Inlay

I want to slice the moon like a cake. One of those endless nights, when you’re away on another of your myriad work trips, I’ll reach out of the bedroom window with a sharp knife – the one I use for cutting sinews and bone – and I’ll carve through the rippled surface, to the marbled layer beneath. The house will protest as I squeeze the slice indoors, dragging tangled stars behind it. Luna, our cat, will hiss, but then she’ll sniff, and lick, until her rough pink tongue smoothes old boot prints, and excavates a new Sea of Tranquillity. I will shut her out onto the landing and ignore her cries, because it’s my moon cake, and I can no longer resist its coconut-cream scent. The first bite will make my teeth chatter, but the second will make me glow - lips, teeth, and mouth first, then my head, hair, and neck. When I eat through the moon’s crunchy meringue topping to its creamy centre, my belly will be quicksilver, and the tiny hairs on my arms will sparkle. I’ll have no more use for lanterns, or candles, or fires; no more use for a weapon by the bed, or holding my breath at every floorboard’s creak. Come the last bite, I’ll be weightless as a dandelion seed, hollow as a hag-stone, gravity-free. I will never be afraid of night again. --- Lucienne Cummings writes tiny things in north-east England. Her flash/micro-fiction has appeared in National Flash Fiction Day’s Anthology, FlashFlood, Mslexia’s Best Women's Short Fiction Anthology, Trash Cat Lit, Funny Pearls, and others. Her comedy writing has been broadcast on TV and radio by the BBC. Find out more at https://luciennecummings.com/