R.A. Lindo | Updates

Shadow Moon

R.A. Lindo — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 12:52:19 -0400

The shadow moon is what I wait for, knowing romance will spark again with a boy I adore. It’s not something my parents approve of, but they don’t understand Jonathan and they never will, so I sneak out when the moon appears outside my bedroom window, excited every time I do. I’ve never fallen in love so it’s a new feeling for me, and one I’ve kept from my friends. They wouldn’t understand Jonathan either, but that’s okay because they don’t need to; he’s mine and that’s all that matters.

We met on a fateful night last summer when I was brooding on certain things, including what I was doing with my life. The summer went slowly, friends and family keeping me company until Jonathan appeared, and we’ve been seeing each other intermittently ever since.

I ponder my impulsive nature, knowing it’s got me into trouble in the past, and it’s likely to again as the moon appears, the signal for me to open my bedroom window and prepare my escape. I could go out of the front door, but I’m eighteen and will face an inquisition, which is the last thing I need. My parents are aware I’m talking to someone because I’m spending a lot of time in my room, thinking of Jonathan and where things might lead.

He doesn’t live in town, passing through when he has time, and he always makes time for me. As I climb out of the bedroom window, I’m careful to minimise the noise, my feet resting on the roof of the porch, framing the front door I’ll enter through later. Getting back through the window isn’t an option, but my parents will be fast asleep by then, or pretending to be. We’ve set certain boundaries regarding discussion topics, and boys are off limits, meaning they leave me to my own devices within reason.

I love my parents and they’ve been good to me, but they’ve made their own choices and I’m doing the same. After all, there’s no point living someone else’s life. I never know if Jonathan’s going to appear, listening out for his motorbike as I walk to the end of my street which is framed by other grand houses. They offer a degree of comfort when I’m out here on my own, although I’m sure my neighbours have bigger problems than a teenage girl with a wanderlust.

Wandering is what I need, to be honest, a sense of adventure snapping me out of my fugue state. It feels like I’m in a fog, and my parents think I’m depressed, but it’s more of a dead end which I’m keen to navigate my way out of. Jonathan helps with this, opening my mind to new ways of thinking, and when I hear his motorbike I get a giddy feeling, looking forward to creating some distance from home.

The moon’s our only witness, doubling as an accomplice as we enjoy the freedom the night offers, the quiet roads taking us to peaceful locations. We never go too far because that would push the boundaries of my trust, and since I’m still getting to know Jonathan a certain reserve is required. He’s a little older than me, and that’s another thrill because he isn’t bound by parental limitations, working in the area for a while before he vanishes for good.

He’s made this clear from the beginning, explaining he’ll pass through again but that timeline is indefinite, so we focus on the time we have, the man I adore arriving on a two-wheel carriage, lifting me up as he kisses me. He’s carrying a spare helmet, handing it to me with a smile.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, repeating a familiar ritual.

“Hey yourself.”

“How are your parents?”

“Sleeping.”

“Ready to ride?”

I nod, taking his hand as my heartbeat increases, knowing I’m risking another journey with a stranger, but I’ve never been more comfortable with someone. Some people believe in fate and others don’t, but I do so study the moon as I climb onto the back of the motorbike, laughing as Jonathan revs the engine, putting his helmet on as a light goes on in a nearby house, meaning it’s time to make a swift exit.

We ride along familiar roads, past fir trees that surround the lake I love. I’m lucky to live in these parts, and luckier that Jonathan’s working in town, construction work taking him around the country, the bike his chosen mode of transport. It offers a freedom driving doesn’t, he explains, and I agree, thinking of the old Ford I use to get me places. Whether I’ll ride my own bike in the future is uncertain, but I love the feeling now, holding onto Jonathan’s waist as he speeds up, easing around bends on the moonlit roads.

I feel safe with him, knowing he’s leaving town soon, wishing he could stay but that’s out of my control. When we arrive at a famous beauty spot, he turns the engine off, our helmets removed to take in the view. We kiss, thankful for the privacy the location offers, a popular spot for walkers but not at this hour. For now, it’s just the two of us embracing one another, our bodies intertwined as the moon casts a gentle light over the lake in the distance. You can see for miles from here, including the water tower and football field where games take centre stage.

