Luna Station Quarterly is a speculative fiction magazine featuring stories by emerging women authors.
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Gold Dust City 9. The Tunnel

And so, once again I have been rip-corded back into a great sucking hall, a sinking place. Rodents laugh at my expense. The floors are dark and slick. I see no colors, no gold. The walls heave slightly as I walk past. Reflective eyes follow my steps. I instinctively raise my hands up to my face, preparing for the barrage of dirt. I’ve gotten good at dodging, but I no longer care to. I drop my hands and let the insects, bones, coins, glass and other debris that lies cluttered underfoot, to be pelted at my head by the things following along either side of me.

I see nothing in front of me but a glowing blackness. I turn around to look behind me and I see more of the same, narrowing darkness at my back. The walls look like they are coated with petroleum; they ooze disease into my steps. I see the hint of a ceiling and it too sighs down over me, teasing me with a feigning collapse again and again. I hear the echoing of my name from all sides. I hear bestial mutterings, and snickering. I hear the mad cackling of loons, the sound of paper being torn, or the flapping of their wings. I hear mosquitoes; I close my eyes and picture enormous, living clouds traversing across vast yellow landscapes, hungrily. I also hear the sound of my mother screaming, attacking someone, somewhere. Her voice brings tears to my eyes instantly. I drop down to my knees, crippled by the noises, the songs, the wails, the buzzing, the laughing, the movement, the tearing of paperwings–all bouncing off of the walls and into my head. There is a sucking breath in the air as I am pulled along. No choice but to hold on. I whisper to the ground to open up for me, to swallow me. What I had fought so hard to refuse on the road evades me now, defiant and aroused by withholding any end from me. It knows my end is not to be met with soft, damp earth. No fire and brimstone, pitchforks and devilry, no, my end will be the slow hurt of my walking as I twist my head to and fro; seething and seeking you–driven mad by the blind desire of you and all your shimmering colors. Colors you have yet to show me! I would walk until the spell has faded away, until my memories are just dreams, dreams just déjà vu, déjà vu just a whisper in my ear, a whisper to a chirp, and the bird who’s taken a hold of my heart will lay down inside it, and clamp its wings over the last of its beats. Then, I will lay my body down wherever I stand, be it on a hill, or in the dark, in the field or in a dream, veils up, or down, moons dodgy, or present. Even if I collide with you head on. I will take the ground to my chest and close my eyes and be still, and let my body unravels itself like a tapestry, until there is nothing left but brilliantly colored trails of string, dipped in gold at their, very, frayed ends.

(For someone else to chase)

A bit about the author:

I enjoy whimsies, animals, the bizarre, surrealism, cinema, photography, and am often found seeking out the darkest corners of the literary world. I argue with my inner monologue all the time. Visit author page