Every since World War IV, (four) the skies have never been blue. Everyone wore black. Women wore dresses and men wore suits. It is foggy at morning and night. The moon only showed itself when it is full. It was like time was falling backwards, but a little different. Magic was happening. Only cretin people could use magic. Words where the magic. Poems. They are magical words. Once a poem is said, the victim is either cursed, or killed. There is one person that everyone knows of that can do this. She is the most powerful poet that anyone knows of. Her name echos in dark alleyways. Her name is Claudia.
Claudia sat on her throne made of dead twigs and branches. dead tress and burnt plants surrounded her. She wore a tight black bra and underwear. A glass of wine sat in her pale hand. She moved the glass so that it was near her blood red lips. She took a gulp of wine, and put it down. She started twirling the glass, the wine moving within it. She sighed, bored.
