Author: Vaughn Simmonds

The first thing the villagers saw was a tiny black dot in the sky. It wasn’t moving. As more noticed, murmurs spread through the crowd. Nobody could tell what it was.

They went to their wise woman, hunched over the dying embers of a fire. She did not turn, remaining huddled in her dark shawl. ‘Look again. See if you notice anything different.’

Puzzled, the villagers did as she said. They went back out into the muddy courtyard, the breeze flicking at their ramshackle cloaks. The dot did not seem to have changed, although slightly more of it could be seen. When they went back to the wise woman, she told them to go away. They did as they were told but were disgruntled.

They went back to their normal routines. Occasionally one tried to bring the topic up with the wise woman; they were always ignored. Time passed, and the villagers stopped caring.

One day, when two children were playing outside, they noticed something. The dot was bigger than when they had last seen it. They tried to tell their parents but were ignored. They trudged back home in silence, and it was forgotten.

Every day, the two children played outside, and every day, the dot was just a tiny bit bigger, but they no longer paid it any heed. It was a part of the world now, and the villagers no longer even glanced up at it. Life went on. The children grew into adults; the adults had their own children and became soon became grandparents.

One day, many years after the two children had noticed that the dot was bigger, they lay in bed. They were old, frail, and close to death, and they decided they wanted to see the sun one last time. Their bed was wheeled outside, and they gazed up at the setting sun. The warm breeze comforted them, the aroma of luxurious delicacies wafting over from the bakery, and they were happy.

Then they noticed the dot.

It was very big now, covering half the sky. It almost blotted out the sun. They shouted, and the villagers looked up, and panicked. They went to the wise woman, who was a lot older but still alive. Her fire was still going. They begged for help and guidance, and she shooed them away. They went to the old grandparents lying in the bed, but they had died of fright.

Months passed, with the dot only moving gradually, but the villagers were more aware of it now. They lived their lives in fear, terrified of what would happen when the dot reached them.

And one day it did.

It crashed, but slowly. The villagers had time to react. It fell like it had always fallen; taking days to move even slightly. The villagers could have easily fled the village. But they found that they could not.

They were routed to the spot like statues. Each one waited, petrified, trying but unable to escape as the object took days to gradually fell them. The houses first were knocked aside like toys as it continued its slow descent. Then, the villagers were too. It took years of waiting in fear, but eventually, they were all felled, knocked unceremoniously to the ground. They could not get back up.

The child looks up, a huge grin on his freckled face. His parents watch him. ‘Mummy! Daddy! I rolled a six!’