The Blue Moon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This piece out of an exercise in a creative writing class involving visual art. We each brought some form of it, be it a picture, postcard, whatever. Then we went around until we saw piece we liked and were asked to write what immediately came to mind.
I chose a photo of some large, round, blue fluorescent lights. I sat down to write and this story came to me.

Submitted: October 10, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 10, 2009



They were all blue—some not as blue as the others, but blue nonetheless. They stood out against the beauty of the night sky only in their brightness, nearly blending in with the star-ridden, moon lit expanse high above the city. I hadn’t reached the club where I was due to play—I still had about seven blocks to go, but I stopped. I didn’t even bother to check my watch to see if I had enough time, but somehow I didn’t care. The lights drew me in. They were like a collection of eyes that would be smiling calmly and softly if they had a mouth. The indigo that shone from their round bulbs was a calming one that seemed to stop time. I suddenly felt as if this place was calling my name, that it wanted me. It was inviting me.
I looked above the sea of light to see a buzzing white neon sign that read “The Blue Moon”. I knew this city like the back of my hand, and I especially knew all the jazz and blue clubs within it. But I had never seen this place, had never even heard wind of it, and that intrigued me quite a bit. I had a strange desire to go inside and see it. Then something happened that made me sure I was supposed to go inside—it started raining, a torrential downpour of what seemed like buckets of water. I took the hint and stepped quickly under the entry, pulling the door open.
The place was low-lit and smoky, and it smelled of gin. Most of the space was taken up by small tables with a candle in the center, and a bar lined one of the walls. Everyone in the place turned and looked at me—about twenty people were seated at round tables near a stage with blue lights in the back and a single spotlight in front, cast upon a microphone. I looked at my case in disbelief.
“We’ve been waiting for you.” A warm voice said from outside my line of vision, making me jump. A bartender of about 55 smiled at me as he polished a glass. He stopped and offered his hand to the stage. “Well?”
 I put my case on the bar and opened it.

© Copyright 2017 Indiana Fischer. All rights reserved.

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