Year of the Meteors

“Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!—lo! even here, one equally transient and strange!” ~ Walt Whitman

This year, a hale of meteors falls upon us like the retribution of those we’ve wronged, victims of genocide and spousal abuse alike. In Argentina, a man was struck down by a meteorite. It crashed through his ribs, cauterized the wound, killed him on impact. There was no sign of the rock; it had sunk into the earth. The Argentinians and much of the world took it as a message from God, that the man had been smitten.

For the first few seconds we met, all I noticed was her lips. They were full like two moons. I wanted to bite into them and suck whatever juices they held. The thought both repulsed and aroused me. I looked at her eyes and her hair next, and I was sad to find that she was very plain. Her eyes were gray and smooth like washed pebbles. No texture or depth to them at all. Her hair was coarse and unbrushed. The breasts weren’t amazing. If had seen any other part of her, I would have passed her by without another glance, but those lips…

There were cults. Lots of ’em. As our neighbors drank the Kool-aid, the grape soda, and the Mr. Pibb, we laughed. We all laughed as the world came falling down. What else could we do? It seems like the messenger for catastrophe is always Chicken Little. Sure, the news is terrifying, but who can take the bastard seriously? The smokers, the drinkers, they all killed themselves slowly, while the “sane” ones bit the bullet faster than an Ethiopian sprinter with a jet pack.

She looked burned out, like she’d been running around all her life and finally had the chance to stop. The dust kicked up behind her where she walked as if some small hammer had just beat itself into the Earth. “Was that a–” I started. She only smiled, pushing those reluctant lips deeper into her cheeks. I must have been seeing things, getting all hysterical over nothing.

We watched the religious wars on the T.V. Christians and Jews shot at Muslims. Muslims shot back. There was nothing different about them from before, except now people were shooting each other over whose interpretation of the apocalypse was correct. It was just an excuse, like everything else. All they ever wanted to do was shoot at each other.

When she leaned in to kiss me, my breath caught. I’d always closed my eyes before when I kissed a girl–it just seemed polite–but with her I kept them wide open. She must have sensed I was looking at her because she opened her eyes too. Those eyes, that had looked so bland before, were burning. I could see the burning trees falling onto burning people running into burning houses. I pushed her away. Her laughter split her perfect lips in two, exposing the hard, stained teeth beneath. I backed away and I’m glad I did. A meteor the size of a Buick flew out of the sky and swallowed her up. The aftershock broke my ankle and knocked the breath out of me.

When the year of the meteors had ended, everyone had their stories, their physical and emotional scars. Bridget’s poodle mix–yappy little shit–went up in smoke while she was taking it for a walk. Doug la Pier’s death shook everyone in town when one rock took him right in the head while he was passed out on his couch. None of the drunks crashed on the couch after that. Instead of kicking their husbands out, wives held their men closer. Everyone had a story after that year. But even in the midst of all that craziness, I wasn’t sure if my story was even real at all. I kept it to myself.