Pa always used to tell me that if I wanted to get the family anywhere on time I'd have to tell Grandad Dave a month in advance. This time, even though the town had been officially informed every day for five months,we were still running three hours behind because Grandad Dave had accidentally locked himself in the hen-house and couldn't remember where he'd left his keys.
By the time we made it out to the fields, there were almost eighty folk armed with the brightest kerosene lanterns they could get their hands on and as many spare parts as their clothes could hold. Nobody wanted to find out what was coming to town but according to the mayor, from a distance our lights could pass for fireflies and we'd all be spared.
That was the plan at least.
Survivors from the neighbouring towns had sent their warnings as far and wide as they could - there's out there in the night, fears the light and doesn't give you the chance to fight before it's snatched your breath clean away and left you to fall cold-dead to the floor.
So out the the fields we went, hoping that it wouldn't know, spreading rumours of our town's vibrant fireflies and hoping we could last until it moved on. If it moved on. With the death toll it had been gathering over the region it never had much reason to stay, not when it culled in one night.
We hoped to be different, hoped that somehow by some dumb cosmic chance we could be the exception. Still, hours after the sunset and after several harsh shrieks from the village's direction had been violently cut off, I began to see the lanterns around me snuff out one by one.
I heard my ma's faint cries among the dwindling lights, "You mustn't fall asleep, Johnny-boy. Y'hear me? Keep awake now!" but I knew it wasn't really her. All my life she's been the first to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere at the drop of a hat (something about her being ex-army, used to sleeping out rough and all that) so to hear her awake at this time of night just weren't right.
The dark draws in.
Ma calls for me but she doesn't seem to remember which light is mine.
Oh, how my eyes ache and beg for sleep.
By the time we made it out to the fields, there were almost eighty folk armed with the brightest kerosene lanterns they could get their hands on and as many spare parts as their clothes could hold. Nobody wanted to find out what was coming to town but according to the mayor, from a distance our lights could pass for fireflies and we'd all be spared.
That was the plan at least.
Survivors from the neighbouring towns had sent their warnings as far and wide as they could - there's out there in the night, fears the light and doesn't give you the chance to fight before it's snatched your breath clean away and left you to fall cold-dead to the floor.
So out the the fields we went, hoping that it wouldn't know, spreading rumours of our town's vibrant fireflies and hoping we could last until it moved on. If it moved on. With the death toll it had been gathering over the region it never had much reason to stay, not when it culled in one night.
We hoped to be different, hoped that somehow by some dumb cosmic chance we could be the exception. Still, hours after the sunset and after several harsh shrieks from the village's direction had been violently cut off, I began to see the lanterns around me snuff out one by one.
I heard my ma's faint cries among the dwindling lights, "You mustn't fall asleep, Johnny-boy. Y'hear me? Keep awake now!" but I knew it wasn't really her. All my life she's been the first to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere at the drop of a hat (something about her being ex-army, used to sleeping out rough and all that) so to hear her awake at this time of night just weren't right.
The dark draws in.
Ma calls for me but she doesn't seem to remember which light is mine.
Oh, how my eyes ache and beg for sleep.
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