she saw him and smiled. Even from a distance, she was as beautiful a vision as he had ever seen.
Then she spoke, a single word, but so softly he could not hear it over the sound of his heartbeat.
As she did this, she began to fade from his sight. Now he tried desperately to speak because he knew he was losing her. His dreams were often as fragile as the moon’s reflection on a wind-swept lake. A few chose to grace his memory, but most remained with the darkness of the night.
It was in this brief instant, before reality triumphed against the fantastic, that the breeze shifted ever so slightly.
It rolled down the grassy hill toward him, and it carried the word that had escaped her lips before she vanished entirely.
“Soon.”
When he woke up, he realized that he had been wrong. He remembered her smile and he remembered the song, every note of it.
A DETERMINED WRITER
NO TALKING BETWEEN CUBICLES!
It was a sign that greeted Alex Conley as he approached his workstation. The same sign had welcomed him every morning on the fifth floor at the Baltimore Sunpapers office for the last two weeks.
It was also a warning every employee, working on that floor, routinely ignored. Even now, as Alex walked past it, the cubicles were alive with chatter and music from transistor radios.
He headed straight to his designated slot, a depressingly tiny area barely large enough to accommodate a desk and typewriter. He did not honor his workspace with cubicle status. It was simply a hole with four flimsy half-built walls.
There were no greetings as he plowed his way through the neon and plastic maze. He was a part-timer, the lowest of the low. Nobody in the building acknowledged the existence of part-time employees except other part-time employees, of which he was the only one on this floor.
He began his employment on the first day of June and his goal was to save enough money to get him in the door of the cheapest college he could find, hopefully by Labor Day.
Alex’s father had landed him the job because of his friendship with the paper’s editor, Maxwell Bestwick. That was okay by Alex. He enjoyed writing and it was certainly better than working at the moving and storage company close to his home, who had gladly accepted his application.
Things looked promising at first. Bestwick called Alex into his office his first day on the job and promised him several writing assignments covering local events. As it turned out however, the bulk of the tasks concerned writing about neighborhood happenings relegated to the last page of the paper’s style section.
After spending considerable time at community association meeting halls, flea markets, and flower marts, Alex was becoming bored and restless. His latest endeavor, the crowning of Miss Genova Pizza 1967, was the final straw. The following day he requested a sit down with the editor.
Max Bestwick was a gruff and frequently surly individual who never tolerated laziness or insubordination. In fact, a sign on his office door read,
IF YOU ARE THIN-SKINNED, DO NOT ENTER THIS OFFICE!
Alex did not think himself to be thin-skinned, but was still apprehensive when he knocked on the glass office door. Bestwick, who was plowing through what appeared to be a two-foot stack of paperwork, looked up, grunted, and then waved him in.
He entered, shutting the door behind him, and immediately noticed a strong smell of stale cigar smoke. Without looking up from his stack of papers, Bestwick motioned for Alex to sit on the lone chair facing the desk.
For a considerable time, the editor ignored his visitor as he shuffled papers back and forth. After several minutes had passed, he raised his head, seemingly acknowledging his part-time employee for the first time. After thoroughly studying the body in front of him, Bestwick pulled the stub of a previously smoked cigar from a well-used ashtray. He leaned back in his chair and put the flame of a cigarette lighter to the stub. After assuring it lit by exhaling more cigar smoke into the already rancid air, he addressed Alex with the word “well.”
Alex took a deep breath, suppressed a strong urge to cough, then for the next minute pointed out why he should be covering stories not featuring flowers and the crowning of pizza queens.
When Alex finished his say, Bestwick laid his cigar butt in the ashtray and once again occupied himself by staring at his young employee. Then, just as Alex thought that his boss could possibly be trying to hypnotize him, the editor spoke.
“I want you to go out to San Francisco for a couple of months to do a story on the hippies out there. You have some decent writing skills and you’re the right age. Mix it up with them and write down what you see. Nothing fancy, just send back weekly stories about what the hell is happening in the city.”
Bestwick began checking his pockets, looking for another cigar. “Hell, the other papers have people out there. The Times, the Chronicle, they are all covering it. Personally I don’t give a damn about those draft dodging freaks, but I will not be left out of the running.”
His eyes were on Alex while his hands scurried about his shirt and pants in a desperate search for that elusive cigar. “Well?” he asked.
Alex did not give any pause to his reply. “Sure, I’ll be happy to do it.” He kept a straight face, thinking that a grin might cause the anxious editor to change his mind and put him back on the Baltimore streets, but he was overjoyed at securing this plum assignment. To be far away from home, far away from this office with its cramped cubicles and easily annoyed employees, sounded too good to be true.
“I have a nephew that has taken to that lifestyle and currently resides in the Haight-Ashbury part of the city. I don’t think the poor bastard is all there but I will try to track him down and have him meet you when you arrive. Alice will fill you in on all the details. You leave the day after tomorrow.”