Louis Biggs was the first to know about the comets. He awoke at 5am struck by a glittering vision: a commission for a machine salvaged from his fast receding dreams. It seemed to be a patent for him to claim.
He set to work immediately, nailing egg-boxes to a rough circle of trees and hanging unstruck matches in an ascending spiral from a central point. He cast a floor of broken slate for his henge, up from which sprung origami flowers that swayed in opposing directions, all primary colours against the grey.
The impossible vibrations of an imagined resonance sent murder after murder of crows into the sky, all collecting together and harassing the tree tops. Unsettled starlings zigzagged uncertain paths by the barn. Wayward muntjack herded close and stampeded nettles and brambles and thistles to make new trails. Louis wondered: perhaps they are the storied ancestors of unborn fowls making their mark on the landscape while it is still so vulnerable, so unique... but they didn't know.
Louis knew about the comets. He tossed salt and sand and sunflower seeds, disturbing the matches and staining the flowers; clattering an absurd rain on the slate until he was sure.
One thousand comets, each thirty miles wide and more, certain to strike the earth.
They could have been sent by used car salesmen, jealous lovers, introverted school children, angry gods, drunkard parents, by chance and with malice, for the glory and advancement of all creation, sent spiralling from star to star in a carnival of light and destruction, or never sent at all.
As the sun set, the resonance faded and Louis Biggs made his peace with the stars.
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3 comments:
I love the comets stories.
Just so long as the next episode doesn't involve 1000 cloned copies of Bruce Willis's simultaneously blasting off each with a team of oil riggers to divert the comets . . .
Actually I do make mention of Bruce Willis.
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