Moogaverse

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Smoke and blood filled the air while an entire village was being handcuffed by death.

Through a haze of ashes a young lady watched her own blood trace a gentle path between stepping stones of her humble courtyard, unhurried, finding the low places where it could pool just like water. Sounds came in layers: children screeching and lower than that voices of their mothers pleading in tones that had long stopped expecting answers. Swooshes of steel stabbing flesh as bodies sluggishly fell. She wanted to move at least a finger. She thought that if you start with at least a finger, it could lead to a hand and then maybe she could turn over.

Move, you can still save yourself. Where is your son? Find your son. Your son. Your

She could never turn again.

Her courtyard stones were getting colder against her cheek. Her blood kept moving from her. Fire had cracked through her roof, smoke tracing its slow power, turning and tracing a dark signal in the sky.

Then sound and light cut out.

Not faded. Cut.

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