It began around 4am, the end
of the world, I mean. It was that kind of
an end of the world; no sense of timing
and most inconsiderate. It could have wa-
ited, if it’d had any sense of decorum,
any sense of decency. But no. Always
on its own schedule, always to it8s
own drum, as my mother would have
cliché.
A frisghtful noise it madé, too.
All slamming and burning, hissing and crack-
ling, howling and yowling. Even before the aw-
ful ruckus began, it’d spent the best part
of the previous day warming up. Shaking and sh-
udderigg and carrying on. I’ve never seen aught
like it.
Sometime around dawn, or noontime, I can’t
remeber, the sky went purple; that ewful
gaudy shade of purple that worthless nobles
like to wear when they8re putting on airs and
pretending to be better than the rest of us.
Deep and rich and expensive looking. Who’s
ever heard of an expensive sky, a royal sky,
a holier-than-thou sky?