The hurricane neared, its mass of undulating bodies turning red, flushed with heat, rage and blood. It coursed, like lava, down their limbs to be flicked from fingertips, airborne for a moment only to land on the neighboring body. The bloody lava made its path like that: course, flick, splat, course, flick, splat.
Its Gothic dance melded with the main jive, the swish and clang of blades and soft slice of skin, muscle, bone. Cries fell on rage-deafened ears, which were mindless to the pain. Every whirl, stretch and thrust were made to live and kill. Only the exhausted swung wildly, madmen among mad men.
Seconds, minutes, hours passed unnoticed, a waste of passed time. To get it back could be to get your life back. The ground had turned soft, flesh does that. Now the ground was alive, with lava and limbs. No flicking though, just lava, rolling down smooth expanses, to drip into the quenched dirt. But it would take more; it always does.
