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Weekly Contest #315
5:39 AM Arthur’s used to the idle stench of death–the caravans of spoiled blood that slither up through worn capillaries in the dirt towards the scarce, yet unmistakable light sliding off the moon, only to be scorched by the object of their pursuit, left to bake among headstones and spew dull, placid rot into the air. This new scent, however, is in motion. It opens its own vessels. It strikes as the moon slips from view but before the sun assumes its position, wielding the momentary confusion in the sky as a cloak to protect its potency. Ar...
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