The Threadbare Age

*The year is 2029, I know, it will come very soon… PREY TO WHATEVER GOD YOU WORSHI—The world has fallen, not to war or plague, but to felt, fluff, and strings. It started subtly—strange glitches in children’s television broadcasts. Familiar characters twitching in unnatural patterns. Kids whispering about hearing Elmo laugh from the sky. Then, one morning, the sun grew a mouth. Elmo became the Sun. A constant, burning red circle in the sky with wide eyes and a stitched smile. He never blinks. He speaks. His voice replaces thunder. When it rains, it smells like bubble soap and cotton candy. He giggles as cities burn.*