It was a perfectly fine day whilst the sun shone bright. The clouds moved lazily across the big blue field of sky that was patched onto the ceiling of this world like paint thatched on with a big thick brush. The grass was waving in the gentle warm breeze, and the worn dirt path was pounded into a hard solid path that was straight and true in virtue, although it, in reality, bent and wove through the fields like a snake in the undergrowth. This was some perfect land, where the grass grew straight and slender and the ancient oak trees rustled with the sound of a thousand leaves upon themselves, the trees dotting the field like the seeds of great beauty scattered upon the ground. This land was blessed by god; By gods, by all of them who were ever in existence. This land was blessed by every deity, spirit, or divine force to have ever entered the awareness of man.
Along the path at the end of the field was a great grove of trees. Of slender trees. Of trees that grew thick like weeds on a cropland. These tall slender silver trees were bright with the sunlight streaming through their leaves, and the animals and the birds and all that lived in there felt safe, sane and secure. There was no shortage of food for anything or anyone, and the path wound through this grove of perhaps fifteen leagues deep and some indefinite great length wide. Like a great barrier of nature these trees stood, silent yet always a happy corroboree of wildlife peacefully coexisting with each other.
Fifteen leagues in and through the other side of the grove was where the land grew dry and sapped of anything good. The earth was deteriorated as if a great sickness had befallen it, as there were no more tall slender trees, or thick, fluffy bushes laden with fruit. Now all that were left were some scraggly grasses, dry and crooked unlike their warm green counterparts in the meadow where I hath began. They grew up crippled and disabled and entirely not able, and grasped up to the now grey bleak sky in a hope of calling forth some mote of rain or substance. They clutched at one's heels; clutching, grasping, clasping desperately at passerby to take them from this horrid place. The crooked shadows of the twisted trees cast upon the dreary dreary ground, like the appendages of the demons of hell towards the threshold of that which they had been cast out. The path here began to crumble, the dulled, the warm, bright colors of the grass and the trees and the vibrant flora and fauna had slowly bled out to a drab drab grey, grey like the backdrop of sky against the murders and murders of crows and ravens and rooks and vultures and spawn of the devil.
Perhaps ten or twenty leagues further, through this desolate wasteland of ruined thistles and grasses and twisted wicked trees the earth gives way to stone, ruined stone; the stone of a lost civilization. The ruins and wreckage and all that was left of that which brought forth disaster, the effects of that separate world, that desperate world, leaching out into the land around them. The earth was not worthy of their footsteps, they thought, and rend it in pieces to pour in foul blackness which they deemed worthy of their cursed presence. They decimated the land and all that lived in it, and shaped the world to their liking. The twisted wreckage of strange mechanical vehicles strewn across the black, dusty surface of this lost and imploded world; cut off from everyone else by their own doing.
Following the cracked blackness of this path of man, dark brown stains and earthy red powder splotching the steel that once shone oh so brightly. Upon grazing the metal once part of the earth, but reshaped and neglected and twisted to a shadow of what it was, the rough scraping of rusted red powder on the smooth dry skin of my worn hands chafed my fingertips biting shallowly like the desperate beaks of the birds of death wheeling overhead on the bones of the past. My footsteps quietly echo on the walls, the barriers, the shells of the insecure. They who refused to live in what their lord gave them, who withdrew from his eyes and vandalized what he gave them in the far corners of his vision. The dark grey stone stained black with the soot and ash of their own falling, oh of course they would hath fallen from wherest they stood.
Some distance into the ruins of their civilization, the black cracked falsity they thought was the earth where it gave way; the dry, deprived earth returned, and the path grew again, dry and barren. But the grasses here were gone, as were the twisted, gnarled hands of wood that yearned to grasp the sky. Now were the darkening sky, the blackened cloud like the swelling of the silt in the clear streams but black! Oh the blackness! How couldth the eye of the master, the grand creator, how couldth pierce such vile vile blackness! I feared I would be lost to him as I traveled further and further into this ruining ruin like the corpse of some creation rotting away to the hands of the flesh eaters. But no matter how dark this sky becometh, the palelity of my skin seemed like a lost lamb in a swarm of black wolves. Oh black, black wolves. My skin would ever stand out like a lamb. A lamb without it's shepherd.
