In celebration of today's eclipse (which was super cool, by the way--so much fun to go out with my family to see about 80% of the sun covered), I thought I'd share an old short story of mine, literally titled Eclipse. What better timing than now to post it? It's about the sun and moon falling in love. The story won a Scholastic silver key last year in the science fiction & fantasy category. Enjoy! :)
Eclipse
Once there was a painter. An artist so
whimsical and filled to the brim with raw talent, she could spread her arms
wide to welcome the world and paint stars across the universe. The night was
her canvas, a silky black that unfolded from the dying light of the brilliant
orb that shone as she slept.
But as the lazy summer faded into
crisp cold and the painter grew restless, something caught her eye. It was the
same blaze that burned on day after day, sinking deep into the array of
twinkling lights the painter had displayed that night. Puzzled, she took a
closer look as the golden rays slipped into slumber.
Hello? The painter called out,
reaching with swirls of silver, sweeping the brush across the miles for the
dazzling orb to see.
Is someone there? Came the
response, and the painter gasped at the voice, so beautiful, harmonious, that
it sent chills through her. A song worthy of a siren, she enchanted the artist.
Who are you? The painter
inquired, her words twisting in confusion.
Even with the vast distance between
them, she could see the singer's smile. It lit up her every feature, flaring
for the briefest of seconds before fading again.
I am the bringer of light, the one
who sings of days and wonder.
The painter stared for a good long
time, watching as the singer continued to dim and slip away. She couldn't tell
if the growing gap was due to the singer's fall or her own rise.
But what shall I call you? The
painter finally spoke, stretching even further now for her words to carry to a
place where the singer can see.
The beings below call me 'sun,' but
out here in the quiet you may use the name Clara.
Clara, the painter tested the
word, watching as the letters flowed and curled together, and feeling her own
lips tug into a smile. She liked the way the sun's name looked before her.
And what may I call you, queen of
the night?
This surprised the painter. Never
before had she even considered the concept of a name for herself. I don't
know, she replied. The beings below are fast asleep by the time I
stretch my limbs. I'm not even sure what they name me.
They speak of 'moon,' Clara hummed, her words soft and sleepy, a
lullaby. But you are not confined to the choices of others. You are allowed
to forge your own path.
So the painter pondered, hesitantly
brushed the wide range of silvers and blues and the other colors of sleep on
her canvas until she found a collection of whimsical letters she liked.
Lunette, the painter said. That
is my name.
Well, Lunette, I will bid you
goodnight for now. Clara's voice broke on a yawn, the once seamlessly
connected notes shattering as the night stole her from Lunette, before she
could even lift her brush for just one more word.
Lunette was restless as the night
stretched on. Clara spoke about the beings as if they were lively creatures,
which they were, the painter supposed, once the singer rose high into the sky
for another day. But now in the quiet of the black and silver, the canvas acted
as a warm blanket, a protection against the cold. No one stirred. The painter
brought wild, mesmerizing dreams to all she could reach in the hours she
surveyed the earth below. But once the first sliver of light was visible,
Lunette caught the eye of her fellow artist, so similar yet so far away.
Clara! She shouted into the early
morning, desperately trying to cling to the sky, to share it with her newfound
friend. But the universe was already dragging her down, her tight grip slipping
as only her fingertips hung from the blood red of dawn. Clara, wait!
The singer looked down at the painter,
features brightening even more when she saw her, the red of the sky softening
to a delicate pink. Good morning, Lunette.
Lunette's eyes were slipping closed,
blinking blearily at the sun. Her shimmer on the verge of blinding now. But
artists are a determined bunch, and she was no different. She managed to muster
up the energy for a few more lazy scribbles, barely legible enough for Clara to
read. Why must you wake when I'm so tired?
It is the way of the world, night
bringer. It is how it's always been.
But I don't like it! Lunette protested, her
words worthy of a petulant five-year-old's angry crayon drawing. She fought
sleep like it was her attacker rather than her savior giving her a gift. I
want to hear you sing. I only catch snatches. And the nights are so long and
lonely now. Why is that? They used to be short.
Clara's smile was small, the words of
her song stretched out in long, haunting notes. It made Lunette sad even before
the meaning of the lyrics registered in her foggy mind. Just the sound of it,
so clear and bittersweet, made her want to cry. I'm dying, sweet painter.
Soon my song must end, and quiet will fall again as winter's white blanket
settles around the earth.
It took Lunette an age to trace what
she was aching to say, feeling heavier than ever, and pained. You can't die.
It's not right.
I can, and I will. But summer will
come again and I will stretch and unfurl and fill the sky with joyous sounds.
Exactly! Your singing is so beautiful.
How will the world survive without it?
