And she fell.
Once glistening cheeks now burned in
fiery pools that drew moisture from her cavernous mouth: dry coals piling onto
her burning skin. Had it been moments, or millennials, that she had been
falling, dying? Submerged in blackness, her luminous breath exhibited a rag
doll body: waif arms, dangling like the cotton creatures that adorn a cot’s
mobile; legs in another dimension to their pilot’s pleas. She was not even an
idyllic beach’s grain of sand in this atmosphere, swamped under the current.
More of a minute paint fleck, which no artist’s familiar eye could ever detect,
even as they gazed for weeks at their drying portraits.
Yet, she was moving particles,
sculpting history: one insignificant plankton, scuttling under the weight of
the colossal sea, was still enough to aid a malnourished creature’s plight of
life. Would her own electric form create ripples around the country from car
crash collisions? Could her presence on this unexceptional night create just
one exception?
Maybe someone would wish upon this falling star, as she fell to Earth.
Short piece about a shooting star, falling from a (Christmas) wish...
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