Werewolves
had long since been a fixture in the local lore and legend, even to the point
at which the mayor had hired the cleverest scientific minds to create a
moonshield over their entire shire.
“It’s working just fine,” the young scientist said as he transformed
before the mayor’s eyes.
The
rhythmic movements were unlike any previously seen in all the lands of his
empire. He knew that the jester was just
a man in a mask, but during the dance he was much more. He was so distracted; he didn’t notice the
knife’s blade plunge into his chest.
The
floods came without any notice, water black as pitch raining from the heavens
onto the sleeping figure of Earth below. Its imperfections giving it preservative
qualities as eventually it filled everything freezing them in twisted faces of
death. Perverse artifacts left for
extraterrestrial perusal, everlasting in their looks of agony.
The
plague struck overnight, in the morning hundreds lay dead where they’d been
sleeping. She knew she was the last
remaining survivor, a tremendous sense of dread washed over her consciousness
as she began coughing up blood. In the
distance the last remaining flower of December started wilting and dying.
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