Monday, October 3, 2011

Short story: The Coming of the Dawn of Decay

Below is a short story I wrote a while ago. I think I've been reading too much Lovecraft, but anyway, take a gander, enjoy, and do not worry--I'm not actually crazy or anything. ;)
The four Fellaheen from places unknown had been brought before him, and at the beginning of his journey they were forced to bow, solemnly, and compelled to intone great and awful praise.

But he paid them and their honorarium no heed--they were mere puppets with meaningless lives and worthless souls; and before him they would subjugate themselves ten thousand times (or more.) And each repetitious motion exclaiming his grandeur would endlessly drone to the point of stupor. The sound of such music would be utterly meaningless in his ears, yet others that heard the torments would be driven to the brink of their fragile sanity--and this pleased him, that man might be made to suffer so.

He despised these slaves, yet he needed their aid, for his feet must not be allowed to touch the ground. It is written that in his footprints are stanzas of many unholy blasphemies, and God would not allow such abomination to taint the soils from which the First Man was made.

Upon the ground the unwilling servitors would lay prostrate as he walked upon their upturned backs as one might a carpet of living fibers. Their cries of anguish were purposefully muffled by their own hands, as they did not wish to dishonor themselves or the ears of he-who-walked upon them, for to do so would mean that they would be made to excavate their own tongues: such was the penalty written in texts no longer perused by the learned few--those ancient tomes that Man was not meant to know.

Upon the last of the four he would stand, waiting, until the previous three had realigned themselves before him; and when they finished their quick move to a new position, he continued on towards the city. It was in this way, on each aching and creaking back, and with each painful and jutting footstep, he would inch forward, ever forward, toward the barred gates.

When he arrived he found that the denizens had already fled, the city had been burned, and those too weak or infirm to flee had been slaughtered by their own kin--with throats cut, skin flayed, and entrails loosed from the bonds of the body. Men and women had been hanged from rooftop and archway, all by their own hand. Each of the dead, in their own way, escaped the chaos which would come with the approach of the unholy Dawn of Decay.

Within the empty city he marched--he and his living roadway of flesh--up to the city center, and then to the steps of the royal palace that were carved in marble as white as the snows of distant mountain tops. Stepping from the broken backs he then strode upon the hand-worked stones; and where he would step, blackness was left in his wake like the scorch of a recent fire--and in the soot were seen remnants of unspeakable things shimmering; and those that dared to peruse these glyphs found their spirits in a world of fire and pain.

As he took to the throne, he turned, facing the gathered throng that followed, then sat upon the alabaster seat that men claimed was carved by angels. In doing so, the dead that lay in the courtyards rose up, and sang to him in voices from the grave.

This hideous thing in form of a man smiled, for he no longer needed to hide his true nature, and the present living witnesses boiled in their own fear at the sight of him. His eyes swirled like inky black maelstroms, and where his hands clutched the arm rests, blood of equal blackness drained down upon the perfect, white floor. The blood, like living rivers, ran outward and down the steps, across the courtyard, beyond the risen corpses, and to the hidden corners of the Earth.

And God wept as Creation was undone.

No comments:

Post a Comment