Not all art will be lost, Clara insisted, her voice
like a comforting hug, wrapping around Lunette to keep her warm and safe. They
will have you.
Me? Lunette scoffed, the bitter
edge to her words stretching out in smoky tendrils. You bring warmth and
happiness. With me comes the dark and cold. The beings below don't even open
their eyes to look upon the paintings I so carefully create. Few each moonrise
glance up. What do I bring?
Rest. Clara's lyrics were both an answer
and a command, her voice still in that lullaby-like quality. Peace and
comfort. The beings below can't truly appreciate either of our masterpieces
without the sleep you bring.
Our masterpieces? Lunette wasn't sure if
she'd heard the singer right. I'm not sure anyone looks at mine.
Do you not see the ones peeking from
behind their curtains? They're quiet, but they are there. The stargazers, the
dreamers, they all look with wide-eyed wonder as you unfold your inky canvas
dotted with light. Then, after a beat's hesitation, Clara flickered. The painter
recognized it as a bashful action, voice even quieter now. I look.
The heaviness became more manageable
now, lighter and easier for Lunette to widen her eyes in surprise. You do?
Yes. Each sunset, each sunrise.
Glimpses of it, but all the same, they leave me in awe. So delicate, so
beautiful. They are truly amazing, Lunette. You should be proud to possess such
a noble ability.
And Lunette fell into the deep blue,
calmer than ever before, her dreams sweet and crystalline.
Each day and night, dawn and dusk, the
painter and the singer exchanged brief words before one of them lost their hold
on the waking world. And inevitably, once the painter had put the finishing
touches on her work of art, she was left alone again. But it was worth the
loneliness just to make Clara smile when she woke.
Do you ever find that you have no
more ideas? Nothing more to create? Clara asked one crisp morning.
Lunette smirked. Once in a blue
moon.
Her laugh tinkled like wind chimes,
filling Lunette with more warmth and life than she'd ever felt before. But the
singer's voice was tired, hoarse from use.
How much time do you have left?
Lunette whispered into the sunrise.
Days. The solstice is upon us.
And what will happen when it comes?
I will burn one last time, for the
final song, before stepping out of the spotlight. And then you, my glowing
angel, will bring the world an unsung harmony.
But you will return?
Yes.
When?
In the morning, like any other day.
Lunette was perplexed by this. But if you
will return like any other day, how come you say that you're dying?
Clara smiled again, but Lunette found
that she did not like the way this smile looked upon her golden face. It did
not light up her features, but rather make them look grayer, sadder. This smile
was used to mask pain. There is a reason they call it morning, Lunette.
And why is that?
The song I sing the following dawn is
one sung at a funeral. I will return a different person, a different sun. Clara
will die, and from the ashes, like a phoenix, another will rise.
No! Lunette shouted, striking her paintbrush
through the canvas as she slipped away from the singer. I won't allow it!
You have to fight!
I will not fight. It is inevitable.
Then what of me? Why is it that I
must live to watch you die?
Lunette, Clara whispered,
reaching out with her warm touch, though her gentle fingers never reached
Lunette's face. The moon and sun, painter and singer, were just close enough to
see and speak but too far away to touch. It made Lunette feel as if she were a
palette only of gray. There is more than one solstice.
What do you mean?
Summer is the time when I shine
brightest.
I don't understand.
The moon was shocked and saddened to see a
tear drip down the singer's cheeks, glowing like embers now, a fire long gone. I
watched you rise that night. I saw the first painting you ever created, the
most wondrous display of stars the world has ever seen.
Why didn't we speak then? How come we
only know each other now?
Sometimes you just need to see someone
in the right light, Clara explained, brushing her hand against a stray star fighting its
hardest not to be washed away. The painting you brushed onto the canvas that
night for whatever reason caused you to notice my song.
Lunette hadn't realized she was crying until
now, when she felt an unfamiliar heat drip onto her hand still clutching the
brush. There were tears all down her face. With a shaking grip, she delicately
dipped into the most brilliant silver she had to paint the only thing she felt
mattered. All of her work, all of the stars, every constellation that ever was
and ever would be, would never compare to what she had to say now.
I love you.
The last thing Lunette saw was another
tear slide from Clara's eye onto the canvas, the star melting away into
nothingness.
The singer's songs were always sad
now, muffled by the clouds that accompanied her, barely a soul glancing up to
see why the world had gone so quiet.
Even Lunette's paintings looked more
like haphazard doodles now, hurriedly drawn as if on a deadline she'd forgotten
about. The zest she'd once had for it, the inspiration, was gone, lying in
shattered remains along with her heart.
You can't leave me, Lunette
sobbed with trembling, jagged lines the night before the winter solstice.
