The hour slotted, the sky mottled and filled to near bursting with immense, oily, slithering yellow blobs; like viscus organic matter viewed under a microscope. A distant toll announced sunset, when everything turns to dark silhouette and the horizon briefly glows a cool melange of pastel pinks and purples before bleeding into a dark indigo and the stars glisten in black satin.
But this twilight changed. A burnt, orange-yellow churned the setting sun into a broken egg yoke. Green’s from the earth hemorrhaged into the last gemstone blue of the sky as yellow crude filled the stratosphere like a glass fishbowl overflowing with dead goldfish. This sudden transformation made everything look small, the oblique magnification dwarfed everything below, turning black silhouette’s into charcoal sketches on a matchbook cover.
Spilled finger paint, dripped to the earth, running in stringy globs over an invisible edge. Once again the world was revealed to be flat, mocking all scientific thought and hypothesis, proving it’s not what you believe, only that there must be a capacity to believe. The skeptics screamed,gnawing at the gristle and bone of their fingers in terror. The faithful lay down and were molded, drown in a darkening celestial coagulant.
Processional change is different each time the calendar ends.
All The Stories 