Goodbye Sun

By Angela Wharrier

A yellow spaceship… Who woulda thought?

Green, yes. Gray even. And silver—definitely. But never yellow… And yet, there it is.  The same bright, sexy yellow of the Porsche that emblazons his bedroom wall.

Dean cocks his head as he takes in the size of the thing, the bike he is straddling momentarily forgotten. Dean’s never been good with measurements and estimates, as is evident in the D he received for that particular math test, but the surrounding trees give him a good idea of its height. The pines around here are pretty old and really tall, especially to a yet-to-have-his-growth-spurt eleven-year-old, and the spaceship’s shiny sun-reflecting domed top is peeking out amongst them.

Is it even a spaceship? I mean, it looks like one, with its smooth reflective cover, and the shape is definitely spacey—like four globes pushed together so there’s one on top and two to each side. And it’s floating!

Dean swings his leg over the seat of his bike and standing, mesmerized, lets the handlebar fall from his hands. Kneeling down, he inspects the huge, yellow underbelly and sees the gap between it and the grass. None of the planes at the airport do that… and I’m pretty sure they involve noisy engines and going really fast, whereas this thing is silent….

Other than the wind rustling the trees and the occasional droning bee, the only thing Dean hears is his heart thumping in his chest.

What should I do?

Dumping his bike in the grass, Dean walks around the floating behemoth. Mouth dry, he tries to swallow but just tastes the sickly remnants of his cheese slaw sandwich. His pulse is speeding through his veins as he looks closer.

No windows. No doors that he can see. Just a level surface, no breaks.

How long has it been here? Last time he’d cycled in the area was at the start of summer vacation a month ago. And it definitely hadn’t been there then.

Dean places a hand on it. Cool, firm, smooth. Ducking his head, Dean moves underneath, crouching as he gets toward the center. Still no marks…

“…and we need to go. This place is too open.”

At the sound of the voices, Dean’s head snaps up, almost hitting the yellow craft. He sees two pairs of legs step out from among the trees, not far from where he had emerged only ten minutes ago, heading toward the craft.

Dean drops to the ground, lying flat, hoping the grass and the sloping shape of the ship will hide him. As the people stride toward the yellow bulb—and him—their voices become louder.

“It was an emergency. Besides, no one comes up here anyway.”

Why aren’t they freaking out? Can’t they see it? 

Shoot. His bike is lying in the grass. If they look left, they’ll see it. Their legs come into focus —one pair in brown trousers and black shoes, the other in skinny jeans and Converse sneakers. They seem engrossed in their conversation and in too much of a hurry to notice a kid’s bike lying around.

 “Well, we got it. That’s the main thing… Let’s get it back.”

Dean freezes as he recognizes the second voice. It can’t be. He lifts his head and peers again at the legs. The Converse shoes. The black sneakers seen everywhere. But not the laces. These are neon yellow. The very ones he watched his mother carefully thread through last summer.

What is she doing here? And why can’t they see it?

Dean slowly kneels, keeping his eyes on the legs, then creeps at a half squat, hoping to get a better view.

“What about the kid?” the man says.

“He’ll be on Unsolved Mysteries in a few years wondering where his mom went. It’s no big deal.” The voice was his mom’s but it wasn’t. The accent, the tone, the depth were identical, but this wasn’t the voice that sang him nursery rhymes to go to sleep or told him he’d be okay when he fell and hurt his knee. The warmth, the love, the humanness weren’t there.

“Harsh… but fair.”

Dean is almost at the outer edge of the craft. From here, he can see up to their chests.

This woman is wearing his mom’s jeans and his mom’s pale-yellow jacket, the one with the rip at the side where it caught in the car door.

“We’re clear for transfer!” the voice from the mom-impersonator states.

Suddenly both figures start to shimmer, a golden hue encapsulating them.

And then… gone.

Dean emerges cautiously from underneath the floating ship. He is alone. Just him and the vast yellowness remain.

“Mom?” he calls and then louder. “Mom!”

Backing toward his bike, eyes on the yellow shine, watching for a sign of movement.  The stillness irritates him. Scares him. Panic invades his mind, blinding him momentarily. He blinks it away.

Dean grabs his bike and speeds home, lungs burning from the effort.

Running through the front door, he screams, “MOM?  MOOOOOMMMMM?”

Nothing. But she’d been here earlier today. She should be here preparing lasagna like they always have on a Saturday, singing off-key to the Golden Oldies radio station. His heart races as panic grips him again. No Dad to turn to, not since he left when Dean was four, barely a memory.

An idea. Dean sprints out to his bike and goes back the way he came, fast at first then slowing as the realization of what he might find hits him.

This time he dumps his bike in the trees and walks toward the clearing. The sun is on its way down, bright shards of light flicker through the leaves.

He’s at the opening. No more yellow.

Dean is all alone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angela Wharrier is a slightly nerdy individual who enjoys quiet time with a jigsaw, a good book or with her laptop seeing where her imagination takes her.  A fan of sci-fi and dystopia, her lifelong dream is to play a zombie.  Writing allows her to explore new worlds and also revisit her own past adventures in different and unique ways.