The Sun Weilders

1

  

I knew it was a dream. But it didn’t seem like one. It felt…familiar. It was heinous, odious, sickening. The sun scorching the world, leaving only charred remains of people and a barren wasteland. A pang of guilt rose in my chest as I dreamed. Why is this so familiar? And who would do something like this?

I woke up in a fit of rage, hands gripping the sheets, my face drenched in sweat. Tears threatened to spill, but I refused to let them. Why was I so emotional about a dream?

As I got up I realized what day it was. The first day of school. I hurried to get dressed, pulling on an old sweatshirt and jeans. Dressing up was never my sort of thing.

I found my grandmother sitting in her usual maroon rocking chair by the fireplace. I lived with my grandmother. My parents had never been around.

I rushed to eat my breakfast, which plainly consisted of a few pieces of bread.

I realized that the embers from last night’s fire hadn’t been put out yet. As I went over to the fireplace, I saw a piece of paper sticking out of the light gray ashes. I pulled it out, trying to determine why a perfectly crisp white piece of paper was in the ashes of a fire. I then realized that the damper hadn’t been closed the night before. Someone could have easily dropped a note down the chimney.

But why?

I didn’t have time to read the contents of the paper, so I casually stuck it in the front pocket of my jeans.

My grandmother plainly nodded her head when I told her goodbye. The woman barely heard half of what I say. But I still loved her.

As I closed the scintillating red door of my house, the sun was barely peeking over the treetops of my neighborhood.

An old black pickup truck rounded the corner, and a puff of black smoke promulgated the morning air from a pipe. My mouth turned up at the corners when I saw my best friend behind the wheel. The feeling of despair lifted a little, replaced by excitement. 

He pulled up into my small driveway, his truck sticking out a few feet into the street. I ran up to him as he was opening the door and hugged him.

“Crimson!” I exclaimed as I pulled out of our embrace. He was beaming, probably because we hadn’t seen each other in over a month. He was a supervisor at a summer camp in Idaho. I resided in Montana.

“You really think you were going to drive to school? You don’t have your license yet,” he said. I looked at the ground, trying to think of a response.

“It was better than letting Grams drive me. At least I can see half of the road,” I joked.

“Okay. Get in. We might make it in time for lunch,” he said, making me laugh. It was always our tradition on the first day of school to get there extremely early. We liked to see how much kids had changed over the summer.

I got in, brushing papers and food wrappings from the passenger seat. His electric guitar sat in a red case in the back seat.

He started the engine up with ease. “So,” he started, “any new going on?”

I considered telling him about the note, but decided against it. “Nah,” I shrugged.

“Any friends made over the summer?” he asked, a smile forming.

“Believe me, no one would want to be friends with someone like me,” I frowned and looked down.

Crimson shot me a look but remained silent. He whistled as we drove the rest of the way to school in an awkward silence. I didn’t mind the silence, though. It gave me time to think about the dream.

I was standing in a circle of fire. My hands had fire in them. However, the fire didn’t hurt. It felt like an odd tingling sensation traveling up my arms. I looked out at the street in front of me. Bodies littered the streets, some stacked into piles. And the sun, so close to the Earth, too close, turning clockwise slowly. I couldn’t shake the feeling that all this was somehow… my fault.

We pulled into the parking lot, which had seen better days. We parked in the very back row. As Crimson was obviously taking his time, so I pulled out the note that was in my pocket. I unfolded the paper, and it read:

P. M. Schmidt

1935 Em

2nd Shack behind the Restaurant

MT 45545

I stared at the note written in a beautiful calligraphy font.

i hadn't noticed Crimson had hopped back in the truck. I let him read the note, though.

 "Looks like an address," he commented.

"2nd Shack behind the Restaurant," I contemplated, "I think we should check it out."

And he just smiled.