It started with a fox kit under my couch. I didn't think about how or why it had gotten there, nor why it was so hungry, I was overwhelmed by the cuteness. It ate and ate, far more than could possibly be consumed by a real fox kit, though its weight increased accordingly. And it grew.
It wasn't long before it had lost all shape, rolling around the streets, consuming everything smaller than a house, like some kind of deplorable, amorphous katamari. Even now its slimy hide had tufts of soft, warm fox fur.
I woke up the next morning and left for work; before long, I found myself near the bridge across the river, far out of my way. I questioned how I had gotten there, and sat for a half-hour in stagnant traffic before I got out and found that everyone else had left their vehicles, flinging themselves into the river. Even now, hundred by hundred, they swarmed over the banks and off the bridge, and sunk. No floating bodies, just a stream of people meeting a streeam of water, then only water. One of them, I stopped and asked what was going on, and she simply introduced herself to me and flung herself off the bridge.
It was then that I noticed that the sky was red, rather than blue. And the buildings to the north were missing, replaced by some horrifying shapeless gargantua, miles high and miles broad, made of bones and eyes and wings and I could see nothing else. I knew, then, that I had wrought this by feeding that strange, hungry kit.
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