The Meteor Showers

Meteor showers spray through the eye of a stray dog, lighting up the sky with the fierceness of a chimera gone wild. For a wink, these showers could pass for the real thing, but it’s obvious as the crystal shards fall flat on the ground and we see them for the human remains they are. It’s s a new kind of warfare this, where no politician hides behind his people. In fact, the new fire guns use the people themselves as bullets and cannonballs. Just because they’re broken, it doesn’t mean they cannot be useful. So, we get these 2 AM pretend meteor showers made of screams, fired up in the air as warning shots from our neighbors. Well, the dull anchorman from the plasma screen says we only have one neighbor we need to be afraid of, but I know better, you know better, everyone knows better. We’re all each other neighbors and there’s no stopping us. The Big Hum is opening somewhere and we can already feel the rock tissue pushing in on us. Let the showers begin.

Allen's Dream 2: The Crack in the Whiteness

But whiteness is not the end. In the distance, Allen can notice a crack in the whiteness, so thin it is understandable how he missed it initially. He floats to it, touches the crack, which really feels like it belongs to some wall, yet there is no wall and the crack floats freely in the air, much like Allen himself. He wonders for a second; scratches his head, particularly that itchy spot right above his right ear; and then tries for the clear shot: swings with his leg and smacks the crack right in the middle. Pieces of paint and concrete fall down in eternity and now there is a hole gaping back at Allen. There is something on the other side of the wall, and it has horns.

The Second Shard

Windows stay closed as a cold winter morning blows through the summer afternoon. The empty boulevards hiss with loneliness, the old white and yellow paint separating driving lanes growing paler with each breath. Shards of glass wiggle in piles here and there, and you can see wonderful human drawings painted and broken into their fabric. One piece holds an almost lifelike green eye; it even blinks from time to time. Another piece holds a breathing mouth, a third one is a finger pointing forever in a single direction, then twitching in a spasm of pointlessness. The afternoon gets colder, and as a crow flies over to summarize the leftovers of pretty much everything, it cows a single time, then breaks apart into a new glass puzzle, falls fifty meters down towards the asphalt, and piles up with the rest of them. A tiny glass kitty tongue tries to lick the crow’s feathers but it can’t reach that far, so it gives up eventually.