Flash Fiction #1

They lay in wait. They lay in terror. They fumbled and fell and ran like blind sheep herded by the worst kind of dog, biting and undead, all at once. Some kind of amorphous thing; amoebic and gelled. It moved over with coldness. It breathed with fear. It slurched and gumbled. It bworked and lerbed. It gave rise to a new language that no one wanted to repeat, but everyone could understand. It was the language of hunger, consuming, digestion, excretion. It was primal, whatever it was.

It was coming.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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