Writing For No Reason Makes Brain Juices Flow

            We called them the Blue, on account of their coloring being the only discernable difference between us and them, save that we wear clothes. They first appeared outside of Grangeville, Idaho, a town of about three-thousand people over by Hell’s Canyon. It used to have a three-day rodeo celebration around every Independence Day.

            A survivor said the initial hole opened around two or three in the afternoon, a few miles outside the town limits, bright and shining like a mirror reflecting the sun. He saw a few naked figures stumble out, confused, pushing on the ground like they were making sure it would hold them. We’re now pretty sure that’s because they don’t know how the holes work any more than we do.

            After the first ones came out, they gave a keening wail that we’ve all come to fear and out of hole they poured. Estimates put the first batch at somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand. Anybody in Grangeville not near a car was doomed.

            They swarmed—like they do—holding massive sticks or sharpened stones, grabbing whatever seemed like it would be good for smashing a human being to death. It's fascinating to see a crowd of them coming. Their skin ripples with different shades as they move, from a deep navy to a bright sky blue. Covered with fresh blood, they’re almost pretty to look at. 

( The Story Continues And Then Ends )