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Podunk Moon: An Anthology [Erin Geil] on leondumoulin.nl *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Podunk Moon is an anthology of mostly non-fiction poetry starting.
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How the hell did that happen. The rubble of the bar is illuminated now by that soft indifferent dusty light diffused through the dust kicked up by the departed cars. The slabs of its walls fall into blue shadow; its edges, then, drift into a nebulous fuzz, a cloud floating just above the ground. What time is it on the moon? They must get drunk on the light. They must drink it up.

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They must have plenty to spare. The excess is spilling on me, pouring on me down here in Ohio, enough light for me, a heavenly body, to cast a shadow on the studded gravel galaxy of the empty parking lot, a kind of time piece myself, the armature of an impromptu moon dial, the time ticking off as my celestial outline creeps from one cold stone to the next.

Cars on the road are racing back to Indiana. I hear them dribbling the sound of their horns in front of them, leaking a smear of radio static in the exhaust. I am looking for my clunker. According to my uplink, I am still in Wapakoneta. I punch a button on my car key releasing the ultrasonic hounds hot on the magnetic signature of my piece of shit. The nearby solar panels pivot toward me sensing the valence of my reflection, hunger for the light I am emitting.

Somewhere in the vast relative dark the yodel of a treed automobile. I must calculate the vectors for my approach. Later, in Indiana, which is now earlier, I will remember back to this time, this time that is happening now, as I navigate by means of sonic boom to the bleat of my Mother Ship supposedly fastened to the edge of some solar panel field out there somewhere in the dark.

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But the sound is reverberating, gone doppler, bouncing off the copse of antennae to the right, the bank of blooming TV dishes to the left. The night air has become acoustic, dampening the reports. I am getting mixed signals, and it seems my car is moving around me. That may be the case. Perhaps I left it in autopilot. My guardian satellites, whispering to each other, hover above my head, shaking theirs, Lost, poor soul, in Ohio, in the holy city of Wapakoneta. Everybody I know has a sister or a brother, a mom or a dad setting up housekeeping in some low rent crater of the moon.

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I intercept postcards—low gain transmissions of the half of earth in the black sky and a digital tweet eeping Wish You Were Here! On nights like this, with the moon radiating a whole spectrum of sunny missives, I want to broadcast a wide band of my own billet-doux banged out with a stick on any handy piece of corrugated steel in the ancient language of killing time.

I fall into the ditch or what I think is the ditch. Flat on my back, I stare up at the moon, canvas, sailing above this pleasant seat, my bishopric, and find myself thinking of my kith and kin again and again.


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The starlight scope is in the car. I hear its honk still, a goose somewhere in the marsh night asking the tower for permission to land. Night would be day, and the moon over Wapakoneta would be more like the sun over Wapakoneta.

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I might see some real sun soon if I just close my unaided eyes for a bit and let the whole Ptolemaic contraption overhead wheel and deal. But the watch I wear is still turned on and on the lookout for pulses of light angling back this way from the fibrillating isotopes atop Pikes Peak. At the top of each hour, it drops a drip, and this absence more than the regular tolling pricks me to a semiconducted alertness.

So much for silent night, holy night. Lo, a rocket off yonder rips the raw cloth of night. Hold on there! Will their budding love survive the secrets they discover or will those secrets tear them apart? Do we have a deal? Tom took off his hat, scratched his head and slammed it back on as if to hold in steam. Judging from the color of his face, he should have let his hair wave free in the breeze.

It might cool things off. One long finger pointed at Sam. One nicely shaped, work hardened finger. Why was she thinking such thoughts? Concentrate, Vonda, concentrate! Last time she thought this way about a man she was in heat. Oh shit. Not again. No wonder Sam stuck to her like proverbial glue. I know. But I have other herding dogs. None of them give me problems. Sam licked her hand.

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Then she smelled it. The scent of a man. Not just any man.

A man she wanted to mate with. A man about six four, with sandy blond, almost brown hair and green eyes. A man who stood less than three feet from her. Margie McLean loves her life just the way it is. As the single Alpha of the London, Montana pack, she leads her wolves and makes her own decisions. When she stumbles upon an injured wolf she has no idea that her quiet life is about to take a dramatic turn. I was always curious about what he was like. Even wrote a short story about what meeting him would be like.

The hobbies that I have are making inexpensive jewelry, playing video games, watching movies, Netflix, amateur photography. I also like comic book movies. Some of my favorite foods are chicken pad thai, sushi, sesame seed chicken lean cuisines, grilled chicken salad. My favorite color has always been red, red, red.

However, I wear mostly black, and my car is black. Go figure. Fiona: Do you have a blog or website readers can visit for updates, events and special offers? Maddie said:.

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August 18, at pm. I also like to watch comic book movies. I watch them all the time with my hubby. Thank you for another great interview with another great author, Fiona!