Sky Fall
Mo Ali

This is what happened when the sky fell.

Listen closely.

When the sky fell it blinded all of creation with its liquid light, fire burning the cerulean convex like pure insight in a fool. Flowers began blossoming copiously upon aqueous membranes, a retinal sledgehammer for a multitude of skulls that fled this impending destiny mushrooming over all food-chains, severe intent buried in deep destructive eyes.

Boundaries began shrieking almost immediately, a pre-emptive siren catching like some media plague.

Fractal rainbows skipped upon active waters like delirious messiahs, the tides inverting and recoiling sharply to broken vertices of heaven that battered terra firma, dolphins crying those fat glassy tears of the misunderstood and misinformed, winding down to their obsidian sanctuaries to grieve for an aeon or so.

Arachnid signatures grew and intersected at a swift rate across fragile synaptic pathways with all the discretion of a super cancer, the incredible weight of realization snapping many vertebrae without hesitation, remorse, or indeed effort.

Burnt seraphim hurtled downwards locked in vast aerial combat, physics bending unwillingly to their titanic power struggles and Pyrrhic victories, incandescent pugilism shattering fields of ripe eardrums with a concentric serration.

The deadly fallout sprayed acid-like over cowering land masses, equilibrium yielding to the whirlwind flavour of a spent banner, both bloodied and useless.

Terrible lizards bellowed an ephemeral rage with cold defiance but relented as the dense grip of extinction took hold of them and clenched; a googol hearts imploding in their fleshy abodes, the cacophonous whispers and foetal musings of what could have been withering away like so much reptilian genius.

The cumulative flutter of tiny gossamer wings a lonesome and stark murmur against the backdrop of a quickly collapsing stratosphere, fractured trepidation reverting to a pinpoint acoustic that resounded over and over against the ether walls. A lack of atrophy to dissipate the terrifying mantra as it sliced into meaty thresholds with the efficiency of a quantum scythe, burnt chrome aftertaste clogging perception the way good propaganda should.

Soon flights of fancy dissolved rapidly into frenzied attempts at escapology, the dark magenta visage humming along to the screams of organic projectiles seceding, evolution unable to keep up with the demand imposed upon its delicate paradigm.

Weeping poppies the colour of the violated oceans, cumulus shrouds wreathing a blinded Sun immediately abdicating its massive throne.

Harmony a dissolving myth as the terror fully aligns, the fallen casting static ash shadows across grim expressions, wormholes trying to form vowels, the bloom of igneous kisses within seas of non-tranquillity.

Not all lost though within this ruptured sphere of possibilities. Flotsam arks navigating the curved edges of the abyss, bundles of green plankton, tentacles shaped in victory signs and more.

A blessing for those on the narrow end of things, with raw eyelids parting to sample the new dawn, comprehension measured only by means of parallax and sweet, sweet relief.

That’s what happened.

More or less.

Mo Ali was born in a haunted hospital and has exceeded all expectations and kept breathing. A writer, poet and artist, he needs to find some paid work before the inevitable apocalypse. To make matters worse, he lives in England. He is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author. Visit him at www.moali.co.uk.