Slow

Is this an Earthquake?

Geoff wakes with ears ringing, nose bleeding, chest aching. His back is on the ceiling. He opens his eyes onto a stricken Earth. His bed falls slowly to his left, drifting out of sight. Geoff can see the deep curve of the planet’s edge as he hangs in space. A new gulf has been torn out of the Western shores of Africa, while a jagged tear rips the US East Coast cleanly in half nearly to the center of the continent. Geoff struggles to breathe in the thin, cold air, mind reeling.

Slow: A broken up window with a white pane laying on top of rubbleGeoff can feel himself spinning. The moon comes into view. Unnaturally large, it fills his entire line of sight. The glow from it illuminates the shattered remains of gouged out cities, forests, and millions of lifeless bodies adrift in space with him. Parts of the moon are clouded by the gutted wound of an injured Earth. Glacial chunks of water drift frozen and steaming, aquamarine slabs framed by the deep black of space. Then the heavens inhale. The ice, the bodies and all the other remains lurch toward something. Geoff feels pressure pushing him back. The ceiling tears apart, and Geoff screams as it rips its way around him.

The moon blinks. A turbulent force tightly grips Geoff, pressing his chest.  The moon moves away from him, tilting. A star shaped pupil splits open, exposing a glassy lens that points into a blackness from which no light can escape. The creature’s body is knotted and serpentine, its skin forever changing in color and texture, matching the background fabric of space. A dozen angry nuclear blasts light the sky. All their power and light is swallowed as quickly as they bloom.

Sated, the aberration leaves. Geoff falls slowly. He slams into the wreckage of another person’s home, next to the broken remains of a wooden framed window. Unable to talk, to think, to cry, Geoff stares at the moon until his eyes burn, waiting for it to blink.
 

 

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