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Under a Blue Jungle Moon
by Bosley Gravel
. . . owls in the rafters, they hoot, their yellow eyes like twin buoys floating in the darkness. Her white bones illuminated with yellow moonlight and shrouded in mist, float in the air. She is wearing her wedding dress, and he, in his tuxedo. As dapper as they day they were married.
Tonight is their anniversary--they clasp hands, and dance as only the dead can. He whispers sweet nothings into where her ear once was, and she giggles with empty jaws.
"Music," she murmurs, and he makes it so.
From a whisper in the corner, the sweet voice of Billie Holiday wafts, her melodic ghostly breath made real for their pleasure. So they dance, as only the dead can, as the owls compliment the croons of a goddess . . .
"How was it that the poet spoke?" he asks. "You must say it, as you always do."
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream . . . "
Their bones clack as he pulls her close and whispers again, and she whispers back. . . on they dances until the rooster crows, and their world dissipates back to the fogs, back to the rest, and back to the loam, and the dirt, and the worms.
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© Gravel, 2009
Bosley Gravel was born in the Midwest, and came of age in Texas and southern New Mexico. He has worked numerous dead end jobs, and now makes a living working on computer networks and various related activities. He has been making up stories from an early age, and from time to time they end up on paper.