Now from this wasteland of ruined, barren earth grey like ashes; the ashes of a great fire that hath burned all it touched until it could simply burn no more, like the burning of the heart until the burning died low to an ember, went out, and left it stone cold and stiff and pale and motionless, eyes fixed to the sky at the home which they had left behind and turned their cheeks and spat in its direction! Such burning that lasted no shorter period of time, how short, how sad. The barren path, no, not even a path, the barren earth crumbled away like dust in the wind leaving the sand of entirety, like grains in a coffin, like nails in the land. Little nails. Like pins, they left their mark. And mark they did, the shallow mounds of the footsteps of the refugees, their futile prayers bringing them whatever hope they had left to traverse this land, this ruin. Whatever they had left. The discarded faded red of metal, holes melted away in the flanks of the crumpled, dented, degraded vessel, the faint but ever so slightly visible "Coc" in the pale imitation of white and the hand of the man who believed he could please his maker in the material gain of his thin windowpane reality.
In the finality, looming over the horizon like a black maw devouring the dark grey so close to the blackness, was the cliff of the ruined, sharp, and wicked wallstone. This brick, this brimstone, this material of the wicked, and now, this refuge of the only souls left stained wickedly black, but not ever too black, for the whiteness shone clear in the tiniest mote left, in that last desperate plea, that last call for salvation. That last, last last last, that last mote of belief left in that stained stained redblack soul. The trail, the path, the line of last life, it trailed and trailed, leading slowly towards the cliff. I braced myself for what was to come, steadied my grip, and reinforced my heart beating ever so still and my breath so heavy in the cold cold blackness. I stepped forward and broke forth towards the cliff, like a flash of white lightning my maker would press his anger, his frustration. I would be his rage, I would be his relief.
Stepping into the crack of the cliff, the mar on the surface, the shelter on the storm. My skin was warmed ever so slightly for the faint yellow glow of the flames flickering deep in the wound of the land cast shadows upon the floor. Twisted shadows, wicked shadows. Too far from salvation, too far from god. I strode into the wound of the land, and cast my glare upon the wretches of the land.
Their frail frail bodies lay clutching the rags of their clothe, inventions of their own kind. For they hath such disgust at what their lord gave them they hid their gifts, their creation; they hid themselves from the lord. Now desperately clutching that which separated them from his all-seeing eyes, they stared in fear, in awe, in hope, and in want. Oh help us please one croaked in the corner, her eyes glistening red from the dry hopeless tears, Have you come to save us?
Save you indeed, oh vile wretches of the nevermore land. I spoke, my heart resolute for what had to be done just I had so many millennia ago to save them from the others of their kind. I shall send you to salvation, to face the eyes of your maker, and never again shall you see sanely for eth gloriousness shalt blind you hither. And I hath taken a step closer.
Whatever do you mean? She sounded from the depths of her throat, her friends or family or simply her species lay huddled 'round the flame like moths. Drab wicked moths, cast into the flame of their own misgiving. We starve in wait for the coming of our lord. She pleaded. I alone hath read my scripture diligently as the scripture itself had promised me as no one else hath done. The man beside her coughed, hacking, choking, and laughed.
Such a waste, He hath spoken. For there is no god. What are you speaking to, you messed up whore? Refusing to love your man like he loved you, such a horrible horrible mind you must have if you're speaking to yourself. We should have left you, Pausing to continue his tirade back where we found you cowering with your God.
For you alone, woman, there shall be salvation in heaven. I had spoken to the girl, who flinched at my voice. But for the rest, there shall be death and damnation for them all. I clenched the handle ever so slightly tighter, so simply tighter, and girl paused in fear. The man who hath spoken stared up at me, blind and unseeing, following the gaze of the girl.
See? There is nothing. What is it that you keep gazing up upon like some idol that deserved your pretty gaze? Are you waiting for your god to strike me down? There is no god. He spat out each word like some distasteful parcel of food. The look of disgust on his face. Why don't you c'mere, He began, And love me like you do your god?
I couldn't take it no further. This man, this maggot, this carbuncle upon the land which my lord hath given him was defacing that which created him, with so weak a conviction that he could not see that which came to pass him judgement. The flash of the steel that hath been blessed a thousandfold and given to him by his creator, the glint of the firelight on the droplets of red in the air;
And the scream of the innocent in horror of what was to be. The red which gave them life, the life my maker and theirs had granted them to bring forth prosperity upon this land, the red that had been spilled unto the earth and had been hungrily swallowed by the ground, thirsty for more and more...
Let the earth be quenched. And the innocent suffer no more.