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Constellation of Neon Lights

Constellation of Neon Lights

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Constellation of Neon Lights

Length:
39 pages
31 minutes
Publisher:
Released:
Mar 17, 2018
ISBN:
9781386571858
Format:
Book

Description

Six short tales of life, death and optimism from Luna harlow.

A young woman looks back on a grandparent and the nature of stories. Robots question the meaning of their existence. An old woman time travels through memory. A young man leaves a party and questions what he wants from life. Thirty-somethings talk about chemistry over brunch. 

Publisher:
Released:
Mar 17, 2018
ISBN:
9781386571858
Format:
Book

About the author

Luna Harlow is a writer from Melbourne, Australia. By day Luna does confidential (if very boring) admin work, and by night she indulges her passions for writing and the creative arts. Her hobbies include using books as an excuse to not talk to people on the train, and singing along to every song at parties.


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Constellation of Neon Lights - Luna Harlow

CREATION MYTH

THE PEOPLE CAME OUT out of the sea with hands like webbed claws, covered in flapping scales and piles of black muck, earless beasts that saw sound waves and–

The writer sighed, drank a sip of her coffee and crossed it out.

The creatures were like sparks of fire that burst out into a universe aflame, reaching their arms into suns, dipping their legs into volcanoes–

No, not that, either.

In some versions, the creator is a wild drunk, coming up with their best ideas under the influence of a bottle of whiskey. In some versions, the creator is a rabid journalist, pursuing a story so relentlessly they start foaming at the mouth. In this version, the creator is cursing deadlines and the end of year brain fog.

The question isn't what to create, but where to start.

First you have an idea, then a dream, then you make their parts out of clay. Breathe breath into their lungs, stream lightning into their limbs, until they shake like Frankenstein's monster, ready to wake.

Or maybe, you begin with a death.

Seashells

MAXINE USED TO COLLECT seashells on the beach. Her little holiday prizes would always end up on her dresser at home, lined up in a row, under the hot bright sunlight that beat in through the aging lace curtains. Later, she'd collected so many that she had to put the extras in a jar and could only keep the extra special shells sitting out.

She remembers her feet sinking in to white dunes and grandma Misty helping out with hunting shells. Only the extra special shells were allowed into her collection and grandma Misty always knew how to find the best.

There's magic in these shells, Misty would say of the big ones, with their mother of pearl insides, and put them up to her ear. You can hear the ocean, like a phone call from the sea even when you're far away.

She remembers the old woman – and she'd seemed so old at the time, but frozen into memory as always that age, suddenly so young – all big hat and sloppily applied sun screen, that little hip wiggle she did when she found something. Misty must have been in her fifties, then, and isn't that a little strange, now that Maxine's mother is that age. It doesn't seem so old at all.

There's so many pictures from that time, of Misty and Maxine and Claude, and sometimes Maxine's parents from before their trouble with each other. Maxine standing on the rocks in her shorts and boots and that awful old 80s sweater

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