Inconstant Moon
“...builds with great intensity toward a mystery that must be solved.
The answers lie in understanding adult responsibility and knowing that things aren’t always as they appear.
Inconstant Moon will pull you in more strongly than the moon draws the tides.”
— Debbi Mack, New York Times bestselling author
of Identity Crisis and Least Wanted
Inconstant Moon
∼ a novel ∼
by
Laurel L. Russwurm
Default Font Edition
Libreleft Books
copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, institutions, or persons, whether corporate, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book, is copyright © by Laurel L. Russwurm 2011
This book is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.5 Canada License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests their endorsement);
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes;
Share Alike — If you alter/transform/build upon this work, resulting work may only be released under the same or similar license to this one.
Inconstant Moon is DRM free
dramatis personæ
Fyfield House Residence
Liz — 1st Year, Photography
Natasha — 1st Year, Photography
Elsie — 2nd Year Med School
Maggie — 2nd Year, Computer Science
Amelia — 1st Year, English Lit
Mouse — 1st Year, English Lit
Boris — 1st Year, Photography
Jake — 1st Year, Photography
Ethan — grad student, Photography, Teaching Assistant
Oscar — 2nd Year, Computer Science
Jose — 1st Year, English Lit
Eric — 1st Year, English Lit
Married Student Residence
Quentin — 1st Year, Photography
Tamara — 1st Year Med School
Kate — 2nd Year, Computer Science
Nick — 3rd year Med School, Teaching Assistant
Off Campus
Adam — 2nd Year, Computer Science
Barbie — 1st Year Med School
Krystal — 2nd Year, Computer Science
dedicated to
an amazing woman
and very good friend
who just happens to be
the world's best sister-in-law
for
Nienke Hinton
with love
quotation
“O, swear not by the moon!
The inconstant moon,
that monthly changes in her circled orb,
lest that thy love prove
likewise variable.”
— Juliet,
William Shakespeare's
Romeo & Juliet
Table of Contents
cover
blurb
title page
copyright page
dramatis personæ
dedication
quotation
Table of Contents
chapter 1 . . . thursday
chapter 2 . . .
chapter 3 . . . friday
chapter 4 . . .
chapter 5 . . .
chapter 6 . . .
chapter 7 . . .
chapter 8 . . .
chapter 9 . . .
chapter 10 . . .
chapter 11 . . .
chapter 12 . . .the weekend
chapter 13 . . .
chapter 14 . . .
chapter 15 . . . monday
chapter 16 . . .
chapter 17 . . .
chapter 18 . . .
chapter 19 . . .
chapter 20 . . .
chapter 21 . . .
chapter 22 . . .
chapter 23 . . .
chapter 24 . . .
chapter 25 . . .
chapter 26 . . .
chapter 27 . . .
chapter 28 . . . tuesday
chapter 29 . . .
chapter 30 . . .
chapter 31 . . .
chapter 32 . . .
chapter 33 . . .
chapter 34 . . .
chapter 35 . . .
chapter 36 . . .
chapter 37 . . .
chapter 38 . . .
chapter 39 . . . wednesday
chapter 40 . . .
chapter 41 . . .
chapter 42 . . .
chapter 43 . . .
chapter 44 . . .
chapter 45 . . .
chapter 46 . . .
chapter 47 . . .
chapter 48 . . .
chapter 49 . . .
chapter 50 . . .
chapter 51 . . .
chapter 52 . . .
chapter 53 . . .
chapter 54 . . .
chapter 55 . . .
chapter 56 . . .
chapter 57 . . .
chapter 58 . . .
chapter 59 . . .
chapter 60 . . .
chapter 61 . . .
chapter 62 . . . thursday
chapter 63 . . .
chapter 64 . . .
chapter 65 . . .
chapter 66 . . .
chapter 67 . . .
chapter 68 . . .
chapter 69 . . .
chapter 70 . . .
chapter 71 . . .
chapter 72 . . .
chapter 73 . . .
chapter 74 . . .
chapter 75 . . .
chapter 76 . . .
chapter 77 . . .
chapter 78 . . .
chapter 79 . . .
chapter 80 . . .
chapter 81 . . .
chapter 82 . . .
chapter 83 . . .
chapter 84 . . .
chapter 85 . . .
chapter 86 . . .
chapter 87 . . .
chapter 88 . . .
chapter 89 . . .
chapter 90 . . .
chapter 91 . . . friday
chapter 92 . . .
chapter 93 . . .
chapter 94 . . .
chapter 95 . . .
chapter 96 . . .
chapter 97 . . .
chapter 98 . . .
chapter 99 . . .
chapter 100 . . .
chapter 101 . . .
chapter 102 . . .
chapter 103 . . .
chapter 104 . . .
chapter 105 . . .
chapter 106 . . .
chapter 107 . . .
chapter 108 . . .
chapter 109 . . .
chapter 110 . . .
chapter 111 . . .
