Raz
Bluelighter
The angels fell from the sky today.
The streets are littered with them. Their corpses lie on every building, every sidewalk, every intersection. Car rooftops around the city have been smashed from the force of impact of countless bodies plummeting at the speed of despair. Wherever they’re coming from, they have time to build up tremendous momentum before they hit. I suppose that eradicates any doubt that Heaven is far from here.
The angels are not the chisel-jawed Adonises popular culture would have us believe. They are men with the heads of beasts. Snaggle-toothed lions and oxen replace the golden creatures who were supposed to save us. Their naked bodies bear the scars of battles past, their fluids run thick and ichorous into our gutters. They smell like death already, though they have been here mere hours.
Their wings have been torn from their knotted backs. Blood-stained fragments of bone and feather jut forth from swollen and bruised skin. Some of them are still jerking spastically hours after landing, phantom appendages trying to take them home. Some of them still pump blood at random intervals. Some of them lie perfectly still, violently serene.
The fall of the angels is as sensational an event as one would imagine. They are inescapable. Every channel of communication is filled with theories, with data, with predictions and interpretations of ancient texts and attempts to disseminate the meaning from this Tragedy. Predictably, people around the world have been killing themselves in droves. Those who were struck by the plummeting dead things have become posthumous celebrities themselves, their lives dissected and analysed, cults formed in their names before they have been dead a full day.
The death of creation is heralded with a single burst of chaos and many failed attempts to find order. The pall of anticipation hangs heavy over all of us. We know only one thing.
There is worse to come.
The streets are littered with them. Their corpses lie on every building, every sidewalk, every intersection. Car rooftops around the city have been smashed from the force of impact of countless bodies plummeting at the speed of despair. Wherever they’re coming from, they have time to build up tremendous momentum before they hit. I suppose that eradicates any doubt that Heaven is far from here.
The angels are not the chisel-jawed Adonises popular culture would have us believe. They are men with the heads of beasts. Snaggle-toothed lions and oxen replace the golden creatures who were supposed to save us. Their naked bodies bear the scars of battles past, their fluids run thick and ichorous into our gutters. They smell like death already, though they have been here mere hours.
Their wings have been torn from their knotted backs. Blood-stained fragments of bone and feather jut forth from swollen and bruised skin. Some of them are still jerking spastically hours after landing, phantom appendages trying to take them home. Some of them still pump blood at random intervals. Some of them lie perfectly still, violently serene.
The fall of the angels is as sensational an event as one would imagine. They are inescapable. Every channel of communication is filled with theories, with data, with predictions and interpretations of ancient texts and attempts to disseminate the meaning from this Tragedy. Predictably, people around the world have been killing themselves in droves. Those who were struck by the plummeting dead things have become posthumous celebrities themselves, their lives dissected and analysed, cults formed in their names before they have been dead a full day.
The death of creation is heralded with a single burst of chaos and many failed attempts to find order. The pall of anticipation hangs heavy over all of us. We know only one thing.
There is worse to come.
