Cronos II
This is a piece of short fiction.
There. They see it just across the field, a blackened, monstrous thing belching dirt into the grey sky.
It deserves a name. Give it one. The man scours his mind, letting things frantically come to the surface, for there isn’t much time.
Cronos devorando a sus hijos, he thinks. And he sees it, Cronos II, crush a barn, flatten a cow, vaporize a tree. F-5. Eff that.
Go, the woman says. We need to go. Step on the gas and get us out of here and into the light. She clutches his hand. She turns to her right and sees Cronos II — in her mind the Great Roaring Thing, the End, the Apocalypse — roaring toward their car.
It pulls in birds, clouds, and seemingly the sky and reality itself. It sucks everything into the abyss and spits it out again, chaos birthing a Cubist version of the world.
They say nothing because there is nothing to say. Look at the road. Look at the road, they think. And go, go, go.
But they are too late. It is upon them now, like a beast bursting forth from the depths of the ocean.
They scream together. The woman yells out a prayer, and the man shuts his eyes, waiting. Both are waiting.
It smashes into their car, flipping it over, sending it careening into a ditch.
Darkness. Then the chirping of birds, the rubbing of bloodied and bruised heads. And sharp, full breaths, ones of raw beauty and survival. As if their lungs themselves were shouting, “We’re alive.”
Alive. Life.
And light again.
