I'd ask for your help, but chances are, you changed, too.
I don't know what happened. One minute, I'm sitting around writing. The next, I hear a sound, sort of like wind but full of song and babbles. I go to look out the window, and by the time I get to the window--I'm a cat.
Yeah. That's right. Furry, four-footed, bewhiskered kitty.
A hundred butterflies giggle and dance past me, and all I can think is, Hysterics help nobody.
There's something odd about this feline form. Besides the whole feline thing, that is.
Cold. It's cold. The world is screaming, and I'm swimming in--in magic?
Then, suddenly, it's gone, and I'm sitting at the table again, my computer whirring and clicking back on, "Safe Mode" restart screen accusing me of doing something awful.
Does anyone know what's going on? Did you change, too?
There are kids on the corner, all clinging to each other and looking confused, by a stop sign covered in overgrown English Ivy. The walls are cracked, and the flowers on my balcony are withered to nothing, except the rosemary that's three times larger than before.
Last year I was worried about zombies. My baseball bat still sits in the corner after that ham sandwich incident. Thank goodness that got cleaned up before there could be real trouble (the zombie apocalypse ended 5 minutes after it began), but still, I thought for sure that the end of the world would be heralded by groans and brains, not butterflies and cats.
The bloody handprints on the wall, though: those are the same as I imagined. Where'd they come from? What did I miss? Why can't I remember anything but whiskers and cold? Is it gone now, for good?
This wasn't the apocalypse I expected...
I don't know what happened. One minute, I'm sitting around writing. The next, I hear a sound, sort of like wind but full of song and babbles. I go to look out the window, and by the time I get to the window--I'm a cat.
Yeah. That's right. Furry, four-footed, bewhiskered kitty.
A hundred butterflies giggle and dance past me, and all I can think is, Hysterics help nobody.
There's something odd about this feline form. Besides the whole feline thing, that is.
Cold. It's cold. The world is screaming, and I'm swimming in--in magic?
Then, suddenly, it's gone, and I'm sitting at the table again, my computer whirring and clicking back on, "Safe Mode" restart screen accusing me of doing something awful.
Does anyone know what's going on? Did you change, too?
There are kids on the corner, all clinging to each other and looking confused, by a stop sign covered in overgrown English Ivy. The walls are cracked, and the flowers on my balcony are withered to nothing, except the rosemary that's three times larger than before.
Last year I was worried about zombies. My baseball bat still sits in the corner after that ham sandwich incident. Thank goodness that got cleaned up before there could be real trouble (the zombie apocalypse ended 5 minutes after it began), but still, I thought for sure that the end of the world would be heralded by groans and brains, not butterflies and cats.
The bloody handprints on the wall, though: those are the same as I imagined. Where'd they come from? What did I miss? Why can't I remember anything but whiskers and cold? Is it gone now, for good?
This wasn't the apocalypse I expected...
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