The neighbors of Laramie Trailer Court gathered around the newest move-in, a twenty-foot-tall tower of white stone. It was planted smack in the middle of Rita Carmody’s five-by-four lawn patch.
“Rita, why’d you get that thing?”
“Ain’t mine, George. Showed up overnight.” Rita eyed the crowd. “One’a you put it here as a joke, I suppose. Well, I ain’t laughing. Took a year to get anything to grow in that hardpack and now it’s good as kilt.”
“Rita, that ain’t fair,” Craig Crosby said. “How’s one of us going to move that thing in. Roger, you got a helipad atop your trailer we don’t know about?”
“Well, din’t sprout there like petunias, did it? Had to ’ve come from somewheres.”
“Aliens.” “Witchcraft.” “That Twenty-oh-one movie.” “Molepeople.”
George Jenkins rapped his knuckles on it. “Solid. Marble, maybe. Must weigh couple-three tons at least.”
“See, Rita. None of us coulda done it. Britt has the biggest truck and it ain’t but a three-quarter.”
“Well, how’d it get here?”
As Rita stopped speaking a voice came from the stone tower. “How I came here is not important. What is important is that when confronted with true wonder, you could do nothing more than point fingers and complain.” A red light began flashing at the top of the tower. “Prepare yourselves. You have been judged.”
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