Eloisa Cervantes

12°56’6.70”S 66°12’14.80”W

THE MONTHS

IN THE GRAYISH LIGHT OF THE LOST NIGHT, banquet, beginning their reunion in silence. The temperature is neither warm nor cold, no feeling at all. The chosen place of gathering is quite odd; the place on. Farther away, there are clusters of trees scattered around other meadow sections. The soft grass brushes against the ankles of the individuals around the small lone tree.

“Who wants to start? Should we go backwards this year?” she asks. Her sits up straight, her shimmering light green skirt and blouse swishing against her skin. Her eyes are a deep green of so many different shades. She looks around eagerly.

“Maybe we can start later? I honestly think we could talk of things other than ‘thought-provoking’ occurrences during our turn of time,” snorts February. Perhaps described as a “scarlet Aphrodite”, February’s red hair cascades down from her head onto her back in soft, almost unbelievably perfect curls. Her skin is a slight pigment of pink. Her halter dress is tight against her skin and falls an inch above her knees, the colours melding into a rich shade of crimson.

“I much like these forms better than the dinosaur ones. Thank goodness humans evolved. When we’re in our normal form, you can’t wear these fashions,” June chirps, for the sake of entertainment. With short hair in a bob the colour of the sun- and just as bright- and a sky blue sundress, the only way you can tell she isn’t human is the yellow docile glow in her aura.

“When we’re mist we don’t wear anything. We’re just a sparkly colour,” February retorts. November grunts in agreement, swirling a hot pink liquid in his glass. He thinks that they all dress too stereotypically. His gravy-coloured skin is him, with his slightly green-tinted skin and forest-green suit. Always the Month that is less acknowledged; four leaf clovers decorate his suit as well. His wellcombed hair sits undisturbed.

“Well, we are who we are. How much time is there left before the new year?” September asks. September’s ebony skin is decorated with pale outlines of leaves, like beautiful, strange birthmarks. Her curly brown hair, the color of old bark, is tinted with streaks of red, orange and yellow, matching her eyes. She takes a bite out of a vanilla-frosted chocolate cookie. When she bites the cookie, not a single crumb falls onto her well-ironed pants or crisp shirt that has the at her feet. She wishes she could have Wind by her side to blow it away in fun circles. Unfortunately, Wind is at her own gathering elsewhere.

“Three hours. I hope you enjoyed this day’s rest because January starts again tomorrow,” July replies, looking lazily into the misty distance. His ever changing neon hair color is accented by his orange glow that radiates heat.

All eyes shoot to January, looking smashing in his white suit, and almost white hair, which is tipped with the clearness of ice. His eyes are a shockingly warm brown. It looks having a sauntering aspect to it.

“One day’s enough. We can’t spend our waiting time here, you know that. And since nowhere. April’s hair is the color of rain; clear blue and slightly transparent. Her skirt is and semi-corset over a shirt. Her eyes are the lightest grey-blue one can encounter. Blue dots like freckles are sprawled across her nose. November cuts in.

“Maybe you should consider moving somewhere else, where there are rain shortages. So when your turn comes… you won’t provide England the misery of rain again,” he smirks. August steals some of the cake left on November’s plate. He has skin like September’s, maybe darker, and his clothes consist of a rare type of denim pants and a yellow-orange shirt covered by a black blazer. His eyes are also black. He used to have a goatee that June liked to joke about, saying it made him “look evil and smart at the same time.” He had shaven it shortly afterwards.

“You’re all being worse than Sunlight,” July scowls, his golden eyes blazing. “If this year is going to be like the last gathering, when October had too much fun describing those murders -”

“Yes, three hours to go and we haven’t started yet, my friends. Tsk, tsk,” interrupts October, completely ignoring July’s last comment. He rubs his pumpkin-orange beard. He is the most unique of them all, not to mention most liked by the population of humans. He always smells of spices and candy, wearing an orange, black, green and purple them roll back to spook his friends.

“If you’re so pushy about it, let’s go backwards, as I suggested,” May announces hotly, her patience slipping away. Everyone looks at December, who, next to March, hasn’t said a word. She stands, adjusts her silvery gown and sits down again, gazing at the sad sky, as if relating to it.

“As you wish,” she says dejectedly, her voice soft and chilly. Her shoulder-length black hair is so dark and pure; it looks as black as the depths of her thoughts. It makes her face look pale and shimmery. Her silvery, star-like gown is long, and with her movements it ripples delightfully. Her eyes are violet. On her neck is a necklace more exquisite than any of the other Months or forces of nature have ever seen. It consists of small, gift-wrapped presents, menorahs, festive colours of Kwanzaa and so much more of the things that remind you of the month she is. The overall effect makes the viewer happy, if not cheerful, which is ironic since December is the saddest of the bunch. December clears her throat and opens her dark lips, tale at the ready.