Ra’s Mistake

He is on the table, dead, finally, a dead “man” cut from the meteor that fell two weeks before. Peeling the rind of stone, they found him gold skinned and physically ubermensch. “I am the son of stars,” he said. “I am the lad of light come to say that Sun loves you,” he said among black shades and leveled barrels. Taser prongs stung his skin, shocking his smile to a scowl. Then, syringes and scalpels. They pierced, pried. Asking: what’s inside you son of sun? Ra has never been welcome. We would kill stars if we could. Light on Earth is alien work. They took the specimen screaming into a white room with white walls with white lights, and turned them off.

Coleman Bomar is a member of the International English Honor Society, Sigma Tau Delta, and an Isaac Anderson Fellow at Maryville College. He enjoys writing intentionally subversive fantastical poetry aimed at exposing rather than beautifying.

Find more by Coleman Bomar in the Author Index.

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