End of the Year

As the third candle bursts into flame on the third day since the third eclipse, a new tribe rises from the ashes of the abandoned medieval rave. A northeastern wind carries a thick fog swiftly over the crumbling pages of the age-old spellbook, they flip rapidly by as some pages are torn out by the wind and carried with the fog, into the silent forest.

Their chants are woven and sung in tongues, and as the beat cuts out there is a momentary silence, then the sound of the ocean. In a slow but steady crescendo the sound of a bouncing bright piano ascends from the heavens, the police siren sounds, and a reverberating bass drum kick shatters the iceberg that had until now held Memories Forever in suspended animation.

Underneath the thick sparkling frost lie their ceremonial garb. They are clothed in rotting tapestries, the skins of a long extinct species, intricate bead work, and luminescent fiber optic filaments. The sky goes black and the barren tundra is lit up only by ten emerald green laser beams that pulsate to the music. As they perform their inaugural coordinated dance in a triangular formation, the skies open up and acid rain melts away the ice from their frostbitten faces.

As their Byzantine chant slowly fades, they return to their earthly graves, gently sinking into the soft dirt from whence they came.