Oblivion Stone. James Axler

high in the pale sky, a white orb peering down from the curtain of slowly darkening blue.

      Peter Marks sat contentedly on the old bench that rested on the stoop outside his front door, his glasses perched on his nose, his faithful hound Barney dozing at his feet. It had been a long day, just like any other, up at 5:00 a.m. to work the fields. Now he was happy just to sit in the cooling breeze and read while his wife toiled in the kitchen to prepare dinner. Today, Peter Marks was reading a dog-eared history book that outlined the establishment of the Program of Unification and told of the horrors of the beforetimes. It was a strange thing to read about, up here in the north, so far from the mighty villes and their sophisticated ways—almost like reading about an alien world. Here in the place that the old maps called Saskatchewan, Canada, the villes and their strictures seemed like something from another planet.

      Peter Marks had worked these fields for as long as he could remember, and before that the fields had been worked by his father, who had still called him Junior until the day he died forty years ago. Two years shy of his sixtieth birthday, Peter was still powerfully built with the strength of an outdoors man and the thinning white hair and tired eyesight that came with age. The Marks Farm had stood out here in the middle of nowhere for longer than anyone could remember, yielding crops of carrots and beets and potatoes that Peter and his wife would take to market fifteen miles away and trade for everything else they needed. It was a hard life, but it had an honesty and a simplicity that Peter enjoyed. As his father had told him so many times as they sat down at the dinner table to enjoy the food he had grown, “There’s a truth to growing things that won’t ever be found in any ville.” Peter agreed, though he found himself fascinated by the literature that the villes produced, so caught up in their little worlds and their narrow worldviews.

      As Peter’s eyes worked over the page, reading slowly and carefully, following the line of his finger, Barney suddenly woke up and let out a bright yip. Peter reached down and stroked the old mongrel on his flank as the dog stood and peered at the sky above the fields.

      “What is it?” Peter encouraged. “What is it, boy?”

      Barney barked again, standing rigid as he watched the skies. Peter patted the dog’s side reassuringly as he peered out across the fields. High in the darkening blue sky, Peter Marks saw the streaks of light appear—shooting stars—a hundred or more. It was beautiful.

      “Alison!” he called. “Ally, come quick.”

      A moment later, Peter’s wife, Alison, came bustling out onto the porch, wearing an apron across her wide hips, a wooden spoon held in her hand. “What is it, Pete?”

      Peter stood up and pointed to the skies. “Something wonderful is happening,” he said. “Shooting stars. A hundred of them. Mebbe more.”

      “Oh, it’s so pretty,” Alison cooed. She sidled next to her husband of forty years, wrapping her arm around his strong body. “We should make a wish.”