The sky is falling
The end of the world was at hand and already my friends had succeeded in killing the gods. We ate their hearts and wore their flesh, taking into ourselves their aged powers (half-potent, but power nonetheless) and soon we were shooting arrows at the stars, our mouths were like black holes, drawing the luminous bodies down with booming voices. One by one they fell, scorching the crust of the earth, dividing the oceans like a torn blanket sheared by a child’s scissors. And the angels, they wept – sadder for themselves than anything else, now having no gods to obey, no orders to carry out, having known nothing else but belief – their wings dull, their skin muddied from lamentation. They gnashed their silver teeth and cried like floating rags in the night sky. Down below, believers prayed for salvation to their deadened gods. We felled their altars and churches so they took to forming temples from mounds of soil, whispering their prayers as they built the walls.
Look, my friend says, pointing to the sky.
It is empty, now – we have destroyed the stars.
Now, no one will see reason to believe in the past.
He smiles in victory but I say No, there is still the moon, aiming my arrow at the smiling crescent, the last sliver of heaven.
