by Dagny Roth

Created on: February 20, 2009   Last Updated: March 20, 2009

A satiracal story for that "Sky is Falling" Armegeddon syndrom.

We are in Normal, Illinois. A town as insignificant as the name implies, and yet in the very nature of calling a town Normal; a suspicion arises. What is normal but a reflection of a quiet surface? A faade to hide the intricate details which when weaved together create a distillation. Normal, IL; a small town with small people who clutch desperately at big ideas and peer curiously into the glass of reality.

That morning.

A woman sat naked on the sofa in front of the television carelessly shoving an assortment of chocolates into her mouth. One, two, three at a time; her eyes transfixed to the drama on the screen before her. The chocolate was oozing and globing around her hurried lips creating a brown terrain in the cracks of her mouth. Her husband was off to work and the children were off to school.

Across the street a group of boys and girls pointed, laughing as they stood gazing in at her. She didn't think to see them from her windowless room. Her naked body continued falling in rolls around her.

A man down the street threw the wooden rolling pin at his wife. It came crashing down upon her head and blood poured heavy like syrup from the gash displayed in broad view upon her forehead. Beyond the kitchen, beyond the hallway which connected them from the outside world stood a crowd of spectators leaning into the three dimensional view as they witnessed the malady of a simple baking utensil. Police arrived well before the wife could come up with a story for her pathetic husband this time.

In the basement, a teenage boy sat on his bed flipping through magazine pictures of men and women engaging in sex. The Perusing with each page turned was seen by all, including Grandmother who nearly fainted in the sitting room above.

Many a crowd gathered outside the supposed haunted mansion. Old Mrs. Weatherby could be seen kneeling on a rug, shrouded in black funeral attire and clasping a picture of the late Mr. Weathersby who had been dead for nearly five years now. The onlookers felt extreme remorse realizing the once thought reclusive, crazy witch was merely broken hearted and not a soul had set out to lift her spirits. The no longer eerie old lady could be seen sobbing desperately; the picture hugged tightly to her breast.

These occurrences were seen on this day by a chance event. Some mystical transcendence perhaps picked this town and had turned every structure within to crystal clear glass. There were no longer

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