Moonbeams and Mason Jars
Copyright © Colt S.

Dedicated to the dreamer.

Would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather…

Prologue

The fly slowly crawled down the side of the chair, somehow able to ignore the vertical incline, and also my pair of bored, dark blue eyes.

“Darien Coven, sit up this instant.” My eyes lazily drifted to the direction where the hissed command came from and came to rest on my aunt, who gave me a sharp glare. “Show some respect.”

With a stressed sigh, I shoved myself into a slightly less slumped position, and shifted uneasily in the scratchy dress jacket Uncle James had shoved on my shoulders, borrowed from a friend. Aunt Rachel’s dark brown eyes were resting on me again, so I tried to show some vague interest in the crypt keeper of a man standing at the podium, his exhausted and gravely voice grating from his chest in wheezes as he spoke drearily of the old woman who now occupied a casket at the podium’s foot.

The sight of the casket sent a shiver down my spine to think of, as I recalled horror movies where the dead clawed their way from under the ground to terrorize those on the surface. The shiver caught up with the trickle of sweat that had been working it’s way down my back since we entered the stuffy old church. The thought of the living dead entertained me, and kept my eyes glued to the casket for the rest of mournful ceremony.

Luckily, I was able to duck out of the procession to the cemetery behind the church as I was suppose to help set up the chairs and tables for everyone to eat the provided lunch at. As soon as Uncle James and Aunt Rachel were out of sight, I ripped the heavy, scratchy jacket off and loosened the tie around my neck. My reddish-blonde hair had already fallen out of the gel-mold Aunt Rachel had tried to tame it into, but a mere shake of my head sent any gel, that had somehow managed to survive my twitches and scratches, loose.

Besides, great-grandma was already dead, and soon to be buried. Did she really care what I looked like anymore? Secretly, I was glad I would no longer have to endure her eyes boring into me, glaring down the side of her beak-like nose which seemed to be constantly up in the air with a miff. Geez, I thought the old hag would never die, and I’d be forced to endure her complaints of my rusty-blonde, defiant hair and old thrift-store clothes and dimples. In her own words, such ‘blemishes’ never appeared on her side of the family.

I dug a worn paperback from the depth of my dress pants pocket, which had been digging into my leg the whole funeral. My younger cousin had already been paid off to do both of our jobs, so I found a sun-warmed bench in the church garden, not so far that I couldn’t hear the small mourning group’s return. Once again I buried myself into the old myths, appearing in tiny print on the old pages of the book from the second-hand store.

As I read of Persepherone, I caught the faint whiff of oranges and bananas. Immediately, my attention was drawn away. Again...can it…? I let the book flop shut, and squinted my eyes. I made a slow, long sweep of the small church garden, straining to see anything.

“Darien!”

I knew I visibly jumped at the unexpected voice that rang out in the silence. Hoping whoever it was didn’t notice they had scared me, I quickly jumped again and scratched at my back, as if I suddenly had a terrible itch.

“Slacking off again, Darien?” the familiar voice teased. I glanced back over my shoulder, half twisting to see behind me.

“Go away, Gina,” I grumbled, eyeing the girl with a waist-long blonde-brown braid, as curls resisted the weave.

Her face was excited, and slightly flushed. “You’re sensing them again, aren’t you?”

“Sensing what?” I asked, opening my book again and pretending to be absorbed half-way through a story about Echo and Narcissus.

“The creepers,” she whispered reverently.

“Gina, it was funny six years ago. Stop it.”

“But you are!”

“You sound so stupidly corny,” I remarked, resting my chin on my hand, as I skimmed the page. I already knew this story before even buying the book.

“Hmmmm…” she nudged my leg with her shiny, patent-leather encased shoe. “Your aunt is looking for you,” she stated.

I shot up on the bench. “They’re back already?” I demanded, shoving the book not-so-carefully into my pocket again. I felt some of the pages wrinkle against my leg. Gina chuckled as she picked up the borrowed jacket from where I had flung it on the grass as I straightened Uncle James’ borrowed tie and ran my fingers through my copper-tinged blonde hair, only succeeding in making it messier than before. I snatched the jacket from her, forgetting to give a word of thanks as I dashed off. I arrived at the tables just in time to sufficiently beat my youngest cousin in a stare-down before the mourning party arrived. Gina arrived behind me a few moments later, hopping from one foot to the other and sending her braid bouncing.

Aunt Rachel was dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex and smiled when she saw me. “It was a beautiful grave-side memorial. I wish you had been there.” I shrugged as a reply. As heartless as it sounds, great-grandmother’s death didn’t have much of an effect on me. I wasn’t sad that she was dead, but I wasn’t happy either. She was just…gone, like she was taking a long vacation in a far away place.

Of course, trying to explain this to someone else would make them think I was completely crazy or emotionless – possibly both. So I kept my mouth shut.

I joined my family at a table, poking at the food that didn’t appear all that appetizing. They weren’t really my family – Aunt Rachel wasn’t my mother, Uncle James wasn’t my dad, and my three female cousins were definitely not my sisters. We all tried to act like I was actually part of their family, but I always corrected people who said they were. Aunt Rachel and Uncle James found it annoying – and probably defiant – at first, but now understood. I don’t mind being in their family, but I don’t want to forget my own. Which was just fine. We all got along great, just like a real family.

Still, whenever mother’s day or father’s day rolled around, or whenever their signature was on the line next to ‘Parent/Guardian’, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pain.

No matter what was written on the judge’s paper or what people said, I’m an orphan.