We are thrilled to showcase a remarkable piece of flash fiction, handpicked with precision by our distinguished editors, Lucy Aur and Elizabeth Kemball. This story exemplifies our dedication to excellence in literature, encapsulating the essence of flash fiction’s transient yet deeply resonant impact. It stands as a testament to our commitment to providing high-caliber literary work that invites deep reflection. We warmly encourage you to immerse yourself in this narrative and join us in appreciating the boundless possibilities of the written word.
Rosie Bramwell
Rosie is a writer and poet, currently studying Creative Writing at University. She grew up writing small poems in the backs of notebooks, and had her first publication, Starman!, with BBC Radio 4 at age 19.
The Moon is Beautiful, Isn’t It?
“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” Is a more poetic way of saying I love you in Japanese. During Japanese novelist Natsume Soseki’s (1867-1916) teaching years, he supposedly overheard a student translating ‘I love you’ rather awkwardly into its literal and direct translation.”
– Makikowakita.com
Grass tickles against cold feet. Curling them slightly further onto a blanket, they’re hidden from the soft dewdrops that glitter the short blades, reflecting small fragments of moonlight. Cowslips sway in the light wind, rustling effortlessly amongst the dandelions and daffodils that frame the line of trees behind them.
Two people sit quietly, legs stretched out in front of them, hands resting on the soft blue tartan, inches apart. One hand is small. Smooth. Tanned. Two thin, silver rings layered on the thumb. A small chain loops the small wrist, garnished with emerald leaves formed into clovers. The other hand is freckled. Long. Pale. He doesn’t wear any rings.
The stars above them glisten noiselessly, watching over as the moonlight shines on their faces. Neither of them take their eyes away from the sky, staring at the constellations and avoiding conversation. The stars are a comfort to them. They fall into heavy sighs and hidden smiles with each token of small talk.
“I wonder if that’s a planet to the left.”
“Possibly. I reckon it’s Jupiter.”
Threads of hair fall onto her face as she looks down at herself, smiling at a loose thread in her jumper, and tilts her head back up to the sky again. His fingers tense against the blanket, hidden from her view beneath his legs, pushing out his nerves into the frayed fabric.
The silence still gets the better of them as they wait, and stare, and wait. Their hands inching a little closer now and then, mere moments away from holding onto one another.
The echoing thuds of their hearts drown out the distant hoot of an owl. Sharper breaths filter between their thoughts.
One inch closer.
He holds his breath as his fingers wriggle across the cotton, the tips waltzing over the patterned lines. She blinks slowly. Her breaths slow down as his warmth moves onto her. Light traces of heat radiating between them. Fingers looping together and shoulders starting to brush, they relax with the touch.
They move their attention swiftly back to the stars. The shine of the rising crescent sparkles across the grey in her eyes, highlighting the chocolate brown in his.
No more words were shared. None were needed. Silence, besides their hearts and deep, rested breaths. That was all he heard as he leaned into her cherry lips, whispering slightly against her kiss:
“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”
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