We’re the main players at the moment, however, dressed in jeans and jackets as the midnight breeze adds a coolness to the air, reminding us that Autum is settling in.

“I love coming here,” I say, holding onto Jonathan’s waist.

“I know you do.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Where do you like to go?”

“Wherever you are,” he replies, kissing me again.

“But you’re leaving soon.”

“For work, but I’ll be passing through again. I was honest from the beginning, Allie. I never made promises.”

“Well, can you make one now?”

“That depends,” he says with a smile.

He’s gorgeous and I think of accelerating our romantic moment, but it would be embarrassing to be discovered in a state of undress, as unlikely as that is.

“Promise you’ll come back soon and stay awhile.”

“That’s a hard promise to make, Allie. My work takes me everywhere.”

“There’s plenty of construction work around here, and my dad knows people.”

“Family connections,” Jonathan comments, taking my hand. “What if I gave you something?”

“Like what?” I query.

“Like this.”

He hands me a necklace with a half moon pendant on it, asking me if I like it. I nod, struck by the gesture from a man who symbolises impermanence. If he’s playing with my emotions it’s working because now I’m thinking about committing to him, for a while at least. I have nothing better to do, and rarely form strong connections with people.

When I tell my friends, they’ll go crazy, saying I’m mad to let a random man take me on midnight trips, but they haven’t met Jonathan, and when they do they’ll rethink things. He’s hypnotic, lifting my hair as he puts the necklace on, studying the half moon pendant that rests on my skin.

“It looks perfect,” he says.

“Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s something to remember me by.”

“Until the next time,” I reply, confident I’ll see him again.

Illusion is part of life, including self delusion which I’m indulging in now, but wishful thinking is part of romance and I’m love struck.

“So, do you think you can make that promise?” I ask.

“About coming back and hanging out for a while?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been hanging out, Allie.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll promise you this: I’ll return if you commit to something,” Jonathan says.

“Which is?”

“To travel further than here, beyond your hometown to somewhere new.”

“Deal,” I say, shaking his hand comically.

He’s not the usual guy I go for, but he’s far more interesting, avoiding performative acts and addressing things up front. He’s a free spirit who doesn’t want to get tied down, although I’d love to get entangled with him, at least until he heads out of town, promising to return.

“You’re special, Allie.”

“So they say,” I joke.

“And I hope you remember me.”

“How can I forget you? You keep turning up.”

Jonathan laughs before adding, “What about riding out a little further tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Another hour or so and then I’ll take you home.”

“When are you leaving town?” I ask.

“Soon,”

“So, this is our farewell ride?”

“For now,” he replies, confirming his departure until his theoretical return.

Many women have hoped for this, I imagine, telling myself this is different, envisioning a future when the moon hovers outside my bedroom window again, and I hear the roar of a motorbike. I’ll walk through the front door if that comes to pass, touching the half-moon pendant on my necklace, ready to embrace the man I adore.

“Ready?” Jonathan says, getting back onto the motorbike.

“Yes,” I reply, putting the helmet back on, “and let’s make it last until sunrise because I want it to be unforgettable.”

“Sure,” he states — a man used to the open road, revving the engine as we ride under a shadow moon: nature’s witness to a fleeting romance.

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Rendition

R.A. Lindo — Sat, 03 Oct 2026 16:12:14 -0400

The train journey took Michael Beer to a familiar place, but what was about to happen was uncertain. A rendition was being carried out, and he was the cargo in question. He expected to die and was surprisingly at peace with the idea, accepting he wasn’t in control of his destiny. Had he been, he’d have found a way out but his family were in danger so choice wasn’t a luxury he had.

As the train made its way through the countryside, Michael studied the striking landscape, wondering why he hadn’t noticed the small touches of beauty before, like the leaves falling from the trees in a delicate motion, and the way the light changed. They were subtle touches but important nonetheless, particularly when his life was about to be extinguished. It might not turn out this way, he told himself, but that was more hope than reality.

