A magnetic personality

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished, which, in turn, had greatly confused the loggers upstream. She was prone to affect things.. in a quirky way, the Queen:

The Lightbulbs always flickered in her presence, and the wall clocks malfunctioned. For the very same reason she had stopped wearing wrist watches at the age of sixteen, for to what point on shall keep accumulating irreparably broken mechanisms? Pfft!

Anything and everything on the verge of happening would always resolve in her presence: Difficult debates were settled, deals were made, stories finished and closures had. It was even noticed by some villagers that on several occasions cats in labor would resolve birth just as the Queen walked by- an odd, but a valid observation.

She was light on her feet, and easy-going in demeanor. Nimble and always glowing from within. The Queen, whose name was Luna, by the way, had often been seen hopping the clay-tile rooftops, climbing from the lowest to the highest peak, coming out as the golden ember of the Sun rolled over the horizon. The fingers of the sunset rays would pass through the strands of her sliver-white hair, lighting it up in a tender caress. What was she thinking about in moments like this? Perhaps about subjects of her kingdom or musing about correlation between her own presence and birthing cats.

Her disappearance caused confusion to all the royal subjects, and that includes the cats, because she had always shown her face in public every night, popping out here and there, wearing different outfits. She would always be seen helping the villagers and being a part of everyone’s life; On some nights she joined the night fishermen, guiding the crews to the most lucrative coves. Some nights Luna volunteered at the open air theatre, serving as the light technician On other nights, tired out by the week's worries, she spent the night dancing with wicca and bra-less divorcees on tops of the hills.

***

Around 10pm, Bruno the barkeep, being a big-time gambler, began nervously shifting from one foot to the other behind his bar, anticipating potential beatings. He bet the money he didn’t even have that the moon will show her face at his bar at midnight. It was the beginning of the 11th hour and it was a moonless night.

Local old men, sitting in the blue smoke-filled hazily-lit corners of Bruno’s bar, clicked their tongues, shaking their heads in disappointment at Bruno’s disgraceful retreat. Thinking something like: “Have a shred of dignity, man, pay up or get beat up!” and “Pour me more stout, you flat-bottomed troll!”

Coward Bruno, seeing that the night is ending, yet the moon was not coming out on this forsaken night, in an obvious and pitiful attempt to save his Frequently beaten face, moseyed to the back door along the bar wall. Bruno darted his eyes at the Italians in the other corner of the blue smoke-filled hazily-lit bar. Italians took his bet and were tapping the tips of their brown leather shoes patiently counting the minutes to midnight. Some of the Italians moved towards Bruno slowly, cracking their knuckles. Blinking and blabbering something incohesive, clumsily poking a finger into the wrist where his watch would have been, had he not gambled it away last week, Bruno mimicked towards the dark starry sky and slid out of the blue smoke-filled, hazily-lit bar through the back door. Away into the night; away from the Italians.

***

Luna wandered the streets of the town, exhausted as if her inner glow was dimmed. Wide dark hood hid her face from the subjects of her kingdom. Tonight she was tired. She was not in the mood to do any social work, no strength to sing into the wee hours of the morning with the fishermen. She was not in the mood to inspire the musicians and artists, she was not in the mood to direct the wolves. She was tired of being an inspiration and a help for her people. She will go to a bar and get sloshed. She wandered the long, sometimes narrow, and poorly-lit streets until she wandered out to a bar by the lake, illuminated by a triangle of a cheese-yellow streetlight.

***

Having shimmied out of a stuffy bar into the crisp autumn night, Bruno exhaled a puff of hot breath into the moonless night. Standing in the triangle of the yellow streetlight he looked up to see her Royal Highness wearily walking to his bar. Presenting the queen Luna to the Italians as “The moon” and winning the first fight of his life on a really weak and technical argument. The Italians paid out the bet to Bruno, but still beat him up, because he is a weasel.

Swollen and red from hours of drinking in a blue-haze, smoke filled bar, old me tutted at Bruno and demanded more beer.

Afterword

Even a quick disappearance could be beneficial for one's mental state. The queen learned to let out some steam and frequently partook in a pint or seven of beer, and the occasional beatings of Bruno, who was just SUCH A WEASEL!