It dies slowly, panicking, shivering in the threadbare sheet of its own skin.
The light fades and the cold creeps in.
It begs. Begs for air.
There is no air. The others have stolen it all away. So it will suffocate.
Suffocate under the dense weight of fear and hopelessness.
Suffocate with the world in all Her glory.
Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.