everything was perfect.
I woke up to an outlandish scenario. There are no words to
describe what I saw when I opened my eyes. I am still shaking at the vivid
warm, and yellow-orangey in color viciously touched my skin. I can barely talk
about it; you will forgive me if I skip to a few hours later, when I had to
leave the house to drive my kid to school. I couldn’t let him, my precious
little boy, take the school bus. What if the driver went crazy? On the road, we
witnessed the first signs that the illness had already touched several minds.
People were shielding their eyes, and changing lanes without even noticing it.
Driving back was even more dangerous. I barely made it home.
my kids and I are barricaded in the basement, safely surrounded by the familiar
humid darkness. Two hours ago, I last heard from my husband. He was stuck in
his office, watching horrified as hordes of people wandered at street level. He
told me about the vacant eyes, and the addled expressions…
daughter has found an old battered radio. A confused voice is giving
suggestions on what to do until this inexplicable phenomenon lasts. I shiver.
The voice says that it will continue until Sunday. I cry.
From outside I can hear little kids, lost
to the world, enslaved by this madness the voice on the radio called… the Sun.
Monica La Porta is an Italian who landed in Seattle, eleven years ago. She writes, paints, and tries her best to take good care of her family and house. On the house front she is losing the battle, but she has a good excuse: her first novel is coming out of the drawer. Visit her blog.