The end didn’t descend from the heavens or emerge from the seas. It came from the spaces between the spaces, glistening appendages slipping through fissures conjured by blasphemous incantations.
Denial was the initial response, followed by finger-pointing, panic and finally prayer. It didn’t matter. Doom and destruction spread like a raging fever across the lands, leaving humanity—benighted and pathetic—begging for mercy. It found none.
The horizon now shimmers like a slit throat; the sky blooms like a dying rose. And loathsome tentacle-faced abominations from beyond continue to wriggle through the cracks, devouring the remains of an unrecognizable world.
Michael Balletti lives in New Jersey. His work has appeared or will soon appear in Thirteen Podcast, Sci-Fi Lampoon Magazine, Novel Noctule, Lovecraftiana, The Weird and Whatnot, Theme of Absence and 200 CCs, among others.
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