title: The Effect of Moonlight on Tombstones: A Dark Little Collection of Poetry
author:  Della Van Hise 
description: Della Van Hise is a native of Florida, transplanted to California at the age of 21, who has subsequently sunk her roots into the high desert near Joshua Tree National Park. She has not personally seen any aliens since around 1992, but there is rumored to be a secret UFO base underneath her house.<br /><br /> Della's writing started around age 11 on an old Smith Corona typewriter. No, not an electric one. A real antique, made of metal and heavier than a wet coffin. Her first professional novel was best-selling KILLING TIME - the controversial Star Trek novel which was recalled and re-edited in 1984 (making the first edition a rare collector's item) - and which was the foundational plot for the STAR TREK "Reboot" movie.<br /><br /> Della has written extensively in the non-fiction genre, with titles such as QUANTUM SHAMAN and SCRAWLS ON THE WALLS OF THE SOUL. "Quantum Shaman" focuses heavily on the author's metaphysical explorations and experiences, while "Scrawls" is a continuation of those journeys many years later. If you enjoyed the works of Carlos Castaneda or Don Miguel Ruiz, you'll enjoy the non-fiction works of Della Van Hise.<br /><br /> In addition, Della has written professionally for Tomorrow Magazine and other prominent science fiction publications. Her most recent fiction works include Sons of Neverland (an award-winning vampire novel); No Forwarding Address (a science fiction quest of the heart's yearning); and Coyote (a sensuous novel combining the mystical aspects of martial arts, coming of age, and personal sacrifice.)<br /><br /> Della shares her life with her significant other, Wendy Rathbone, and a variety of cats, dogs and desert wildlife.
zlib_text: PROLOGUE
  The moon hid behind clouds, and darkness covered the area.
  An occasional cold wind blew, gently ruffling her hair.
  Contained in a lamp made from bent wire, a tallow flame flickered
  uncertainly.
  It was cold, bitterly cold.
  The sound of ice crushing under weight accompanied the progress
  of the fully loaded wagon.
  No one opened their mouths. The entire party remained silent as
  they advanced.
  Beside the wagon bed, the unsteady lamplight flickered,
  illuminating the horse’s thick neck and the back of the horseman who
  walked ahead, holding the reins.
  It was like a procession of corpses.
  There are many such stories.
  But the difference here was that in the line there was one who stood
  stock-still.
  The figure held no lamp, but rather a staff, perhaps to beat either
  the horse—or its master.
  That single person stopped and looked.
  And in the deathly, expressionless procession, only one face
  
  conveyed surprise.
  “Good evening.”
  The abrupt words echoed loudly, perhaps because of the frigid ai