Microfiction: Apocalypse Meow

Nobody listened to Jane until the the day the tanks rolled in. Brativia: a city under siege. A land stuffed with history, culture, verdant hills, and, alas, a billion, billion barrels of oil. It started the day men armed with pamphlets, and songs, and grey, steel, cold, hard eyes appeared on the streets. Sons of A New Republic, fighters for the truth. Truth. Such a painful and obvious lie. Jane could feel it in her bones.

“They’re dangerous!” argued Jane to anyone who would listen.

“Tosh, tosh,” people replied. “Tosh. They’re rascals. It’s neither here nor there. Already old news. Tosh!”   

“We shall see,” Jane would say.

And see she did. Soon old buried troubles, thought long dead, resurrected. Their dusty bones brought back to flesh as though by magic. Mercuries fighting with Nobles. Nobles fighting with Orthodox. Indigos fighting with everyone. And always the Sons of a new Republic standing in the back, watching, singing their silly songs and handing out pamphlets.

“Brativostok is behind The Sons and The Troubles,” said Jane.

“Our neighbours to the north? Tosh! Why should they do this? They are our friends, our neighbours.”

A single word: oil.

“Hmpfh,” they would say.

“We shall see.”

Jane worked night and day in her workshop, toiling at an idea to save her beloved country. Fevered insanity invaded her waking dreams until the night she had a strange and terrible idea. “No, no, no, no,” she whimpered, hoping for the idea to pass. Yet it did not. And so Jane worked those few remaining days of autumn bringing a madness into the world.

The first person to listen to Jane was a soldier of the Brativostok army. 

“We are here to liberate you, peasant,” said the soldier, safely tucked away in his tank.

“You have one warning. Now go away!” yelled Jane.

“Mwa-mwa-mwa,” he laughed, twirling his black moustache. “No.”

The solider – his name was Junsaw – watched as Jane withdrew a ball of yarn from beneath her coat. It was small and yellow like the sun. It reminded him of his childhood, when his mother would wear her springtime dress when she took him and his brother Yuri to the park. That was before Yuri had passed, yet another tiny victim of the white plague. As Jane raised her arm to throw the ball of yarn, she knew none of this.

The ball of yawn landed with a soft thud on the roof of the tank. When Meowzilla, a cat one-hundred yards high, followed it a moment later, it was not as gentle. 

“ARGH!” screamed Junsaw.

“ARGH!” screamed the Brativostok army.

“Meow,” purred Meowzilla as she tore through the army and much of Brativostok beyond.

“Good cat,” said Jane, wondering if she had become the destroyer of worlds.


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