Lola Mae

Lola Mae won the 200 Subscribers Competition. Check out her blog, Lola Mae Writes and be sure to subscribe!

Below is her snippet, Dreaming of Dawn, that won the competition.

Sand In Her Eyes

The boy had waited two hundred and thirty seven days for the sun to rise. 

Sitting at the edge of the sea, watercolor sketchbook in his lap, he’d painted darkness. The boy painted the dark indigo sky that stretched out before him, the stars weakly glimmering, the moon hiding behind the clouds, filling the pages with the view from the cliffs, dreaming of dawn. 

Never did he paint the sun, because he knew it had to come back—and painting it would make it seem like he didn’t need it anymore.

So he waited. His dog laying beside him or chasing butterflies in the fluttering grasses, the boy waited.

No one knew why the sun had disappeared. It had sunk below the ocean one day, never to rise again. At least, that’s what people said. They laughed when the boy said, “Maybe the sun will come back.”No one believed it would return. 

Except for the boy. He knew the sun would rise, someday. So he painted the night, watercolor pallet set on a rock next to him, sweet, salty wind whispering across his face.

Sometimes, he’d leave his art to run through the grasses with his dog. Sometimes, he’d creep into the market to buy meat and a loaf of bread. Sometimes, he’d set aside the sketchbook to lay on his back, his dog resting a breath away, tail wagging in her sleep, and gaze up into the dark sky, dreaming of morning. 

Dreaming of when the sun would rise again.

Every day he sat, painting and listening to waves crashing against the rocks far below him. Watching the horizon for even a glimmer of sunlight. 

But after months of not seeing the sun, the boy began to doubt. What if it never came back? What if his world was dark forever?

So the boy painted the sun. He didn’t care if the sun thought he didn’t need her anymore. He just wanted to see bright colors—he just wanted to see light. He called his loyal dog to him, and, murmuring, “Forgive me if the sun doesn’t rise,”into her warm, fluffy fur, he mixed new colors into his palette. No more blue, no more black, no more purple. Instead—pink, orange, yellow. 

The boy painted dawn. And as he stroked his brush over the paper one last time, light fell on his sun he’d painted. His dog barked—a sound full of joy. The boy stared in disbelief at the page before him. Light coming from above the sea. Could it be?

The boy looked up. And he saw the sun.

A thousand shades of pink and yellow painted the morning sky. It was just like his painting, only better. Brighter. Real. 

“It came back,” he whispered to his sweet, faithful dog. Then he rose to his feet, setting down his first painting of the dawn, and stood at the edge of the cliffs, laughing out over the sea. “The sun came back!”

The boy watched as the sun rose again.