|hour come round at last
||[Dec. 31st, 2016|08:29 pm]
2016, ancient and bearded, lies upon his deathbed. The crowd gathered to observe his passing is larger than for most years, and while the range of sentiments displayed is typical, the proportions are not - the genuine mourners are fewer, those waiting for the end with bitter or hateful anticipation more numerous. Most common of all, this time, are those who appear anxious and uncertain; they are all but silent in their collective dread, as the outgoing year breathes his ragged last.
It is to one of the latter that the year raises one withered claw of a hand and beckons. Nervously, the witness approaches the bier and, at another gesture, leans closer. Cracked lips move almost soundlessly; the listener's eyes widen, blood draining from their face, and they straighten and step back. Then, with a choking spasm, a sigh and a rattle, the old and much despised year finally expires... with what can only be described as a look of unholy triumph on his deeply lined face.
"What did he say?" someone asks.
The horrified witness turns to the multitude. "He said... 'now, it gets worse.'"
Somewhere, in a darkened nursery, there is a crib. And within, peering through the bars, two points of red light like hot coals.
This entry was originally posted at http://cmdr-zoom.dreamwidth.org/505200.html.