Dollhouse

Falling Stars

"Tip, step, twirl around, leg up, toes pointed!" I recite in my head as I practice my routine. Everything must be perfect. The Dance of the Sky would start any minute now! My first. Everyone's first. We don't know how we know. It's as if we all thought one thing at the same time, and we all came to a silent agreement that it would happen. But in this small town, miracles are deemed to happen.

The street lights glare as I twirl over the pavement. We all follow our own paths. We never bump into each other, never fall, never hurt ourselves. I have heard tales from those who's paths cross by The Edge of the World. Its black, with no street lights or people. Mine doesn't. But all our paths lead to the Center Circle. More names we all telepathically agreed on. I was born with knowledge. We all were.

The Center Circle is bright and full of people. We dance, a routine so perfect it is as if we have practiced all all our lives. I don't even have to think. My feet have a mind of their own, and they carry me into a swaying rhythm. We raise our perfectly shaped arms to the sky. A gray mass that has never known much light, for little of the glare of the street lights reached so high up into the murkiness. The only thing to illuminate its blackness are the tiny little holes with thin slivers of light fighting their way through. Stars, we call them. It's all we've ever known, and we cherish it. But suddenly the sky cracks open. Bright light spills into our little town, and a huge head appears, staring us into submission, blinding us with its unholy light, paralyzing us with the horror of everything we've ever known collapsing.