By Jonathan Perreira, Staff Writer

…I waved and walked away, and strode through the little streets of the Sky Onion village. Were there any signs for tourists? Trails to the Onion? Perhaps a gift shop?

I found nothing of the sort, only some children who thought it would fall on the village one day and crush everything and also kill everyone.

The children, a boy named Rey and another boy named Daniel, they were playing with toys and Rey took control of them, pretending they were terrified townsfolk.

Daniel became the Sky Onion, roaring, and falling on top the toys and Rey’s hands, splashing onto the gravel.

I met a soul named Winter. An old woman who claimed that when she was younger, the Sky Onion was a little bit smaller.

Her stories told of a little Winter who could see full sunsets, a perfect orange circle competing only with its close neighbour (the Sky Onion). Now, the Sky Onion’s edges seep into the sunset, eclipsing it the tiniest bit.

The details made the story believable, but Winter also told me she could read my future in my palms, so I don’t know how trustworthy she is.

I guess I’m agnostic. If someone told of the Sky Onion, I wouldn’t believe them. Not one bit. Hey, did you hear about the giant Onion in the Sky?

It makes an entire village cry, and also eats the sun! Yeah right, get out of here with that nonsense. But, now that I’ve seen it, fine. I accept it. I accept you, Sky Onion.

If someone gave me two options, however, like believe in the Sky Onion or believe in God, I’d choose the former.

If I ever see God, I’ll accept him. I’m assuming more people believe in God than the Sky Onion.

I was then led to a curious, idiotic thought: what if the Sky Onion was God?

I spent my night at the bar. I hadn’t had a beer in weeks. A sip made me feel warm.

I saw Harp across the counter. A warmer feeling settled within me. More sips and the floorboards cared a little less and didn’t cling to those nails so tightly.

I took a seat next to my new friend as rain began to play piano with the shingles.

I wish I could remember what she said, because we started crying, and laughing because she told me so, and we drank some more and danced a little.

We walked outside, in this strange village, feet on wet gravel, the smell of onion and humidity filling our noses. Tears slowly and consistently dripped from our eyes. I only remember this part.

“Do you think the Sky Onion is too much by now?”

“What are you talking about?”

“God’s like, fuck, no way I’m gonna deal with that thing now.”

We laughed and our oniony tears dropped onto our tongues.

“Oh SHIT, I forgot about you huh?”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“My hands aren’t big enough.”

“I don’t got big enough muscles.”

“My muscles are godly but not that godly.”

“Go pick yourself up, you big stinky mean old onion.”

“Leave the onion alone, oh my god!”

The village kept spinning, or the memories have, I’m not so sure. I hadn’t been that drunk in a while.

But the overcast clouds passed, the rain left, the stench faded, I could see the Sky Onion for the first time in blue white moonlight, and Harp didn’t stop crying. She didn’t stop crying.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.