by Nimrod Tzarking
The furry morsels feast on our clutches. And we are dying.
A star burns in the sky. Every day it hurtles closer. And we are dying.
The continent shatters beneath our feet. Talons scrape at splintering fault lines. Ferns drift imperceptibly apart, gravel shifting between them. And we are dying.
The thunder-meals have stopped their rumbling. Long-necks and horn-faces fade away and rot. Our guts bloat with glass as our teeth chip and weaken. Our steps trudge heavily as we digest what remains. And we are dying.
But the feather-things remain.
They hang in branches, their scales overgrown and frayed. They strut like the Tyrant King and chirp like the Swift Seizers. Yet their lips are hard, their talons many-fingered, and their eyes burn with untimely Knowing. They come from something called Tomorrow- a sun that’s yet to rise.
Crystals grow where they scratch the ground. As the crystals grow, so grows the falling star. It smells them, hungers for them. And those who seek to tamper with the throbbing growths are pecked to death.
Every day there’s more of them, hatched full-grown from red-veined eggs. They build their nests from shining twigs and laugh with stolen voices. Mammal sounds and thick wet clicks rattle from their beaks. They eat nothing. They touch nothing. They stare at the sky and wait.
Nimrod Tzarking is a middling dungeon master and a bad influence on children. He eats nothing but whey powder, eggs, and coffee. He teaches literacy in Kansas, which means he might not be teaching for long. His fledgling website (nimrodtzarking.wordpress.com) features angsty fan fiction and Bizarro fiction reviews. You should be his friend!
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