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“Captain! Captain!” The young sailor burst from below decks and ran to the helm, their cap clasped to their chest as they recovered their breath.
“Percival. What is it this time?”
The sailor had gone white as an animated corpse. “The rabbits, Captain! They… They’ve escaped their cages!”
Apocalypses didn’t happen every day, but once they got started, they had this annoying habit of going about their business.
Those who exercised reasoning were the first to go, followed by fans of survival shows (they believed they understood the wilderness, having never left the confines of their paved-and-plastered twenty-fourth-floor apartments and most ended up eating the wrong type of mushroom in the first week). The hoarders did all right, at least for the first while. And the jerks? They made it all the way to the end, because nature loved adding a thorn to a rose bush. It turned out that at the end of the world, those CEOs who couldn’t convert a Word document into a PDF did just fine in a dog-eat-dog-eat-rat-eat-human society.
Long before King Arthur and his round table, before the Vikings, Normans, and Romans–even before they called this land ‘Wales’, there lived the Faeries and the Festia. The Faeries were jealous creatures–greedy, and powerful. The Festia were companions and servants to the Faeries–human, mortal, and afraid.
The artefact came to me when I was a girl, in a brown parcel left on Mum’s doorstep. But the doorstep wasn’t Mum’s anymore, was it? She’d left two months ago. Neighbours whispered, saying she’d never return. I rarely opened the door anymore, except for the milk delivery. But the milk deliveries had stopped last…
A Shel Silverstein-inspired poem about a weird creature who likes to wear crocs.