Dear Reader,

Here is the intro to a surreal and darkly whimsical short story.

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Tearing Up Chocolate

There was a moon. It hung low over the hills. The moon had no right to be that low. It was dangerous.

The full moon had a flame sharp edge which could cut smoke and night and dreams into slivers.

Tonight, Claretta Muldoon came to dance amongst the chocolate hills. Tonight, because the moon was low.

She would start her dance in the flat gullies between the hills, but the aim was to get on top.

Claretta pulled the ribbons from her hair and tied them around the gatepost. She left her shoes at the foot of the post and draped her coat over the gate.

Wearing a white cheesecloth slip, she walked over the crisp grass. The blades tickled her bare feet, and she felt a chuckle creeping up from the pit of her stomach.

Wrapping her hands around her breasts, she took deep breaths. This was not a time for chuckling. Not if she was going to dance to her death.

The stars twinkled a punctuated tune. Softly, just audible enough so that when Claretta moved quietly, she could hear it. The starlight twinkle was the first part of the dance.

To this rhythm, her feet moved in a complicated step pattern. Slow at first. Then picking up speed, ever so slightly, with every turn.

The dance took her around the hills. Running the gullies between as a green floor, she did not look at the hills. She could not show that she meant to mount one.

Not until she and the hill and the moon were aligned to meet.

Claretta wasn’t alone.

The Wadders lived amongst the hills. And on moonlit nights they were also the local guard. But if she danced well, the Wadders would be caught up in the moment and would not notice her going.

The big trick was to keep enough of her own mind about her so that she would still know where she was going herself.

The twinkling of the stars was intoxicating. Once the sound got past your ears and into your soul, your senses went out of control. Or so Claretta had been told. Nobody who had danced under moonlight could ever tell again.

When the moon cut, there wasn’t anything else left to tell. Most times only the clothes at the gate were buried. Nothing of the body remained.

The Wadders sat low in the grass, in clumps at the foot of the hills.

Only part of Claretta was aware of them. She could not give them too much attention because they would give her the same in return.

If you turn angry on a Wadder, they turn angry on you. If you are sweet, so are they. Except when it came to mounting the chocolate hills. In this regard the Wadders were all the same. They resisted.

There was only one way to catch their resistance off guard. You had to dance them out of phase.

If you could get them off guard, there was the briefest of spaces where you could dare to pass between them and climb a hill and touch the moon.

Claretta was here to try tonight.

No, not to try, to do.

Her slip whirled around her legs, undulating in soft folds as her feet skipped over the prickly grass.

At the beginning, the grass only tickled. Now the blades of grass began to sting. Claretta knew that with the speed she was dancing, the edges of the blades were cutting her feet. Myriad small cuts, one slashing over the other. None of them bad, but all adding up so that her feet must have been stained red by now.

Not that she could look. In dancing, it is stepping on that counts. Step, step, turn, skip, step.

Stopping was not part of the dance. To stop was not to dance. To stop was to wake the wadders. To stop was to fail. To stop was choosing not to die.

Not tonight.

Then a deep vibration hung over the grass, hugging at Claretta’s knees.

When she felt it, Claretta almost laughed. She caught herself and, with a twist of her body, threw away the smile.

But inside she was gleeful. She had the Wadders. She gave them the dance. They vibrated in return.

Just then a lone Wadder jumped up from a clump. He waved his stubby four-fingered hands in an arc and hobbled into Claretta’s way.

Claretta turned her back on him, a flutter of fear skipping through her stomach.

The Wadder kept pace and hobbled out in front of her again. And then he turned right into her and knocked her legs from under her.

Claretta tumbled over him and fell. She pushed her arms out as she slid into the grass. Blades cut her arms and shoulders and the left side of her face with a thousand miniature slashes.

The vibration fell like a rock, and Claretta could feel the Wadder's anger rising.

Rising to match hers.

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​You can download the complete story for free here.​

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No Reading Promos this Month

I wanted to keep it simple this month and feature only a story. I'd like to see how many people who are subscribed to my newsletter would click through to a free short story by me when there are less options in front of them.

Thanks for taking part in this experiment.

Keep on Reading

Thank you for being part of this journey. Whether you've been with me from the beginning or just joined, your readership means everything as I keep on writing.

Best regards,

Gerhi Janse van Vuuren

Author of The Seventh Kill and When Oceans Dream