She said the death of a star is beautiful, light accelerating across unfathomable distances, blooming for millennia. But you don’t see the beauty anymore. You see the chaos, worlds swallowed in a flash, inescapable gravity colliding with anything in its path, dark matter left in its wake.
She said when hydrogen fuel runs out, the star explodes, blossoms into a red or blue supernova. You think about finite resources, finite energy, finite love. You wonder if supernovas can be predicted, and why things explode without a spark.
She said the death of a star happens in the past, it’s electromagnetic energy coursing through vast emptiness until it finally brightens the observable night sky. You never saw it coming, her leaving, blinded by the end of a marriage written long ago in the stars.
Raymond J. Brash (he/his) enjoys reading and writing science fiction,
noir, and anything that crushes multiple genres into a pulpy, edible
mash. Raised on both a farm in North Georgia and the Caribbean island of
Trinidad and Tobago, he currently resides in Honolulu, Hawaii. Raymond
has work forthcoming at 101 Words and Shotgun Honey.
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