The Keeper of Shattered Moons

The meadow was a bruise when I woke, its clover crushed under a sky of splintered moons, their shards dripping silver into pools that fizzed like soda pop. It was September, or so my bones whispered, though time here felt like molasses spilling from a cracked jar. My hands were coated in golden pollen, my eyes spinning like laser-discs, reflecting a poison apple sun that melted into rivers of scarlet syrup. I didn’t know how I’d arrived, but a weight pressed my chest, heavy with purpose. Seven days, a voice in my blood said. Seven days to unearth something buried.

Day One: She appeared, the Moonkeeper, her gown woven of whipped dreamy cream, her crown a tangle of lightning and frost. Her voice was a gust of chrysanthemum wind, sharp and sweet. “The moons are broken,” she said, pointing to the sky’s jagged wounds, where starlight bled into an abyss. “Gather their pieces. Rebuild them. You have seven days.” She pressed a satchel of bone into my hands, its contents clinking—shards of moonlight, cold as truth. I was no builder, but I remembered my father’s hands, piecing together model ships, his fingers steady where mine shook. I nodded, throat tight, and she dissolved into a cloud of dandelion fuzz.

Day Two: The meadow shifted, clover giving way to granola sands that crunched underfoot, soaking up syrup from the melting sun. I opened the satchel, and the moon-shards hummed, each one whispering a memory I’d buried—a lie I told my sister, a dream I let die. I tried to fit them together, but they cut my palms, drawing blood that froze into tears, clinging to my skin with pollen’s glitter. The shards refused to align, their edges jagged as my guilt. I whispered apologies, my voice cracking like a childhood lullaby half-forgotten. The Moonkeeper watched from a staircase of clouds, her eyes storms that didn’t strike. “Don’t hide the cuts,” she said. I let them bleed, and the shards softened, glowing faintly.

Day Three: Roses sprouted, their thorns hungry, their petals scarlet with jealousy. They whispered lies—stories of loves I never had, promises I didn’t keep. I gathered moon-shards from their roots, each one heavier, reflecting faces I’d hurt. My hands trembled as I tried to piece them, the satchel clinking like a warning. I sang to steady myself, a tune my mother hummed when I was small, but my voice wobbled, raw and uneven. The roses snapped at my fingers, and I snipped them back, their thorns drawing more frozen tears. The sky flickered, a moon’s curve forming, but the abyss widened, mocking my efforts.

Day Four: A shower of maple screams rained down, viscous and sweet, puddling around my knees. The granola sands drank it, slowing my steps. Palm fronds rose, brushing my face like a friend’s touch I couldn’t place. I worked faster, fitting shards together, each one a memory—my first dance, awkward and fumbling; a job I quit too soon; a letter I never sent. The shards burned, their light searing my skin, but I kept going, my heart a tangle of thorns and hope. The Moonkeeper appeared, her throne dripping creamy clouds. “Speak your truths,” she said. I whispered my fears—failing my family, losing myself—and the shards clicked, a half-moon glowing.

Day Five: A giant dandelion loomed, its fuzz a pendulum swinging between worlds. I climbed it, slipping, and fell into swampy reeds where a cat with a stress-frayed tail hissed. I grabbed its tail, and we rode through nine gates of reality, each a mirror showing a different me—braver, softer, angrier. My laser-disc eyes spun, reflecting flames leaping across an ice-creamy soda-pop sky, fizzing six miles high. I saw the abyss clearly now, a wound of doubt, and gathered shards from the reeds, my hands steadier. The half-moon grew, its light warm, but the satchel was still heavy, its shards sharp with unspoken truths.

Day Six: I baked dreams in a vanilla breakfast sky, kneading memories of apple pie, my dog Sage chasing dandelion fuzz, my grandmother’s laugh. The meadow smelled of sunburned wheat, toasty and sweet. I scattered moon-shards like seeds, and they took root, their light weaving into the sky. The Moonkeeper’s voice was a gust of wisdom: “You’re close. Keep talking.” I confessed to the shards—regrets for words unsaid, for chances missed. The sky shimmered, a full moon forming, but cracks remained, and the abyss whispered my name, hungry.

Day Seven: The staircase to the icy palace was steep, each step a memory I’d buried—a fight with my brother over nothing, a love I let slip, a promise to myself I broke. I carried the satchel, now light, and a bouquet of roses, their petals soft as forgiveness, their thorns sharp as truth. The Moonkeeper took them, her fingers cold, her eyes warm. “The moons are whole,” she said, pointing to a sky of glowing orbs, no longer shattered. “You’ve carved yourself into them.” My chest bloomed with starlight, my heart a constellation of thorns and petals. I woke on my bed, the air plain, but my hands glittered with pollen, my eyes still spinning.

I wasn’t the same. Over seven days, I’d excavated my soul, unearthing lies, fears, and dreams. The sky outside was ordinary, but I felt the moons above, whole and shining, because I’d kept talking, kept piecing, kept nothing hidden. Somewhere, the Moonkeeper smiled, and I smiled back, my satchel empty, my heart full.