I saw
the body spread on that dank stone
And
knew those things which feasted were not men;
I knew
this strange, grey world was not my own,
But Yuggoth, past the
starry voids - and then
The
body shrieked at me with a dead cry,
And all
too late I knew that it was I!
“Tell you what, I heard one hell of a story from this chap over at the
crematory that I suppose I should mention,” Diment was saying. “Wouldn’t know
if you have the tummy for it. It knocked the wind out my sails like a one-two
punch to my midsection.”
We were at the Harkerville Beach Resort watching
the waves bash into the beach and lap up its sand. It’s 2045. February, 2045,
if memory serves.
“Crenshaw was just twenty three when he killed himself over a bad case of the
flu.”
The flu. Folks always call it the
flu these days. Just the flu. “You should have heard
it when Matthew Graves, that’s the gentleman at the undertaker’s, told his
story. Crazy, han?”
☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤
This
story has been accepted for publication in an online magazine. I'm sorry I have
to take it off my blog. I think it's unfair to the subscribers at Separate Worlds Magazine. But,
you can head on over there and subscribe for the December, 2011 Edition and
enjoy lots of speculative fiction pieces.
Thanks.
ENEH AKPAN
Ikeja,
Lagos.
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