chapter 112 . . .
chapter 113 . . .
chapter 114 . . .
chapter 115 . . .
chapter 116 . . .
chapter 117 . . .
chapter 118 . . .
chapter 119 . . .
chapter 120 . . .
chapter 121 . . . saturday
chapter 122 . . .
chapter 123 . . .
chapter 124 . . .
chapter 125 . . . sunday
chapter 126 . . .
chapter 127 . . .
chapter 128 . . . monday
chapter 129 . . .
chapter 130 . . .
chapter 131 . . .
chapter 132 . . .
chapter 133 . . .
chapter 134 . . .
chapter 135 . . .
chapter 136 . . .
chapter 137 . . .
chapter 138 . . .
chapter 139 . . .
chapter 140 . . .
About the Author
acknowledgements
colophon
chapter 1 . . . thursday
Given a choice, he'd be anywhere but here.
Although quite close to the street, the thick stand of trees means the road noise is almost nonexistent. A paved pathway meanders through the woods, interspersed every so often with concrete stanchions bearing street lights. The worst of it is all the leaf mold. Tree stink. Fresh air. Cold. Who needs it?
At least there's this stump to sit on.
Because there isn't a choice.
Resting elbows on knees, concealed in forest shadow, he takes a deep drag on the cigarette he's just lit. But then he tenses as he hears the sound of a female giggle.
Holds his breath.
Listens.
Relax.
Exhale.
Watch the smoke rise up and dissipate among the trees.
False alarm.
Too loud, gotta be a pack.
He needs a cull; packs are dangerous. He draws deep on the cigarette and quietly strokes himself as he watches the long limbed college girls sweep past his hidey hole, never once glancing his way. After all, why would they? The world is theirs for the taking. Look at that firm flesh, so casually parading past. Teasing glimpses of breast and buttock make him stiffer than ever. He knows that he'll never be allowed to touch; so he touches himself as he watches them. On parade. Just for him.
Then that bunch is gone, and he's left alone again. A smile touches his lips and he drags deeply, watching wisps of smoke curl sensuously in the air above the cigarette.
Watching the smoke he luxuriates in the cherished memory of that time in the elevator, his day with the Ice Queen from the seventeenth floor. The unattainable goddess never registered his existence. She didn't see him. They never did.
But as the car filled up, and everyone pressed more tightly in the confines of the corporate box she brushed her buttocks deliciously against him. Teasing his penis, the Ice Queen swayed with the elevator's motion. And she smelled so good. He felt his blood rising, his breath grow ragged, and he knew it was impossible but he couldn't stop.
Was it her soap or perfume or her very own girl smell? Whatever it was he tightened his grip on the briefcase and tried to hold his breath, to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
She leaned back into him and stiffened as his hardness strained into her softness. An unexpected rush of pleasure— he knew she could feel him. She froze in place, tantalizing, connected. He couldn't breathe . . . blood was pounding in his ears . . . pounding. He closed his eyes as she began to squirm, rubbing against him . . . deliberately. He couldn't believe it. Surely this was more than any man should have to bear. He breathed in deeply, more of a shudder as he could feel he was about to . . .
He bit his tongue so he wouldn't cry out as the elevator stopped. Tasted the blood as she went, waving those buttocks saucily at him as she left the elevator with the others on the seventeenth floor. As if nothing had happened.
He tried for nonchalance, angled the briefcase in front to hide the painful erection from the other passengers. She'd done it on purpose. Was hurrying off to laugh about it with her friends. He was the last out on nineteen and it was all he could do to make it to the privacy of the bathroom stall to finish up.
But the memory of her . . . it was glorious.
He breathes heavily, warmed by the remembrance of actual contact. The corners of his mouth twitch as he admires the memory, and savours its . . . deliciousness.
Footsteps. He snaps out of his reverie into the here and now.
Listen.
Footfalls clattering. Good. Stupid girl shoes. No giggling, no talking even. That means it's just one. A cull.
Perfect.
He smiles and rubs. Coming into view around the bend, she heads into the zone. A little plump, that's good. Wavy brown hair, pulled back severely, tendrils escaping around the heavy looking backpack. Straps pull her sweater taut and emphasize juicy squeezable breasts. Cellphone strapped to her waist, but they all have them now. Not good, but what can you do? He won't give her time to use it, is all.
Perfect. A quick tug and the pantyhose leg is tight over his head, distorting his features. She won't be able to recognize him. Best of all, she'll be scared. This is gonna be so good.
He pulls open his coat, and he's ready. It's now or never.
His manhood thrusts forward like a sword, swelling with power as he steps out of the shadow and into the sunshine.
He feels like a god.
Startled by his sudden appearance out of the bushes, the girl starts to smile an automatic greeting but she realizes right away that something is wrong. She registers the stocking mask, the open coat . . . then she sees the out-thrust penis. His weapon of love.
