The moon hid on the night they lit the Bobblins. Nature’s cold dark shoulder. Though Gary said it was Luna’s way of lending them the main stage free of luminescent interference.
Renee still felt a shudder run down her spine.
It was the depths of it.
The weight of memories that bobbed and swayed and listed ever so slightly over the mirrored pond.
Even the wind ceased. For the moment.
Was it, too, leaving the stage free of routine rustling, the air’s microphone open to the whispers of the babies, cocooned in color coded pastel uteri, waiting to be born?
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © David Stewart
Na'ama Yehuda 
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