Creative Writing

Shooting Star

//circa March 2016

A comet is flying, shooting past in the sky headed towards a planet. Rocks floating by keep hitting the comet, but it continues to speed towards its impending destruction.

The farmer, with his parched lips and muddy shoes, heads inside his home after a long day of tending to the fields. He walks along the old wooden floor to his kitchen, heads straight for the fridge, and pulls out his evening’s libation. Or at least the first of the evening. His bottle opener, which he fishes out of his pockets, jingles with the rest of his keys as he brings it to the bottle. And just as he pops off the tab, his finger slips and he slices his finger on the sharp cap.

The comet was picking up speed as it came closer to the planet’s gravitational field. It’s interesting to ponder at the birth of a comet. What is clear is enough energy and mass has to accumulate speed to be considered a comet. Small rocks aren’t, at least, called comets. When enough rocks clump together to form a mass large enough to be considered a comet, how do they gather speed? Is the speed a result of  all the crashing together?

Regardless of its origin, this comet was speeding towards the planet with nothing slow it down or stopping it.

Finger bloody, hand dirty, the farmer instinctively shoves the extremity into his mouth, tasting the leaves his hands were working with, and the iron in his blood. His large feet clomped over to the sink, and although the water came out almost as cold as ice, he shoved his hand under the sink, and washed it with an old bar of soap. His lips cracked from moving so quickly when he sucked on his finger, and a second bloody taste entered his mouth.

The comet catches fire as it enters the gaseous atmosphere of the planet, and in the last few moments, before impact, it was a beautiful, shining, shooting star.

He reaches for the brown bottle after drying his hands to wash out the taste of iron, and nature, and decides to go to his wife up the stairs and see how she is doing. Without taking his shoes off, he tracks mud up the stairs and into the bedroom.

The comet hits the planet with such great force, it shakes the ground for miles, and creates a crater half a mile in diameter.

As the farmer walks up his stairs, he hears a large thud which reverberates through the ceiling above him, and the stairs beneath him.

The trees surrounding the area catch fire, and the fire spreads quickly, headed in all directions, as fire does.

When the farmer makes it up the stairs, he sees his wife sitting at her vanity mirror, her soft skin glowing in the lights, her hair wrapped up at the top of her head. He goes to her, and then she stands up to embrace him, half a foot shorter than he. He reaches the hand not holding the bottle out to touch her face, then brings it to his to kiss her.

The heat from the night’s collision was high, and the fire crept towards the farmer’s large crop.

Her mouth tastes like sweat, and something else he couldn’t quite place, but he knew it was something he did not like. His hand tightens around her arm, and he shoves her back, staring inquisitively into her eyes.

The crops catch fire, burning the large, dense bushels of leaves. Smoke rises up and into the night, and into the windows of the house nearby.

The farmer looks up and sees the smoke at the top of the ceiling. As he turns his head back to his wife, who is now sweating slightly, he hears a noise come from the closet by the window. Then he hears another noise – a cough. Brow furrowed, he clamps on tight to his wife’s arm, and drags her behind him as his dirty shoes clomp towards the dresser. Ripping open the doors, he sees a young man, forehead sweating, eyes darting from whore to farmer.

Smoke begins to flood the room, and the air grows heated. Inhaling deep chestfuls, a relaxing sensation came over him, and after pouring back the rest of his beer, the throws the bottle at the man, grabs him by the arm, and throws the two onto the bed, one after the other.

The cannabis crops’ smoke spreads quickly to the whole house, and the weight of the scene grows deeper. Noises become clearer, and the farmer looks deep into his bag of tricks to pick a punishment for them.

The animals of the forest run away quickly from the burning embers, some entering the farmer’s home. A young wolf runs towards the home, but immediately, before it runs through the doorway, a burning ceiling shaft crashes and falls onto him, burning the him alive. His mother hears the cries of her young one, so she runs to the home.

“Fuck her.” the farmer’s words come out with spit flying.

“What?” the man asks, shocked and terrified.

“No!” the wife screams.

“Well that’s what you came here to do, for God’s sake. So take off your clothes and fuck her.”

Tears begin to pour down the wife’s glistening cheeks. She locks eye contact with the farmer and stays very still, her mouth wide open. The farmer leans down and slaps his wife. “I said fuck him, you whore! It’ll be the last goddamn thing you do.”

The two on the bed start to inch closer to each other, and before they embrace, the farmer bolts out the door, and puts a chair from the hallway in front of it to block their escape. As the farmer runs through the flames and out of the house, arms wrapped around his face to avoid the smoke inhalation, the wolf mother runs up to him, and tackles him to the ground, and starts to bite at his face and arm and body.

And the farmer screamed at the pain, but the only thought he had on his mind was, fuck, I’m too high for this shit. 


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