The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter One

So that was it. This was it. The end of 42 years on earth, longing for love, longing for life, longing to belong. And it ends tonight. Who will mourn my loss, he mused. There will be no worldwide hush like when the world lost Bowie or Diana or Kennedy. No one will remember where they were when they heard the news that Arthur Dottweiler had died. No one will leave flowers and stuffed teddy bears around the tree and hold candlelight vigils. He wondered who would write his obit, if anyone. Probably the intern at the local paper, the trainee, the wannabe journalist who had to start at the bottom writing obituaries of strangers, trying to dredge up some way to celebrate the life of the uncelebrated, to eek out a biography from a name on a driver's license. And who would attend the funeral? Would there be a funeral, or would his lifeless body be tossed into a pauper's grave and sprinkled with lye to tamper the smell. He sighed. Poor, wretched Arthur, loser of the lost, you pathetic sap, you.

He sighed again, what else could he do, and dragged the large stump to the rope. With heavy feet, he stepped atop the log and steadied himself. He took the noose and placed it over his head. He teetered back and forth on his heels and closed his eyes. He prayed, "Dear God, Heavenly Father, maker of all creatures big and small, I'm sorry I couldn't live up to anything. I'm sorry this is the only way out. Please make it quick. I don't want to linger."

He opened his eyes and looked about. He figured he had better take a good look at planet Earth one last time. He took a deep breath and squinted at the stars. Was that Mars? It seemed to have a red glow about it. Okay, stop stalling, Arthur. Don't be such a pussy. He rocked the stump a little, then a little more. Wait, was that a shooting star?

A brilliant something shot through the blackness, as silent as Death herself. Arthur hesitated, straining his eyes to see the trail. He had never seen a shooting star in all his life. It was a miracle! This was his sign! A shooting star, manufactured from the very waste products of outer space and sent to Earth's atmosphere to burn up upon entry just for Arthur Dottweiler. Or Bradbury's spaceman expelled from his rocket and doomed to the whims of space, falling toward the gravitational pull of our planet until he burned alive on his way home. Yes, spaceman, your life had meaning. You are my star, thought Arthur. He felt it in his very marrow. Was it too late to wish upon it? He closed his eyes tight and wished, wished harder than he had ever wished before. Slowly, he cracked his eyelids, letting in a line of shadow, a film of moonlight. He exhaled, just now realizing he had been holding his breath.

"Oh no love! You're not alone," called a voice, erupting in the night.

Arthur jumped. His heart skipped. He snapped his head around toward the sound.

The thinly accented voice continued. "Oh no love! You're not alone." Arthur stared into the darkness as a figure appeared. "Gimme your hands, you're wonderful," the voice said. Was it British? Australian? South African? Some remnant of the Royal British Empire.

The figure stepped into the moonlight. Arthur's heart pounded with panic, his palms sweated, his body shook as he tried to comprehend this creature emerging from the nothingness and seemingly materializing in front of him. It stood tall and rail thin, fair as alabaster with blonde, almost white hair, stick straight and combed straight back, clipped at the neck. Its eyes were pleading and liquid, and somehow mismatched. Cheekbones up to the sky and a thin nose that was as straight as a line. Its thin lips were barely colored and held tight in a line drawn with a razor.

The figure was covered in a black cloak, oversized boiled wool fisherman's coat as black as a seal. The coat was so large, it draped this way and that, but couldn't cover the delicate pearl-white shoulders, narrow and sloping, clavicle jutting out sharp as a blade. Naked legs fell from the hemline, white and smooth as marble statue, bare feet long and thin, everything long and thin, almost painfully thin, like a walking skeleton of newborn flesh and whitewashed skin. It was beautiful.