FallIt was early Autumn when it happened, and deceptively sunny. The sky was bright and clear, but the touches of copper and gold upon the trees betrayed the true season. My grandmother, sixteen years old at the time, stood shivering by her sister's grave. A chill seeped into her bones, settling deep inside her chest. Her heart told her something was wrong, and it had nothing at all to do with the weather. In the ground beneath her feet she could feel something stirring; rousing, maybe. It was the day the Earth spat back out those who had done it so much harm. It was the beginning of the Happening, and the humans that got back up from their fall weren't humans at all.
She didn't drop the flowers she was holding, not even when the ground tore itself apart. I suppose she told me that it was fear that kept her rooted to the spot, but having seen them first hand too, I know it to be fascination. There was always something that appealed to us about being rejected even by death, strange as that