BOSTON’S BAD DAY by Pen of the Damned’s Joseph Pinto
They unfurled from the sky, glistening against the hatching sun, glistening with their own secretions; glistening with newly absorbed blood.
At first, Boston thought them to be a series of banners trailing behind prop planes high above the city’s stretching fingers, marketing genius promoting a new brand. Down, down, curling down in slow motion, cleaving with surgical precision the clouds. Boston sipped his bitter coffee, wincing as it singed his tongue, noting how odd the greenish-gray hue of those tentacles appeared towering over his head.
He spit caffeine from his mouth.
Gathering beneath the common din of the city, the marching feet, the impatient idling of cars, Boston heard it at last. Suction, similar to that from a vacuum; felt it, the popping inside his ears.
A final tentacle unfurled.
The woman ahead of Boston seized his attention. Slowly, her long, ebony hair lifted until taut at the…
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