SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue Two - Journal - Page 86
SINE QUA NON
RUNNER-UP — CREATIVE PROSE
A.C. Koch
Rhapsody on a Theme of Norm Macdonald's Moth Joke
All he could think about was the moon. There it hung like a glowing coin in the darkness.
He moved toward it on instinct, as if its light were gravity. Something about its luminous
circularity made him move in his own circles, his rubber-soled shoes pattering across the
floorboards and his satin wings catching the air as he spiraled toward the light. The wings
didn't feel intuitive for him, but they had to look like they did. Loops on his index fingers
steered the wingtips so that the motions of his hands made them sweep and flap. But even as
he concentrated on making his movements moth-like (erratic yet graceful), he kept his eyes
locked on that gorgeous moon. Because that was what a moth would do; because the moon
could give him the one thing he desired.
He approached the light, Darius the Moth, taking care not to fully turn his back to the
great void of darkness that lay behind him. The floorboards sloped gently upwards in the
direction of the moon which hovered above the roof of a small house. But with another few
paces, the betrayal set in, and he let it show on his face: this was no moon, this was just a sign.
It was shaped like the lens of a monocle, encircling a single large eye with a blue iris, all of it
lit from within and mounted on a pole that stood beside the small house. Below the glowing
sign was a smaller marquee which read, in flickering neon, “Dr. Luz.”
Darius turned to fully face the darkness behind him. Not a soul was visible out there,
but he could sense their presence: hundreds of eyes, observing him in silent ritual. No matter.
He turned away, pushed the awareness from his mind. (Focus on the light.)
And after all, it was just a light, not the moon. This happened so often—the promise
of the moon cruelly broken by the reality of a shop sign, or a street light, or a camp fire. He
let the annoyance and frustration play on his face even as his eyes flicked up to register the
smaller, higher lights that beamed down, the lights that shone on the floorboards and cast the
small house in a buttery glow, the single spotlight that held Darius himself in a tight circle
of illumination.
But those lights were farther away, beyond and above the darkness. Meanwhile, the
bright circle of the monocled eye was right here, more magnetic than anything around.
He spun and angled toward the signpost. Wings flourishing, he circled under the sign
and nearly touched its lower edge with a sweep of wingtips. Now he found himself in front
of the house's door. He made a show of hesitating, turned to look up at the flickering doctor
sign, then turned back and pounded on the door. On the third knock, his spotlight cut out.
The darkness stilled him. Almost a relief, almost like death.
Simultaneously, another spotlight fell on something beyond the door and the faux brick
wall that framed it. Darius the Moth stared at the door. Its matte white paint and a tarnished
knob that had served in many productions. He flashed on a memory of the Gauguin girl
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