They emerge from the stadium, first a trickle, more anticipation than a presence. “We are the Rovers” carries like a tectonic rumble from inside. There’s a hint of bubbling, dusted with blue and burgundy team scarves.

The dribble becomes an ooze, then a torrent, flooding the empty streets. Sulphurous fumes hide the houses and church. The streets are choked. There’s no individuality anymore, only molten burgundy and blue rivers.

The stadium roof blows off, showering us in burning concrete. At last, the river slows, stops, freezes. One trapped face holds a howl. Someday vines will grow on this rich volcanic soil.

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Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here