Flash Fiction: Rupture/Rapture

A piece that I wrote to music on a livestream

Thank you to everyone who tuned in while I wrote this thing. I am sorry you couldn’t hear the music while I wrote, but I have added it below. The idea here is to hit play and then read with the music playing in the background. The basic idea for this one came as I listened to this music with the headphones on.

My neighborhood street looked like any other in Middle America. A row of house, all of the same design, lined by trees that were trimmed to within an inch of their life every week. Our homeowner’s fees had to go somewhere, and it seemed as though the majority of it went to foliage upkeep that helped make our little corner of the world seem more desirable than most.

When the events I am about to relate took place, it was a normal Saturday afternoon. Kids were playing in the street, while moms tended the garden and gathered in groups to share the recent gossip. From backyards up and down the neighborhood, you could smell meat grilling on barbecues. Perfectly ordinary, until it wasn’t.

I was sitting on my porch sipping an iced tea when I heard the first scream echoing out from down the block. It was the unmistakable sound of a kid, but it did not strike me as anything out of the ordinary. The group that usually played out on or street were loud but also generally harmless. When the second scream hit, and then the third and fourth. I joined the concerned parents to see what was going on.

As we made our way out onto the street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, we didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at first. Certainly nothing that would cause kids to scream in terror. We watched as a group of them came running towards us, eyes wide in terror. Most kept those widened eyes fixed on us, seeing the adults as their savior from whatever set them scampering. A couple, though, looked back, more curious than the others, their gaze cast down toward the road itself.

It was then that we notice the crack running behind them, as though in pursuit. I’d read all kinds of stories about sinkholes and houses disappearing into the earth, but this didn’t feel like a construction issue. No, not at all. There seemed to be an intelligence to the way in which the crack was spreading. it seemed somehow planned. if you ask me to explain now why that feeling came to me, I can’t adequately explain it, but I can sure as shit tell you what happened next.

By this point, everyone who lived on Northdale Road were assembled in a group, watching the crack move toward us. Just before it reached us, it stopped. We all looked at one another, waiting for someone to come up with an explanation, but we remained mute, turning out attention back to the crack. A sound like thunder, coming from below, shook the ground beneath our feet and the road began to split, opening the crack wider, like a surgeon brandishing a chest splitter.

We moved then, fearing that we would spill into the widening gap. When it reached a width of around three feet, the movement stopped, replaced by a distant rumbling, again coming from below. I remember one of the men say that it was an issue with the water lines, but when the explosion rocked us al backward, it was not water that emerged. Instead, it was a plume of yellow smoke, rising up, the stench of sulphur drifting in its wake. We stood, transfixed, and watched it billow into the air, faces and twisted bodies seeming to form within the smoke.

The air became thick, yet none of us choked on the fumes. The sulphur burned our noses and eyes watered, but the reek of it all did not seem to reach our throats. We were so entranced by the smoke that we failed to notice the things crawling out of the hole now running along the street. They came slowly, clawed hands digging into the tarmac, looking to find purchase and pull themselves out. I think I was the first to see them, and what I pointed at what was coming, that broke the enchantment holding us all in place. Some ran while others stood ready to fight.

The creatures that emerged paid us no mind, though, as their baleful red eyes were cast toward the sky. As the yellow fog began to thin, a new sound came from overhead. This time, it was like trumpets played at full blast. The ground shook again, and some of the creatures cowered in fear, glancing back toward the way they had come. They stood their ground though, watching as the sky began to split open, carving the exact same path and pattern as the one that chewed up our street.

A blinding light emerged from the split, washing over us like the spotlight from a police chopper. It was hard, but not impossible, to look at, and doing so filled me with a sense of calm that I have never before felt in my life. A lump formed in my throat and tears brimmed in my eyes. Even with the leathery bodies things from the crack standing so close, I felt safe when bathed in that light. A couple of those who had stayed with me dropped to their knees, head bowed, sobbing uncontrollably.

I shielded my eyes and stared directly into the light, seeing movement behind the glare. Humanoid figures broke through, massive wings spread wide as they dropped slowly to the earth. Each of them held crooked staffs honed to a point at the tip in their hands, which they twirled and spun. They were beautiful creatures, perfect in every way. The complete and total opposite of the things that now screamed at them, beckoning them down for a fight.

As the angelic beings touched down, they looked at us and smiled. I could hear them telling me that everything was going to be alright, that they were going to protect us. It should have been reassuring, but the fact that I heard these words without ever seeing any of them open their lips struck me as odd. Despite that, I did not feel afraid.

