Greg whispered as he poked his sleeping father in the eye. Standing on his tiptoes he had just enough stretch in his fingers to reach the edge of his dad’s left eye. He had wanted to peel back the lid to see if his dad was faking, but he couldn’t manage it. So, he poked. Several times.
A giant hand emerged from under the covers to fly-swat Greg’s fingers away. With a grumble and a series of popping joints, the sleeping giant rolled closer to the eagerly awake child.
“Daddy,” he whispered again, prying open the man’s right eye and peering into its depths, a wild grin dancing in time with his mischievous eyes. “Come on, it’s starting. Come and watch with me, please.”
There was urgency in Greg’s tiny voice and that, more than having his eye prodded, roused the father from slumber. “What is starting?”
“The sky is being reborn!” The excitement in Greg’s voice carried it from whisper to shout and bounced the words around the four walls of the bedroom.
Unseen, stealth under the covers, Greg’s mom gently shoved her husband towards the edge of the bed, encouraging him to get up and take their child to watch the sunrise and leave her in peace to catch a few more minutes of peace, or face the consequences.
Slippers on, yawning, Greg’s dad shuffled from the room, haltingly being pulled by the exuberant boy. He longed to stop and fill his hand with a warm mug of coffee, but time would not allow such indulgences. The porch beckoned. Morning was coming quickly.
“What do you mean, ‘the sky is being reborn?'”
The mumbled words might have seemed unintelligible, but Greg had no problem deciphering their meaning. He’d had five years to learn the language of sleepy Daddy. “Oh Dad, stop being silly.”
“No, really,” he rubbed his eyes and closed the screen door behind him as he stepped into full consciousness, “what did you mean by that?”
“Well, every night the sky dies, right? So, every morning it must be reborn!” Greg was practically jumping in anticipation of the revival.
His father, on the other hand, scrunched up his face into the same one he made when he claimed his head hurt sometimes on the late afternoons of days that had run too long. “The dying sky…?”
A moment later as the first hint of orange caressed the horizon and began to push away the dark, life over taking death, understanding dawned. “Greg, night is just night, the sky doesn’t actually die!”
Greg was too engrossed in the miracle he was witnessing to hear his father’s words.
I’ve been meaning write something happy and silly for a couple days, and this week’s Inspiration Monday prompts provided the perfect opportunity:
There are none. Read the prompts, get inspired, write something. No word count minimum or maximum. You don’t have to include the exact prompt in your piece, and you can interpret the prompt(s) any way you like.
No really; I need rules!
Okay; write 200-500 words on the prompt of your choice. You may either use the prompt as the title of your piece or work it into the body of your piece. You must complete it before 6 pm CST on the Monday following this post.
THE DYING SKY
FOR THE LAST TIME