Short Story: Loathsome

What does the word wasteland unveil of that rotting plain where men once roamed, where life abundant was, that old world we knew as Earth? She is gone now, time weathered, and dead. A husk on which inhuman things feast and grow, devouring her once beautiful flesh. But all must bow to the horror of time, to death.

I stay to watch; I will not look away. The waste spreads out, an oozing, black bilge, and the horrors rising from this soup stagger stupidly in their unthinking life. To be replaced by these things, an outrage, but so reality moves.

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