I.D. Obi’s Goosebumps: The Legend of Lights

By | October 31, 2016 at 8:00 PM
apocalyptic

It’s well known in this land, that legends carry like whispers on the wind. They reach those who keep their ears to the ground, slipping into the shadows to give people something to cling to in the dark.

They say she is coming. The wind starts off light at first, bringing a faint, twinkling message on the air for those still able to listen; a beautiful yet eerie voice that rises high above the current. It won’t be long until it picks up strong enough to rustle the dead leaves on the ground, to make the crumbling buildings sway. But when it reaches almost gale force, enough to drive your breath out of your body and carry you away—that is when they say, she will come.

“…Maybe it’s bricks and mortar now, whether or not they run it down…”

And justice will be swift. She is beautiful and terrible to behold. Tall and strong, pale with long dark flowing hair that whips up in the eternal current she brings with her. Her arms bear markings of her past—brightly colored tattoos that detail the map of her travels—and they wield a sword, a fiery creation almost as long as her, with such force, that nothing will stand in her way. She is the light in the darkness; she will bring the dawn to sweep away the longest night.

She is their last hope. Their only hope.

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“…I don’t want anything to shake that shape away…”

When the darkness came, it started off as a nameless fear, stealing in like the dusk after a long afternoon. Soon it covered the land until all signs of life withered and withdrew into itself, leaving the cities that were once great to crumble into dust, and the fields once so green to turn grey with age. The shadows and the creatures within them crept in, imperceptible and shapeless, clinging to every sign of life like a winter mist. Seeping through skin and burrowing into bone, everything they touched shivered and filled with silent dread, unable to fend off their attackers before it was too late. Time passed, and the land forgot what the day was. They only had a whisper.

But the voice on the wind continues, bringing with it the electric crackle of change. The first thing they notice, is a single flicker. A sharp gust brings a puff of smoke, and a dull yellow spark manifests on the air, writhing and dancing to the sounds of her song as it fights for oxygen. Many shrink back from it in surprise; others gasp in awe. She is coming, they whisper. Her footsteps echo in the crackle of the ember, sure and steady. For some, this is their first glimpse of what once was; this is all the proof they need. For some, it is a change too great. They panic at what they once craved most. The panic turns to dissent, the dissent turns to anger.

“…No one told us which way to come, nobody mapped oblivion…”

Some cast doubt; the darkness has taken hold of every recess of their minds, has sucked out the last drop of hope. It is too late, they say. The flame will burn out, the song will fade to silence, because she has abandoned us, they say. She is a legend and nothing more, they say. Some have grown accustomed to the darkness; consumed by it, and unable to remember the light, they have begun to fear her. The darkness is growing stronger every day. It won’t be long until it is complete; the last few corners of the land are growing dim, stuck in a drawn out twilight. Soon it will be too strong for even her to save.

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“…So I go growing roses in disarray…”

The wind picks up as the last few notes of her song reverberate across the land and the flame breathes its last, leaving nothing but the faint acrid smell of smoke behind and plunging them into a night that looks to them darker than ever before.

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