There is no hope.
We walked in circles round the worm, its amorphous purpose lost on us. A sleek, black, rotting corpse, buried within skyscrapers and city streets. We could see no end to it. Everyone had done their best to avoid mention, even as traffic backed, markets stalled and entire city blocks went down.
The pier was bustling at noon. Sweet, burning, haze of smells. Business men wandered out for lunch, laughing to themselves as they secretly wondered how they’d pass the black mass. Children scurried round it, morbidly curious. Their parents would wring their hands, shooting sights at everything but the worm. A throng of oblivious teens skated into it and were knocked flat on their backs. A business man stepped over the moaning mass, eating a hot dog.
Three days passed and nothing had been done. The smell worsened.
The media continued their daily fluster. Weather. Sports. Local news. Farmer John had gotten pink eye again. They held awkward smiles in their teeth, and deadpan concern in their crows feet. His meat would be safe once cooked.
The government were curiously absent.
Conspiracists were already calling it Non-entity 012. The world worm. The dead god in the room.
If we close our eyes, will it disappear?

-- Anonymous Male. New York, USA.