Moonchild.

Jan 04, 2008 - 21:43 PM PST

This song was inspired by the song "Moonchild" by Cibo Matto. It's not one of my favorites, but I am proud of the progress I made on it.



Rebecca Pilling
Moonchild

A little girl sits on the side of the road holding a white flower. Her dark hair plaited in two braids is tied with white ribbons. Her blue jeans, torn – ripped at the knees and her white sneakers are scuffed and dirty. She doesn’t notice the cars rushing past, even when they spray dirt on her blue striped tee shirt.
She is humming.
She is so involved in her own thoughts she doesn’t see the bicyclist hit by the cab; doesn’t hear the screams of the baby strolled past her; doesn’t smell the food cooking from the restaurant across the street; doesn’t taste the exhaust from the cars driving by; can’t feel the air growing colder with every passing second. All she focuses on is the white flower.
In the cars, the drivers don’t see her all alone, no more than nine years old. Her blue eyes stare blankly at the flower, at nothing.
A woman, walking by, stoops next to the child.
“My darling, are you alright?” the words issue from ruby red lips.
The woman’s hydrangea hair is held in place by a can of Aqua Net. She wraps her red fur trimmed overcoat tight. Her pumps match the coat, her skirt matches her hair.
The child is unalarmed by the woman’s presence and her zealously applied makeup.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why are you sitting out here . . . in the cold . . . alone?”
“It’s Sissy’s birthday.”
“Is Sissy coming?”
“Sissy’s gone away.”
“How old is Sissy?”
“Nineteen. She’ll always be 19.”
The girl sings softly to the flower. “Moonlight dries your tears . . . . Moonlight hides your fears . . . .”
The woman tries again; Broadway wasn’t the place for such a young girl at night.
“Does anybody know you are here?”
“Sissy knows. I’ve been talking to her.”
The woman stands. She wants to believe the child’s conviction. She watches her from the entrance of a nearby building. The woman would receive many offers that night, but no one would approach the girl.
Half the night she would sit there, with her flower, singing softly.
Around midnight she gets up, lays her flower carefully in the center of the sidewalk and walks away. The woman tries to follow, but looses sight of her as she crosses the road, vanishing into the darkness.
That morning the woman, wearing a brown sweater, baggy jeans, and large black sunglasses, her blue hair falling soft around her shoulders, sits at an outdoor café table drinking coffee, eating a croissant. The couple at the next table get up leaving their newspaper. She takes it. At the obituaries she drops her spoon.
At the top of the page is an older version of the girl from the night before.
“Sarah ‘Sissy’ Jones died yesterday morning from self inflicted wounds . . . . She was 19 years old.”