Friday, September 14, 2018


Bobby Derie

I found him on the grass outside, staring at the sky. His tea had grown cold.

"We missed it. I missed it." His eyes were wide, and tears trickled down out of the corners, toward his ears. "I didn't understand. They were always right, you see. Invisible to us, congregations of dark matter, beyond the range of our perception..." His mouth opened and closed, dumbly. "Black stars."

"Yes," I dabbed my handkerchief at his face. "I was wondering when you would understand. They have already awakened. They already left." She patted his shoulder.

Now he stared at her. "But...the cult. The idols."

"Cargo cults," she smiled sadly. "Things left behind. Like footprints and astronaut garbage on the moon."

"The dreams...Johansen's account! It can't be..." He saw her in a new light, then. No, he corrected himself, a new darkness. The night sky blended into the thick black curls of her hair; stars shined in the shadows of her face. Black stars...

"Echoes," the sad smile widened a little. "Semiotic ghosts. Things you want to see. Now come inside." A cold hand slipped into his own. "There is more to show you."


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