By Wendy BooydeGraaff
The sun rises sad. Everyone uses her light as a euphemism for goodness. Shine a light on the problem. Let the sun in. Get a little sun on these old bones. All of it sounds right to say, but then why today is everyone holding ceremony in anticipation of the moon moving in front of her. Why are people, those sunburned souls, taking the day to stare at the bleached moon as it tracks across the daylight sky, the moon who can’t shine a light on anything of his own accord. The moon who darkens the sun, who at best can only reflect a two-dimensional circle once every twenty-eight days, and only because she, the sun, levitates her brightness beyond the curve of the earth. A moon who will stand in her way and flaunt his coolness.
People speak of the sun and moon in the same breath as if they are equals, but today, when he steps in front of her, she will shine harder than ever, pushing those rays out past the flat dark outline of the moon. She will prove her strength and beauty if it’s the last thing those human retinas see.
Wendy BooydeGraaff’s work has been included in Miracle Monocle, The Brooklyn Review, New World Writing, Popshot Quarterly, and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in descant, Broadkill Review, Inkwell, and Hermine. Wendy’s short fiction has been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and the Best Small Fictions anthology.