He's breathing harder now. She bites her lip, and he takes a step closer. Is she going to cry out at the sight of his power? He takes another step . . . she's shaking now, bowing to his . . .
Startled by the snorting noise she makes— that's so unfeminine— peering at her through the distorting fabric— he realizes she isn't doubled over in fear, she's . . . shaking with laughter. She's snickering, spluttering . . . guffawing. What the fuck? He is totally disconcerted. This is not right. He feels his masculine power draining away.
Her laughter gets louder. She lifts up a hand and points brazenly at his suddenly faltering manhood, still laughing. Her other hand rubs the tears of laughter from her eyes and she says, “Is that the best you can do?”
This is wrong, he thinks, wrong, wrong, wrong, as her laughter gets louder and louder. What is the world coming to? He whirls around and sprints back into the safety of the trees, trying to stuff himself back inside his pants. He has to get away from that foul woman. Get away from her. Away from her laughter. Away. Just away.
He grabs the bicycle from its cover and runs back toward the path, past where she stands and laughs. He heads in the direction she's just come from to get away. Out of her reach.
He throws a leg over the bike and grunts at the unexpected stab of pain generated by the impact of his sensitive bits with the bike's cross bar. His back to that dreadful hyena, he rips off the stocking mask and stuffs it in his pocket.
Grimly gripping the handlebars he rides like the hounds of hell are after him.
When, really, it is just a little bit of laughter.
chapter 2 . . .
Music leaks out of the building as the group of photography students approaches the pub. Liz complains, “I don't know about this, guys, we've got a nine a.m. lecture and I am just not a party girl.”
Boris says, “Aw c'mon, Liz, it'll be fine. You don't have to stay late, but you have to go out at least some of the time. You're supposed to get rounded.”
Natasha gushes, “But Boris, Dahhlink, Liz IS rounded.” Liz feels a blush rise to her cheeks as Jake and Boris laugh.
Natasha gathers her friend in a hug. “Just try it, OK? It isn't like high school where you have to smoke up or drink yourself cross-eyed to be cool. You might hate it but maybe you'll have fun. It isn't a party, so there is no social commitment. You can stay ten minutes or two hours. It's up to you.”
“It's hanging out,” says Jake.
“Unwinding,” adds Boris.
Natasha grins. “Socializing.”
Liz nods. “Okay, okay.”
They go in and the music is loud, although not as bad as Liz thought it would be. Boris and Natasha lead the way through the crowd to a group of tables at the back. From here Liz can see the dance floor but the speakers aren't right in her lap either, so maybe it won't be so bad. Looking around, she recognizes a few of the faces.
One of the catchier Beatles songs is
blasting; Natasha mimes dancing to Boris, who nods and follows her onto the dance floor. As Liz and Jake settle, they watch Boris and Natasha dance a little awkwardly, but then the song ends and the juke box replaces the high energy dance number with the sultry notes of a slow tune. They keep on gamely, although Boris glares darkly at the jukebox, maybe hoping to frighten it into a song with a faster tempo.
Clearly Boris and Natasha have never slow danced together, and Liz knows all too well what that's like. Still, she can't help but smile as she sees what a hard time Boris has trying to figure out where to put his hands while Natasha manages to stay just far enough out of range to ensure they don't accidentally wind up in full body contact.
The pub's terrible acoustics mean that she only hears snatches of song lyrics over the hubbub. Something about dreams and desires. As if on cue, another couple she recognizes from Fyfield House dance through her view. In stark contrast to Boris and Natasha's awkward circling, Eric and Elsie are engaged in a sinuous mating dance. As this couple sways in perfect unison it is clear Eric has no trouble knowing where to put his hands. Moving easily together, their synchronous movements appear almost choreographed as they float across the room. It would be a kick to photograph them.
Liz finds herself swaying and tapping her toe to the beat of the music, drawn in so she almost doesn't register Jake asking her if she wants to dance.
Snap.
Liz looks over at him with trepidation; she so hates this. They never believe her when she says, “Sorry, I don't dance.”
Jake is crestfallen. “But I'm a good dancer.”
Liz smiles. “I'm sure you are, but I know I am not. I don't dance.”
Jake sucks it up and shrugs pragmatically. “Okay. Want something to drink? I don't think there's table service here.”
Liz nods. “Oh sure, just a ginger ale or something.”
Liz digs for money but then realizes Jake's is already off to the bar. Still, she pulls out a Toonie and sets it on the table for when he gets back. She does not want Jake thinking this is a date. Jake may be a brilliant photographer but he's too young for her. Well. She's almost twenty three, and Jake is maybe eighteen.
Sitting back, Liz's eyes are drawn to a flash of auburn hair as Elsie spins into Eric's arms like something out of one of those old black and white musicals she used to like watching with Mom. Elsie draws Eric in, running her hands over his face then pulling him into a long slow kiss. They seem so secure in their own world, and Liz realizes their dance isn't so much composed of skill as foreplay.
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