I've Never Lived on the Moon

Chapter 1: You Knock Me Down With a Feather

The world was changing. Not for the best, though some would argue otherwise. The sun was setting on another day in Kingstingham, North Chesterington. Always the life of the party and never one to disappoint, Kingstingham was a hub for those with nothing better to do with themselves in the middle of the week. A mix of rugged soldiers returning home and the social elite were taking over the streets and buildings. The young had come to claim it while the elderly stayed home and worried late into the night. No one would come to save them. The draft was still looking for those completely unwilling to risk their lives in Rovaria. The shit had been threatening to hit the fan for years and it was finally in full swing. It was splattered all over the Chesterington map. The young and able bodied were shipped off to be killed. Who was next? Nobody ever knew. With any luck the governments would soon stop picking from whatever was left to replace those that were lost. The parties were either to forget the war happening just outside the door or served as a final send off for those set to ship out in the next day or two. It was easy to tell who came from which walk of life. They were either rich, leaving for the war, or just returned and trying to fit into society again. Those three categories didn't have the decency to mix well. The rich could get out of serving all together. The men preparing to go into the battlefield were terrified of the men who had just returned. The men who had just returned hated the rich men who paid to avoid staring down the barrel of another man's gun or the threat of being blown to bits at any turn. War was not for the faint of heart. The rich men had the awareness they likely wouldn't make it out there. They were pansies.

In a big house on Attwater Street, a side street branched off from Kingstingham's town square, avoiding and mingling was happening all the same. It was familiar to some, a hunting ground for others, and just a place to get free alcohol for a choice few. The parties lasted all week, an all night affair that led to the already sleepless country to become more restless and paranoid. It was a time of not giving a shit anymore. Everyone was sick of fighting. Women were sick of losing their men. It wasn't exactly luck if male couples got shipped off together. It was too likely that one would return without the other. It was hard on everyone. They held onto each other a little tighter. Between breaks in the music, a person could remember and tense up. Lovers would cling to each other and not relax until another song started and eased their minds. It was just a temporary reprieve. No one knew when it would end, so the parties wouldn't end either. Some did celebrate life. Usually it was the rich that had no experience on the frontlines. They could often relax with the knowledge they'd never know that life.

People came and went at all hours. The night was the perfect time. No one could get up and down the stairs safely for all the people parking there to have sex or hook up. No spot on the floor was free. It was going on everywhere- on top of tables, underneath the tables, on chairs, on the stairs, in the hallway, in every room in every house on Attwater Street. Upstairs in the home owned by Desmond Spencer and Quinn Fields, a person could find a little bit of everything. Sex, mourning, dread, excitement and uncertainty were all rampant. This is where I come in. I hated all of it. I didn't want to be there. I found I had no choice with nowhere to stay after coming home from the Rovarian torture. The large house, practically a mansion, in which I found myself was far from my home in the country. I thought a change of scenery would help. It didn't. I wanted to go home, but a couple people kept me interested in staying more than my original plan. The social elite were nauseating. Their voices were loudest over all the others. I learned a lot about them. Though I found it unfavourable to run into them on the stairs each morning, I took it upon myself to keep track of each of them. I knew them as personally as I ever planned to in my notes. There was Chuck, a wagon salesman from the north. The job didn't pay worth a damn but he'd inherited money from his grandfather's estate and was living a life of practical luxury. His companion was Felix, a real estate broker from a town called Cranston. I had never been there and had no desire to visit. It sounded like a posh nightmare. They spoke sometimes to some high and mighty hot shit guy named Grady, whom I hated most of all. The only trait that may have saved his ass was his personal taste in men. After a particularly wild night I found myself eyeing one of his many partners. A fella named Willow Harding was in my notes often. He was bound to Grady in unfortunate circumstances, cuffed to the old bastard's hand and waved around like some sort of trophy. Maybe not quite a trophy, but a display. I watched from the doorway as Chuck and Felix laughed, congratulating their friend on such a prize. Willow was a prize. He was dark and handsome, younger than Grady by many decades. I was disgusted, especially when I learned the truth. Grady whispered one night to Chuck and Felix, thinking that no one was listening. The shadows hide so much, a trick many of us learned and used in our favour. The oldest man of the bunch, large in the least attractive way and always plopping where the banister threatened to no longer hold him, was so proud of himself. He sat there with his filthy mitts atop his cane. He wiggled and glowered, turning his nose up.