Would you read this story?

Hello there, old friends. It's been so long since I've posted, I've probably lost my whole readership. It's hard to explain. I've been in the ebb & flow of something. A sprite stole my mojo. Beats me. Still not feeling myself, my writerly self. I did bake a lasagna in my absence, however. Score one for Betty Crocker!

I'm not in a poetry place. I have a poem, many, many poems waiting to be written into life. They are patiently sitting on yellow legal pads, lounging in journals, resting on sticky notes. Vacation on, poems. I'll get to you soon. For now, if anyone is reading, would the following story intrigue you? Would you want to read on? This is the beginning of a short story that I wrote years ago, and I've always been partial to it, just never did anything with it. I thought maybe if it worked for some of you, then maybe it might work for an editor somewhere...

Still Life: Maggie, Woodswoman

Maggie was running naked through the woods. His wife was running, naked to her sandaled feet, through the woods. Carl found this vaguely amusing, in a hazy, moonlit sort of way. He hoped the wiry branches weren't scratching her sun burnt backside.

It was midnight at their campsite, according to the wind-up clock on the fireplace, the one he'd brought from their bedroom at home. In fact, looking at the glow-in-the-dark numbers now, small hand obliterated by the big one, it was midnight by this clock the last time Maggie had run off naked. That had been exactly one month earlier, on a moonlit night in what passed for woods in their development. He had woken up to a cool breeze blowing though the curtains, parted them, and seen Maggie, hair wild, feet sandaled, body unclothed, running across their back lawn. She had looked so wild there in the moonlight that he had been afraid to call to her, afraid of what her green eyes would do to him in the iridescent darkness, what spell would be cast over him. So he'd waited until morning when, given confidence by the sun's light, he'd asked her what she was doing. She had smiled and said, "Chasing the moon."

Tonight he wasn't worried about seeing her eyes. He couldn't even see her. He sat down at the picnic table in front of their tent. He traced the deep grooves of initials left by earlier campers and wondered if any of them had lost their wives to the moon.