In an ideal world, he’d be forgiven for his mistakes but the people he worked for had little mercy, viewing individuals as objects they could gain leverage over, and the lever had been pulled. It was a case of choices, Michael had been told over the phone, assuming how he chose to die were the only choices left. He closed his eyes as the destination neared, wondering if he could save himself.

He doubted it, realising he was out of luck in a world gone wrong, hoping his death would be quick and relatively painless. Torture wasn’t the done thing, he knew, having carried out a few executions of his own, using a single gunshot to end someone’s days, but he wasn’t the executioner this time.

“Ticket, sir?” the train conductor asked, standing over Michael.

He hadn’t bought a ticket and didn’t have any cash.

“You’ll have to get off at the next station,” the conductor added, looking annoyed before moving on.

Thankfully, the next station represented the end game, removing any need to walk the rest of the way, and punctuality was important. Every minute late would come at a cost, and not one Michael wanted to pay, thinking of his family. His son and daughter were at school unaware of what was unfolding, their innocent faces etched into his memory as the train picked up pace. He couldn’t say goodbye to them, taking the coward’s way out, remembering his wife’s face crumbling as he explained what he had to do.

She was aware of his lifestyle, but not the extent of his crimes or how dangerous his masters were. He called them masters because they controlled his life, ensuring he knew the consequences of stepping out of line. He’d never been attracted to regular employment, but wish he’d stayed on the straight and narrow now, imagining how life would have turned out. It would have been harder in some ways, money struggles and long hours in a steady job, but safety would have been the prize, yet he’d chosen otherwise.

It was too late for regrets, the tension increasing the closer he got to the meeting point. He had clear instructions to walk to a specific spot, deep into farmland where he would meet his fate. The light faded outside the train window, casting an ominous tone over proceedings, and when the train slowed Michael felt his heart rate increase. He thought about taking a gun, but knew he’d be searched. There would also be others in position, ready to take him out if the situation required it, but he represented no threat.

“To a God unknown,” he whispered, ready to depart the train.

He’d never believed in God, but was praying to an unknown deity now, hoping for a miracle that wouldn’t come, although judgement time had. As the train eased to a standstill, Michael pushed the button to open the doors, stepping onto the platform in a remote location. It was a steady walk to the designated spot, and he was making good time so wouldn’t have to hurry.

As he left the train station, he thought about his son and daughter once more, remembering how his wife had kissed his forehead, no words exchanged between them as he left. His children were already at school, spared the pain of goodbye, but the sense of loss was becoming unbearable. He’d promised to protect them, and was sacrificing his life to spare theirs, hoping he’d be forgiven one day. He’d taken a few wrong turns and was heading to another one now, stepping onto the farmland as he became a dead man walking.

He’d be invisible soon, walking through a cornfield as the light dimmed, offering enough illumination to guide him on.

“To a God unknown,” he whispered again, crying as he wiped the tears from his face, the suit he wore part of a strange ritual.

You dressed for all occasions in his line of work, including death ceremonies. Standards were maintained until the final moments, and that time drew closer as a car’s headlights flashed up ahead. Micheal knew it was a sign to take off his suit jacket, placing it neatly in the cornfield before he carried on walking, expecting a gunshot to hit his chest any moment, but no bullet was fired.

“You’re early,” a voice said in the darkness, standing in silhouette behind the car.

Michael said nothing, aware of how these rituals went. Gestures were the only thing allowed, so he nodded, keeping his head lowered.

“How does it feel?”

He shrugged.

“Kneel,” the voice said, taking something out of their trouser pocket.

As Michael knelt on the ground, the tears continued to fall, representing the sense he’d betrayed everyone. Who would remember him fondly? His family? The men who stood over him now? What had he done of any value? When had he lost his way? When the silhouette figure’s footsteps closed in on him, Michael closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer.

“Any last requests?” the mystery man asked.

“One chance,” Michael replied, knowing it was his only opportunity to save himself.

“You’re out of chances.”

“I’ll do anything,” he begged.

“Including obliteration?”

Michael nodded.

“Well, there’s a car ready to take you to hell.”

