Big Bad Consequences by Tim Hawken

Pneumoconiosis has taken its toll. The Black Lung they call it. Black Death, more like.

My breath is ragged where it used to be strong. I gasp air where I used to draw in entire storms of wind.

I would send it blasting from my mouth, past razor teeth to destroy homes. Straw, sticks, it didn’t matter. Stone too, despite what the stories say; I shattered granite to rubble.

Perhaps it was the dust from the destruction that got into my lungs. My only regret is I didn’t wait until the air cleared before feasting on that luscious pork steak.