A Big, Beautiful, Disaster

Night to Mourn

The night crept slowly, writhing into the soft gray sky that everyone was so used to seeing day after day after day. It seeped slowly into the atmosphere, seeping through into the dull sky like a thick black oil. It spilled into the peaks and dripped gradually over the mountain side, filling the valley with an inky darkness; overwhelming and overflowing. The only recompense for the sticky blackness were the many small twinkles of light, like shiny little pinpricks, dotting the sky in service to the full, penny-sized moon. It arched over the sharp slopes of the horizon, sending its gentle, iridescent rays to caress the landscape and illuminate the cityscape only slightly. On any other night you would've seen the city lights; so many in count that they compensated for the tiny stars overcome by the grand scale of the city. An endless sea of manmade galaxies scattered and floated in every direction. Some lights hurriedly weaved through an endless labyrinth of asphalt. But this night, this night was different. It was a night when the beasts uncovered themselves from their ghastly resting places and dragged their mangled figures across the paved streets. Inhabitants hid themselves in their homes, bolting doors, baring windows. The buildings forged from metal and thick cement walls, things that aren't so easily broken. Shut into their homes, shuddering in their bed sheets at any of the eerie sounds that have slithered their way through the thick, compact walls. Claws scraping over claws. Gnashing metal teeth against unforgiving stone. Cold, hollow sounds that echo in the minds of those who hear them, bringing with them the chilling uncertainty of what's to come. Breathing cautiously, shivering bitterly, eliminating any sign of life and praying for the release of twilight. Sitting in the darkness as every woeful and cautionary tale ever passed down generations, the stories branded into every persons mind since they could understand them, haunting their dreams. Children dreading the tales of their ancestors. But the worst, on this night, was the sobbing. Low, throaty, choking sounds that cause the soul to shudder and heart to stop. It almost makes you feel sorrow for the mourners, as they're called, if it weren't for the fear. The fear and hatred these creatures have forced upon themselves, disregarding any pass at sympathy with a rage and depression so sinister, it's said to drive even survivors mad. Not that there've been any. But still, there are those who hope, who spend those nights dreaming instead of fearing, wondering instead of slinking back into their beds. How can we ever be rid of these creatures? Will there be wars? Peace? Will we ever be free? Will they? These are the questions ever spinning, wheeling through the minds of the hopeful, blurring away fear, pushing to free themselves someday, to seek the answer. But as for now, they lay, I lay, spinning my web of questions, making connections; puzzle pieces scattered, mind cogs turning. Thinking, thinking, ever thinking, into this night of the woeful moon.