It came in the dark of a clear winter's night, when the stars themselves twinkled and shone like paste diamonds. It came to a world half-consumed in neon and body glitter, awash in rhinestones and bedazzled tchotchkes. It rose from a city tattooed with unicorns and dolphins in shimmering pastels. Lisa Frank was its prophet. Stephenie Meyer was its priestess.
The cowering masses watched, trapped and powerless, as the sky flared a crimson that faded gently to pink. It sang in a warbling, infinitely pathetic voice. The terrible wings opened and spread majestically across the sky, swallowing the moon.
The Sweat Of The Peasant
6 hours ago