The Shattered Sun
After the sun shattered, the sky was always dark. Sun bits stuck in trees and clouds. Emmeline looked at dim clocks and imagined twilights and noons. She walked below the empty sun paths. She tripped on roots. The darkness smelled of night. She sat on sun dials and pictured her own shadow. Sun shards swept past her on fast winds. She caught one in her hand and stared into its golden glow. It was warm. She put it in her pocket and took it home.
In her house, she clutched her piece of the sun in the chill gloom. She slept with it on her pillow. In the morning, she pressed it on a corner of her bedroom window and tried not to look at the black world beyond. She decided to hunt sun bits. She tip toed on rooftops and caught them with nets. She climbed towers and peeled them from weather cocks. She untangled them from storms. Her pockets overflowed and she knotted them into her hair. When she took them home, she pressed them on her windows. She covered all of the glass. She locked her doors. She stayed in her home in sunlight and pretended the sun was still whole.
Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and can be summoned by a cake signal in the sky. Her best friend is a dog who can count. Her stories have been published in 99 Pine Street, Rose Red Review, Axolotl Magazine, Wild: A Quarterly, Quail Bell Magazine, The Story Shack, and The Teacup Trail.
Cover Photo: Plaisanter (https://www.flickr.com/photos/plaisanter/)