Almost everyone died, for a little while. The few who lived thought it was the end of the world. Sometimes now it's easier to believe it was the beginning of hell.
And here I am again, almost out of ammo and the sun coming up. I can feel them gathering, moving on the other side of the wall. They are drawn by the warmth of my flesh, by the beating of my still living heart. I can feel them like the brush of cold scales across my skin in the darkness, like the vague movement of a shadow in the night, like the chill of a winter wind down the back of my neck.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
More fragmentary fiction
Over at The Last Ancient House I've posted another fragment based on a very explicitly detailed dream I once had. No sense in cluttering up this blog with it. If you want to read it, it's at To Be Like Those Who Are Truly Dead.