this is flash fiction.

the weather dooms a horrifying black smoky aura in the poor village in the last tribe of the south island.
 
alarmed by the news that echoed from the city, where televisions are one swipe away, the villagers howled with fear as they caged their cows and chickens.
 
the radio news plays on the shore, where wives are collecting fish from the net. it's the news about the coming solar eclipse, which was hypothesized to burn down the village or expose everyone.
 
all is panicked.
 
all are startled, like there's an approaching lahar—the same trauma they had twelve years ago.
 
an old man, who knows not to write nor read but only understands when a flock of ducks fly over the nipa hit as a sign of catastrophe or the dark orange sun with rainbows is a guide to upcoming bad luck, hides his face in his thirty-year-old bamboo house.
 
this poor man looked down his weak window to witness how the villagers ran in one direction.
 
to be continued.



© ubik


[image take from freepik.com]
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