They begin to fall faster, the sky nearly half empty. Or perhaps half full.

There they go one by one. Two by two. Three by three. Glittering, golden balls of fire that

fall faster, faster, and faster. Where do they come from? Where do they go? Is there actually a

man named Cotton Eye Joe?

Do they crater lawns, decorated and dolled up with pyramids of plastic Phoenicopterus’

planted in the soil. Do they fall to Lake Erie and suffer as they realize that they have no clue how

to swim and must wait, lungs aching, eyes blurring, mouths bubbling, and wings fluttering as

they sink to the deep, dark, deathly depths of the lake.

Wings of birds are meant for flight.

Is it odd for an old blue Chevy to watch the world end from a field?

I bet Gabriel brought his stupid harp with him. He never could let the thing go, I for one

believe the fiddle to be more fruitful. It is as they say, I bet a fiddle of gold against your soul.

‘Cause I think I’m better than you”

Them Crosby’s down the street in their old doomsday device have driven off in

destination of a world that ain’t damned like here. It’s radio screaming, “The Devil went down to

Georgia,He was looking for a soul to steal.” But I’ll tell you deary, I’m right here. Why go

searching for a soul when one could wait for them all to fall to your feet.

Two more stars shudder from the sky. Mikey and Raphael. Those two were always a pain

in the feathers.

A shudder runs through the earth, as though it had been struck by a very large,

disruptive force. A scream of a wavelength only those of the sky could hear rips through the

atmosphere like they cry of a newborn child.

‘Did it hurt?’ I ask the sky. The remaining stars seeming to shrink away from my

impending gaze.

‘Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?’

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