Two versions of something
Fragments
Someone has thrown blue glitter all over the parking lot. It sparkles against the tarred surface as though fragments of the bright autumn sky have shattered and fallen down to rest at my feet.
I look up to theorize about this problem. How could that brilliant, crisp sky have been broken? Were the winds of Autumn too strong last night? Perhaps a star fell through from the heavens, punching through the dome of blue above me. Maybe the atmosphere burnt the star to nothingness, but the sky’s shards made it to the ground nonetheless.
What will fall through next? Angels, perhaps, journeying to their final destinations atop Christmas trees. Something darker, maybe, from the outer reaches of space. Now that the perimeter to the planet has been broken, aliens could land just in time for Thanksgiving.
The breeze blows the glitter across my shoes and beneath a parked truck. I breathe in the cold air and resume the journey to my car.
Fragments
Blue glitter from a Vegas showgirl’s eyelids sparkles against the tar of the pavement. I glance up. Fragments of the spring sky have shattered and fallen at my feet.
Maybe the autumn winds were too strong last night. Now, bits of atmosphere cluttered my parking space.
Perhaps a star fell through, punching through the dome of blue above me. The star burnt to nothingness in the atmosphere, but shards of sky made it to the ground nonetheless.
What will come through next? Angels, perhaps, who’ve fallen from Heaven only to be skewered atop Christmas trees. Possibly something darker from the outer reaches of space? Aliens could land just in time for Halloween.
The breeze blows the glitter across my shoes and into a puddle where a cigarette stub floats.