The Great Fall of Watermelons
Zebulon Huset
A cargo plane, pregnant with watermelons, finally succumbed to disrepair in a horizontal wind shear. At forty-thousand feet. Steel ripped like a burlap sack. Like a hand caught by the watch while hopping a freight train before a tunnel. Blossomed crates created a carpet-bomb-field of the town that struggled with the prospect of being officially labeled a “ghost town” in guidebooks. Ancient roofs hardly slowed those red-fleshed bombs, dust and red mist, a million tiny attacks. The ten remaining citizens had all been drawn out to gawk skyward by the odd pop of exploding plane. Nine remained after the fall.
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