“Will my family be safe?” Michael queried.

“Yes.”

“What will happen to me?”

“You’ll wish you never asked,” the silhouette figure replied, dragging Michael to his feet as other men looked on.

It wasn’t the outcome he’d expected, but hell was better than death, giving him a chance to see his family again. They wouldn’t recognise him when they did, pulled away by their mother who would stare at the shambolic figure, wondering what the world had come to, mourning a husband she presumed dead.

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Slayer

R.A. Lindo — Sat, 03 Oct 2026 03:45:26 -0400

The town rested silently as the figure appeared on the streets, sparks of light surrounding his clothing that sent people indoors. Slayers didn’t visit often, but when they did it meant one thing: a magical battle in public to reinforce their position as grand sorcerers. Some were more lenient than others, although the look of menace on the figure’s face suggested pain was about to be extracted.

Lyla watched the slayer walk through the streets, looking like he was gliding, his long coat covering his boots. She’s heard of such people, but had never seen them in the flesh, enchanted by the floating figure. She was under strict instruction to stay in her bedroom, but rarely followed orders, slipping on her shoes as she climbed out of the window. It was a simple task to get onto the roof, and once she was there, she watched the performance unfold.

Lyla had learnt a little magic recently, thrilled by the power it gave her, and where it might lead. She hoped it brought a better life, when she wouldn’t have to endure the boredom of household chores, but patience was required in all things, she knew, including mastering magic. The slayer was such a master, glancing in her direction as he hovered on the streets, the moonlight falling over his grey face. With a click of his fingers, vibrations were felt in the town, the tiles under Lyla’s feet loosening as she readjusted her position.

Maybe she was being punished for being outside, but she wasn’t leaving so released some magic of her own — a cradle of light providing a seat for the occasion. She didn’t scare easily, and presented no threat to the slayer who kept his gaze on her, spinning suddenly as he propelled himself upwards, standing next to her seconds later … his grey face and black eyes suggesting punishment, but none came.

“You’re brave,” he whispered, a strange smell emanating from him.

“Inquisitive,” Lyla replied, sitting in her cradle of light.

Slayers didn’t kill children, and since she remained in this age bracket, she knew she was safe.

“You should have stayed inside,” the figure added.

“Why?”

“Because you know the one I seek.”

She pondered this point, her gaze resting on the phantom of doom. He looked lost in a way, consumed by an anger he didn’t understand, his magical powers releasing his venom.. Lyla also got the impression he’d expected her to appear, noticing her the moment she appeared on the roof. It was dark with no one else visible, although other children were positioned in similar places, out of sight for now along with the few adults brave enough to join them.

Adults didn’t have the same protection as children, meaning witnessing such events came at a price, yet some stood strong when a comrade was in danger. The comrade under threat was unknown, but once Lyla had a name she’d act accordingly.

“Who do you seek?” she asked.

“Your protector,” the slayer responded.

“And who would that be?”

The figure leaned closer, touching the cradle of light until it spun in the air, causing Lyla to feel dizzy. When the spinning stopped, the man was gone, leaving her to ponder her next move. She could go inside and seek a greater understanding, but her relatives ignored her mostly, having bigger issues to deal with. They were humble folk tasked with raising her after her parents had been sent on a quest they hadn’t returned from, suggesting it hadn’t gone to plan.

They were still alive apparently, and Lyla held onto this belief, keen to impress them with her magical powers on their return. First, she had to learn of the person in danger, deciding the roofs would be her stage for the evening, awaiting a call to begin a magical battle. The call would come via an invisible presence, drawing the target into a force field until they were in view, the streets the platform where sorcery was tested, with slayers rarely losing such challenges.

On the rare occasions they did, an army appeared to protect the endangered wizard, and Lyla hoped this would be the case now, but no one dared step onto the street as the vibrations increased, windows shaking in houses as lights went off.

“Show yourself,” Lyla whispered, leaping from roof to roof, using the night to cover her tracks.

