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?”
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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.