"Misinterpretation" Flash Fiction Contest Winners / November 2012 (Issue 19)


Eclipsed

by Angelo B. Ancheta

At six a.m., our pet rooster didn't crow. Grandpa used to tell me that if there is no crowing, the sun won't rise. With me looking out the window is my six-year-old sister Emily. We were both waiting for the sunrise, but when she saw the super moon, she started crying and hurried towards her room.

Mom kept telling me last night before she left, "Do not talk to strangers. Don't leave Emily alone." But it's already seven, and she's not yet home, as she said she'd be. I tuned in to the TV news to find out if others had noticed about the sun. Nobody had. I turned it off and looked out the window again. In place of the moon was a sparkling silver ship forming concentric circles of blinding light. A woman clad in an immaculate white cloth came out and stretched out her hands. She seemed to be reaching out to me, but I felt my heart thud, so I turned around and shut the window.

I lay on the couch and closed my eyes for some time until a ray of light touched my borehead. The rooster should have crowed, but it remained quiet.

I worry about Emily and where mom could be, but my eyes are getting heavy. I hope the sun won't rise anytime now.
 
 
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