©2023 michael raven
The sky went out last Thursday. No one knew why.
they broke of shadow tore the whole down and flew sunward and widdershin, spinning dizzy black and eigengrau over our heads filling all the empty places and hew crying
It grew cold as the sun winkled out. I grabbed hands, any hand, it didn’t matter and they grabbed others as we ran, a chain of catastrophe, all arms and legs and shrieksy. That is when the Wolves (what we called them) came, tumbling in with their motorcades and mercury guns, shouting for the loss of their Moonchild, baby.
I ran for the underground rail, arms tugging be backwards as each of the arms and legs body fell to sharp little bees barking out of hot metal, the air like methamphetamine and the faithful singing on their knees. O’ holy holy, they sang but their god had lost the connection and they became puddles crimson at the top of the stair, bodies thrown down as the jagged tearing ripped their flesh to meat.
look around what can you see? cat's in my belfry and can't see me
And now we drown ourselves in inky black, hoping the lack of light will keep those shades away.