Prayers for the Soul of a Raging Moon: Prayers for the Soul, #2

By Sailor Stone

She runs the night—with the moon over her shoulder and a small pistol hidden in her shorts—Amy Tamme jogs the dark city streets. Her guilt paces her steps as revenge fuels the beat of her raging heart.

Oh, how she misses him—her beloved husband—this man who loved her unto dying—as he saved her from the man that attacked her as she was jogging in the predawn hours those many months ago.

And so now she hunts for her husband's murderer, using her body as bait as she runs a path through the darkest haunts of the city…her steps keeping a measured beat to the rage of the pulse in her veins, with the full moon over her back, shining out its call—a false siren of light—for the revenge of her lost and dear man.

But then…one night Amy happens upon a newly opened jazz bar, with great live music and the tastiest craft beers, and she makes a new friend. And somehow this wonderful woman is like unto a savior for the rage that is crashing through her exhausted mind, and before Amy can muster the courage to reach out to her, this new friend comes to her instead, and Amy must decide if revenge is now her eternal and dark way going forward with her life, or if friendship and hope is her newly lit pathway. 

But then she tries to have both…and that can never work…or can it?

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystica Holdings LLC
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524245955

Sailor Stone

Sailor Stone lives in the southern United States on the Atlantic coast where he stays busy writing novels and short stories in many genres, including Magical Realism, Coming of Age, Christian Literary, and Thrillers. His stories often feature protagonists that are trying to find their way in a cold and uncaring world, and where many times they get a slight - sometimes helpful, sometimes painful - nudge toward the truth from the supernatural.  Besides writing, he enjoys playing sports, photography, and studying the arts, philosophy, and religion. He likes discovering great books written by great authors, tasting new beers and wines, playing tennis, sitting in the back of a darkened nightclub and listening to a jazz trio take a long ride, being out on the open water in a boat, and worshiping quietly in the back of a church.  He considers the enjoyment of all the above to be multiplied exponentially by the accompaniment of his family and friends. For more about Sailor and his books go to www.sailorstone.com.

Book preview

Prayers for the Soul of a Raging Moon

PRAYERS FOR THE SOUL OF A RAGING MOON

SAILOR STONE

MYSTICA HOLDINGS LLC

Copyright © 2015 by Mystica Holdings LLC and the author

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Prayers for the Soul of a Raging Moon

PRAYERS FOR THE SOUL OF A RAGING MOON

She ran the night. With the spring moon shining over her shoulder, she ran the empty streets of the sleeping city.

He’d been everything to her. The way they’d met, fallen in love, married, and grown into one. He’d been all she ever needed. Like an icebreaker bashing through the sheet ice, he’d led her through every travail they’d ever faced, always looking back at her for his own added strength, taking her in. He’d loved her with all his might.

Running deep in the night, her breaths sometimes rhyming the song in her mind, she remembered how she’d turn on the music in their bedroom, the smooth jazz he liked so much, and she’d dim the lights just a bit, then she’d undress for him as he watched from the bed, his foot tapping under the covers to the rhythm of her dancing body and the beat of the music. Then, how she’d blow his mind—loving him to exhaustion. And later, slipping from the bed as he slept, she’d play back the song she’d just danced to for him in her mind as she ran the predawn night.

Running smooth and at a good pace, she’d picture him, his own strong face concentrating on everything about her, as he loved her, and she’d run to morning’s first light knowing he’d have breakfast and a towel waiting for her.

She only had the memories now, but they were good memories, and they sustained her spirit on her moonlit runs. The small pistol she carried tucked in the pocket of her running shorts, sustained the revenge she carried in her heart.

The days, in the light of the sun, were another matter. Her life became hard. And lonely.

His friends had been her friends. All except for Kristin, of course, who watched over her like a big sister. They’d all moved on. True, they’d been there for her at first, but life rolls along and they slowly left her to herself as the days, weeks, and months went by. Her family was twenty-nine hundred miles to the west; they begged her to come home. But she couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

She still felt him sometimes. If she moved from his city, the Holy City, she knew he’d stay behind. Then what if the memories faded after that? Then she’d be empty of him—as vacant as she felt since he’d been killed—to lose even her memories of him would be more than she could bear.

Amy Tamme missed her husband.

She made a turn in her run, passed a hot-spot yuppie bar that had recently opened, Crux of the Matter, its sign beamed out, overpowering the light of the stars and the moon. She had to side-skirt some late night customers as they staggered out the doors from the club to hail a taxi and a ride home. She kept her pace though and soon the light of the enormous bar sign faded and the silhouettes of the city buildings re-imposed their darkly hulked geometries onto the blue-black night sky and she saw again the three-quarter moon, high above her, as it reflected the sun’s light down onto the city streets.

When she got home she felt like she’d had a good run. The extreme physicality of her workout had flooded her body with endorphins and gave her a temporary reprieve from the sadness. But then she had to fetch her own towel.

She made her breakfast as the sun rose and flooded her apartment with light. It was a hard light to bear. She’d been attacked in the night and she knew her attacker was still out there—hiding in the shadows, ready to strike again, and all she lived to do was to take her revenge back into the darkness of the city streets.

Knowing this, she’d run the night, wearing hot little shorts and a sleeveless top, baiting him. She’d take his life and watch his eyes as he took his last breath. And then she’d keep running, with the moon shining its reflected light on the pavement, guiding her steps home. And maybe then she could enjoy the sunlight again having made up to her husband, at least a little, for putting herself in danger and expecting him to save her. And then that moon would cease its wailing, its crying, and its ceaseless accusations.

Summer came and her friend, Kristin, decided it was time Amy got out and met some people. It had been six months now.

Amy met her for a drink at Crux of the Matter after work.

It was a jazz club. Amy was happy for that. She’d had no idea what to expect as she stepped through its doors.

She’d gotten there ahead of Kristin so she took a seat at the bar. There was a trio playing on a small stage in the far corner of the softly lighted room. They were playing Take Five Amy noticed immediately and they were playing it well.

Her mind quickly fell into the song and she became lost in it. She watched the combo—a pretty girl was playing the piano and singing, there was an older man playing the treble sax and a blond, almost teenage looking man, plucking the strings of a stand-up bass.

Happy? Maybe for the moment. Almost.

Then she was interrupted, They can do that as good as anybody. I can’t ever get enough of them. Makes working here a real treat.

Amy turned and found herself looking into the eyes of the bartender. He was middle aged, good