I have to. Clara's voice
cracked on the last word, shaking almost as much as Lunette's hands were in an
effort to keep herself together. You will find a way to carry on. You are so
strong, Lunette.
Not strong enough.
You will be.
I love you.
I know.
I thought love was supposed to be
enough to get us through anything. All the songs you sing speak of it.
Sometimes songs lie, Clara murmured, and her
glow was so faded now, she was able to pluck one of the stars from the sky as
easily as one might pull a berry from a bush, and cradle it in her arms like a
newborn baby. And sometimes endings are not happily ever after.
But how am I supposed to go on
without you when you were my once upon a time?
As you always do. You will paint.
And so the sun slept for one more night.
Lunette cried. Her tears were cold in the hush of winter's dusk, and she
watched them float down into the earth, turned into snow. Something so
beautiful should not be allowed when someone is so sad, Lunette thought. But
that was the way it was, and so snow it did.
Clara could not seem to bring herself
to sing louder than a whisper on the dawn of the solstice. Her voice itself was
sweet, but the words tragic, if anyone else bothered to listen. Lunette
listened for as long as she could. If these were to be the sun's last moments,
the moon would be her companion.
But even the painter was not strong
enough to resist sleep itself, and she rested for just a few hours before
opening her eyes to the cold, cruel world. Clara was already beginning to slip.
Don't go, Lunette begged her as
she reached as close as she could, even though she knew it was pointless.
I must. Clara's voice, once so
gorgeous, was barely audible now.
Lunette pushed, the ache in her broken
heart propelling her nearer, wanting, needing to hold the one she loved before
she was gone forever.
Kind moon, Clara said, eyes
only half open, her fire all but extinguished. Do not waste your energy on
what you can't change. Channel those emotions into the most amazing painting
the world will ever see. Do it for me.
Though Lunette's tears still fell into
snow, and her hands still trembled like earthquakes, and her paint was mostly
untouched, she did not stop reaching. She would not stop reaching. And
with a final shout of determination, an emphatic swish of silver against
the navy blue canvas, Lunette surged forward. And she was in the arms of the
one she loved most of all.
The painter was too stunned to say
anything. But the singer, always the crafter of words, smiled, sharing the
warmth she had left with her beloved.
You made it, she hummed.
I had to, Lunette said. But
how--
They call it an eclipse. Clara
gazed upon the earth, the beings below, bathed in pure white snow and shadow. It
only happens when the sun and moon share a connection so strong, the laws of
the universe itself can't keep the two apart.
An eclipse, Lunette echoed, and she
strung the words high above their heads for all to see, a silvery strand of
loving cursive.
Yes.
And when the painter found herself
using all of her strength to support the singer in her arms, trying to hold
her, keep her in the sky for just a bit longer, she knew what she had to do.
Rest, Clara, Lunette brushed
the words with care across the sun's closed eyelids, snow falling harder than
ever. I will paint you the most beautiful bed of stars anyone has ever seen.
I do not doubt it. Clara pressed her cooling
lips to Lunette's, holding her in one last embrace. Goodnight, Lunette. I
love you.
May the stars welcome you home.
And Lunette let her go.
That night, Lunette unfolded a fresh
canvas, one of the deepest blues so dark, it appeared almost black. But with
her set of paints at her side, the moon created a world of light from the
darkness, one that caused all the beings below to gaze up and gasp in awe. It
was by far her best masterpiece yet, one the suns who followed Clara's
footsteps would sing about for ages.
And just as promised, beauty rose from
the ashes. Sleep beckoned Lunette closer, but she resisted. Not in the bursts
of indignant energy she often used to avoid the rest, but a soft, pleading, Just
a few minutes more.
The new sun rose, bright and bold and
beautiful, a different kind of glorious blaze than Clara's, but a dazzling one
all the same.
Hello? She called out, in a
voice high-pitched and scared, but one filled with music just like the previous
singer's. Is anyone there? Where am I?
Hello, Lunette softly brushed
in front of the new sun, rapidly rising into the dawn.
There was a long pause, then she sang,
Sun. Yes, the beings below call me sun. But who are you?
I am the bringer of rest. I paint
peace and harmony across the night sky. The beings below call me moon.
Lunette hesitated for a moment, trying to recall what Clara had told her one
night, that piece of wisdom the painter thought this new singer would need more
than ever now. But you are not confined to the choices of others. You are
allowed to forge your own path. My name is Lunette.
You mean I'm allowed to pick my own
name?
You are allowed to do whatever you
please.
Just when Lunette thought that sleep
would claim her at last, she heard a soft, tinkling voice chime, Aurora. My
name is Aurora.
Did you watch the eclipse? How much of it did you see? Leave a comment!