As the standoff continued, a pair of my neighbors came charging back, guns raised, ready to open fire. The angels, which is what I now assumed them to be, raised their hands and smile again. The armed men slumped under the weight of that beauty, their weapons dropping to their side in total surrender. Just as it seemed as though the moment would pass and normality might resume, the violence began.

One of the demonic creatures moves first, lurching forward and raking the air with his talons. The stench of shit filled the air as he moved, and as his fellow beings joined him, it became overpowering. I felt sick to my stomach, and while I wanted to run back to my house and the cool tile floor of my bathroom, I swallowed down the rising bile and continued to watch.

The angels stood their ground, swinging wildly with their staffs, catching the demons before they could get close enough to inflict any damage. When one did manage to break through and launch an up-close attack, the angel he went after simply flapped his wings, rising into the air and out of the way of the claws and gnashing teeth.

As he glided into the air, I watched a feather break free from his wings, gliding lazily down to the ground. The feather was white to the point of being almost translucent, and it seemed to glow like a beacon, hoping to be seen and returned to where it belonged. Instead, I dove into the fray and snatched it up, feeling a wave of joy and contentment wash over me as I held it in my hands.

When I snapped to, I realized that I was in the thick of the fight. A claw grazed my cheek and drew blood, and just when I thought I was done for, an angel stepped in front of me and blocked the attack, taking serious damage to his abdomen. The blood that spilled was the color of honey, but it only fell for a moment before the gash closed over and he returned to the fight, fully healed.

Another angel swooped in and lifted me, taking me back to my neighbors before turning and impaling a demon with the business end of his staff.

I have no idea how long the battle raged, but it felt like an eternity. Eventually, though, the demon spawn was driven backward, falling into the pit from which they came. A few battled valiantly, only to be torn to pieces, their disassembled parts melting in a black goo that added another level of stink to the fecal aroma permeating the air.

By the time it was all over, all that was left of the underground invaders were small pieces of a black tarlike substance, which evaporated as we watched. The angels stood in a row, tapping their metallic staffs on the concrete. They created a rhythm that felt like a hymn, and as the cadence increased, the split in the road began to close. By the time their incantation stopped, it was as though it was never there at all, save for one small gash, from which the yellow vapor once again steamed.

The angels turned toward us, gave us one last smile, and then ascended into the air, disappearing into the light. As the last one disappeared, the split in the sky closed, too, and normal daylight returned. We all stood in place, dazed and dizzy, trying to wrap our head around what had just happened, while the baring sirens of emergency vehicles drew closer.

When the first responders arrived, we were all questioned about what happened, while a few were also checked out by paramedics. City trucks arrived next, working on the remaining crack in the road, which was no longer emitting the yellow smoke. Instead, it now smelled like natural gas, and before long, that dissipated, too.

The police finally got around to questioning me. I wanted to tell them about what we had all just witnessed, to let them know that there were things greater than us waging war. Instead, those words never came. I told them that I felt woozy and that I remembered very little of what had happened, but I’m sure they were puzzled by my constant gaze directed toward the sky. A couple of my neighbors did relate the full story, but they were quickly whisked away.

In the aftermath of it all, the city issued a statement about a gas line rupturing and affecting our street. They also made mention of the effects of the gas, and how my neighbors and I had been subjected to a mass hallucination brought on by the gas. When I read that, I felt angry, but then a calmness washed over me, and I accepted it as true.

In the weeks that followed, none of us spoke about what had happened, and quite a few For Sale signs went up along the street. It is a beautiful neighborhood, so it did not take long for the old to move out and the new to move in. The original neighbors did not mix with the new arrivals, choosing instead to stick to the familiar faces. I have never really been one to mix and mingle, so life did not change much for me.

There was one thing, though, and it troubles me to this day. On the mantel above my fireplace, there is a feather sitting inside a mason jar. The feather is so white as to be almost translucent, but I have trouble remembering where I found it and how it came to be on my shelf.

Every now and again, I will find myself staring at it, and the feather will appear to glow. The mason jar rattles when this happens and I find myself drawn to the window, When I get there, I invariably look to the sky, after which I stare at the street. I imagine it fracturing, splitting wide and spitting out things beyond imagination, things hell bent on pain. But then, as quickly as it comes, the whole thing passes and the feather becomes nothing more than a strange treasure.

I think I should throw it away or hold it in my hand outside, waiting for the next gust of wind to carry it off into the wild. That thought passes quickly, too, and I let it be. Something inside, some tiny little voice, tells me to cherish the feather, to keep it close, as a reminder that I will be protected for as long as it sits on that mantel.