Author: Katlina Sommerberg
The wind rustled, drier than the dirt. The hazy moon cast its glow on the fields, but it wasn’t alone.
My mother’s stories mentioned lights that accompanied the fickle moon.
But these lights brightened. A green-blue ball, twice the diameter of my beak, carved a wake larger than the road.
I gave chase. Steam wafted off the meteor, and I pecked it out of curiosity.
The stone cracked like an egg, and a yellow ooze dripped out. The goo shivered, pooling together. The sludge slipped up my legs and coated my feathers down to the skin.
We merged; we became Aware. And I understood my ancestor’s lights still shined, but couldn’t pass through the clogged atmosphere.
We wanted the same thing. I wanted the lights restored, and to see the world how my great-grandmother saw it.
The ooze wanted humans destroyed. I understood.