Man on the Moon By Melissa Ziegenhorn
When I was little, I dreamt of being in space. Meeting the man on the moon and bouncing off stars in open space. Looking down at Earth from the moon. I always wondered if the little green men would come back and visit me from the moon. My siblings laughed at me. When I was in seventh and eighth grade, I wanted to be an author. Writing teenage romance dreams. I wrote down lots of gibberish and childish plays. Space seemed safer in those days. That dream died and in the trash they went. My classmates laughed at me. I wasn’t allowed to dream in my twenties or thirties. I just curled like an armadillo and wished to disappear altogether in a big black hole. Willing my alien friends to carry me off to their alien home. I laughed at myself. Late thirties brought new hope. Like tattered lace from nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago. I felt so alone. Little by little I started to dream again. Little Green Men started to dance in my head again. I created complete dimensions and a full lineage of a family in outer space. Words dance across the computer screen, in romance, space beings, sex and evil deeds. No one will ever read them. My novels are locked up tight, in the deep dark recesses of iCloud, deep deep in cyberspace. 39
