from Black Holes and Other Prospects
The day was soupy. Heavy gray mist you could scoop up in a ladle. Large droplets of water began to trickle down, First, it was almost imperceptible behind the heavy backdrop of graying mist culling around trees, meandering upstream, engulfing mountains, circling, heading downwards, gobbling up the valley, sneaking into caves. They thought it was just a cloudy day, overcast, rain expected. Life was going on as usual.
Wrong assumption, not what they expected.
The day slid sideways, did a triple backflip, swept down like a falcon, talons outstretched.
‘Twas thick fog worse than any London fog on record. You couldn’t see in front of your outstretched hands. You tried to grope your way down the street. But the fog wasn’t a real wall you could touch with your hands. Were you walking or gliding, or floating upward? Was it a street? Or a bog with quicksand? Everything you thought was there, solid, got swallowed up. Your footstep sunk into pavement, earth, but it wasn’t like that at all, more like cloud-walking, but dark, ominous. It was completely disorientating. People were afraid to go outside. It was more frightening than any viral pandemic, Yet they had no choice whether to go or stay, in spite of the way it looked. After all, they were completely taken off guard. Folks were in towering office buildings, scrambling around city streets, or were out purveying malls, scurrying through grocery stores, pumping gas, or hanging out wash. Everyone was somewhere.
Then it became nowhere.
And at that exact moment, it descended over the Earth like a colossal snuffer over a burning candle. The wick lost its flame. We lost daylight. Pasty, strangling gray everywhere not in increments, but a worldwide mega, blotting blow-out, gray-out!