The Stars Don’t Fall Here Anymore
By Alexandra Erin
The stars don’t fall here anymore. Sometime, one night three summers ago, they started giving our planet a miss.
What’s that old joke? They’re called meteorites when they hit the earth because if they missed they’d be meteor-wrongs.
Well, something went wrong, somewhere, because the stars no longer fall here anymore. If you go out into the countryside on a clear night during the Perseids or Leonids, you can watch them streak across the sky and then zig-zag off, pull a u-turn, bugger off to go streak across some other sky.
There’s less and less of them every time, too. It’s like word gets around, somehow.
No one knows how to feel about it. On the one hand, maybe it means we can all stop worrying about ever going the way of the dinosaurs, but on the other hand, maybe we shouldn’t be worrying about death from above when there’s something so wrong with the ground under our feet that rocks and dust and chunks of stuff from everywhere else have started taking a pass on it.
The stars don’t fall here anymore. No one knows why, or how, or what to do with this information, and now the stars in the sky have started winking out, one by one, a few hundred over the course of the night every night. The moon, bound by tidal forces to show her same face for billions of years, has started to inch around. Some people say she’s started revolving, but I think deep down we all know she’s turning her back on us.
Even the sun is a little colder.
The scientific implications would be profound, if only anyone could make sense of them. There are no answers to be had anywhere, no one to turn to and ask them. It all just keeps happening without any explanation, as if the whole entire universe is telling us, “You know what you did.”
The worst thing is, they’d probably be right, except it’s so hard to narrow it down.