Whoever was in hiding would be propelled into battle soon, and she’d know what to do then. Slayers couldn’t kill children or even harm them, so she’d become a human shield, assuming she did know the person in danger. It would be stupid to risk harm if she didn’t, because there were plenty of witches and wizards who didn’t see eye-to-eye with her. She was wilful and stubborn, both traits leading to early training in sorcery, which might come in handy now, but she had to wait for battle to commence, hoping the slayer played by the rules.

If he didn’t, she might get attacked, allowing her to test her skills, deciding it was the perfect time to do so. As a door opened in a house below, a frail figure stepped onto the streets, blinded by the light that engulfed him. He was dressed in dirty clothes, looking like he’d lost all hope, and when Lyla recognised him she knew what to do. He was the man who’d been teaching her magic, somehow dragged into a battle he didn’t want, presenting no match for the enemy closing in.

It wasn’t a fair fight, and since no one was coming to his aid, Lyla decided to, leaping off the roof towards the street, using a parachute of light to guide her movements. The light drew the attention of the two men facing one another: one terrified while the other looked on menacingly, the sparks of energy surrounding him glowing red now. He’d have to kill a girl if he wanted to prove a point, and since that was unlikely another battle would ensue with adults diverting harmful spells, aiming to survive an onslaught.

The duel began subtly as the frail man gestured for Lyla to take cover, which she ignored.

“No,” she whispered, glancing at the adults peering through windows, too cowardly to help a desperate comrade.

“You’re not trained for such things,” the frail figure said, known to her as Maxillian.

Everyone had strange names, but that was part of the unique world she lived in, and it was about to get stranger as everything turned upside down: houses, street and the sky pivoting to frame a battle. It was Maxillian’s first move, aimed at distracting the slayer, which it did, allowing Lyla to appear between them … overseeing a killing ground she’d neutralised, or so she thought. Streaks of light sent her into the air, drawing no blood or injury but removing her from the battleground.

The slayer made her spin again, only this time in midair, keeping her out of harm’s way so he could engage the enemy, but Maxillian was deceptive in dress and build, his powers containing the killer in grand robes. No one was dying tonight, Lyla’s teacher had decided, sending her back towards the roof she’d stepped onto earlier: a sign he could compete in a brief duel. With Lyla watching from a distance, the duel continued as balls of light bounced off houses, rebounding until they filled the streets.

The balls of light carried an insect with varying degrees of venom, each ready to be released into the evening streets, but Lyla knew that carried an additional threat, particularly for the children who’d joined her on nearby rooftops. Many of them had no magical training, meaning they’d be a target for the insects, so she sent envelopes their way, telling them to go back inside. They ignored these, familiar with such spells that disintegrated once read, her comrades’ focus remaining on the magical duel, and potential venom heading their way.

Lyla realised she couldn’t protect anyone, shocked as Maxillian fell to his knees, covering is eyes as blood poured from them. As the insects burst out of their light casings, all looked lost until she lept off the roof once more, followed by the other children who provided the army required, their innocence the shield protecting them. The slayer turned at the sight, halting the insects’ swarm as they buzzed towards the children, each young comrade relying on Lyla’s magic to break their fall.

Thankfully, she did, removing gravity from the atmosphere for a split second, allowing each child to land unharmed, at which point the slayer was outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. No wizard survived an attack on children, and he was no exception, his grey face and black eyes studying the silent army facing him.

“You have luck on your side tonight,” he said to Lyla.

“Maybe,” she replied, asking the other children to check on Maxillian.

He wiped the blood from his eyes as he stood, staring at the slayer who’d arrived to take a life.

“You’ve abandoned your people,” Maxillian said to the slayer.

“I have no people,” the brooding figure stated, adding, “and I’ll return.”

“We’ll be ready,” Lyla countered, blowing towards the insects that buzzed harmlessly around her and her child army.

The insects went silent for a moment, troubled by whatever spell she’d cast on them, proving she was growing in powers, along with the allegiance she’d formed with others her age. They might not be grand wizards and witches — or magicians of any notable worth — but courage was a unique elixir, and it had won the day. More slayers would arrive, and more battles would be fought, but the town had defenders now: innocence the ultimate weapon against an evil force.

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