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The peace screamed pain, silent skies rained death.
But he heard nothing, he had never heard anything. All he could do was watch, watch his city collapse and fall under an evil weight no-one could have imagined.
It started all too quickly, a pillar of fire raced in from the east dragging behind it a storm of destruction. There was no army to defeat, there was no beasts to slay, no generals to capture, no siege engines to destroy, no battle to be fought. The forces of the city were useless against the storm, as venerable as children and just as terrified.
Thick walls could not stop a nightmare from above, only serving to group the doomed together for an easy execution.
He watched on, cocooned in silence as always, from the grimy window of the single rented room he had grown up in all his life. His hearing family, mother, father, sister, sat around the simple table sharing words of comfort, words he would never hear. Down in the streets people ran to find shelter or else stood, screaming silent screams at the one sure thing left in their lives: death.
Black clouds hung over the city, pitch pillows of pain casting an early-morning midnight nightmare, drawing all light into itself. The boiling mass parted for a second and shafts of light streamed down onto doomed heads, people stopped their mute terror to gaze wide-eyed into the heavens.
Had their prayers been answered?
Had an absent god returned showing mercy?
Would the evil force be chased away?
No.
From beyond the clouds thunder struck, black lightning ripped through the shroud, lacing the earth with a thousand strikes, sending evil shadows skirting through sacred souls, piercing Gaia’s fragile shell. The black light hung in the air for a second, gaining purpose, seeking refuge in blood. Condensing, crystallising into form, the black bolts shiver into shapes, standing silent in the soil’s screaming scars.
Servants of evil now walk with the damned, champions of darkness, knights of pain in cloaks of hate snaking rancid tendrils into pure hearts. The malefic masters of mutation do not kill or main but simply convert - turn the good to evil, shatter the innocent dreams, rip the feeling from a body, corrupt souls, twist minds until there is nothing but the darkness - idols to the atramentous evil that chose the city for it’s numbers.
He watched it all soundlessly happen.
The life, the good disappearing from people’s eyes to be replaced with nothing - a black, bottomless nothing that is death. Death of the soul, death of the mind - of freedom, of will.
And now a physical force marched in the city, behind the black-lightning knights streamed the once-happy faces of friends, farmers, tradesmen, nobles and peasants alike. An army of nothing, a swelling void, a growing hole in the world swarmed the buildings and streets extinguishing life as it goes.
And steadily, silently, the army moves towards him.
The sure sound is nothing to him, but now he feels the vibrations ripple through him, shaking his bones, the continuous drumming of lifeless feet. He stays gazing out the window as the sea of soulless swamp the streets below him and around the building like a tsunami come to eradicate life and grow darkness in the empty shells it leaves.
He turns as the door crashes open sending tremors across the floor to him. The tremors bring darkness.
His mother, old as she is. His sister, young as she is. Both taken not by the darkness but by the army - souls intact, spirit living, hope ebbing. These two, as all women, are not the fighters but the relaxation, the games. Brutal games.
If the darkness took their souls, the games would be no fun. Their screams were all that mattered - their screams, their womanhood and their ultimate demise. But the games end slowly, last weeks, months.
His father is just another number in the swell, spirit crushed in an instance.
Then it’s his turn.
His screams his own silent scream - it rattles in his lungs.
Darkness streams towards him as with all the others. In a second it is inside him and taking his very being. Ripping apart his self, his free mind, his individuality - he is with the others, the same as them all - a drone in the army of darkness.
It takes him in a burst of glorious sound. The world rushes into his ears, into his mind and the noises are golden. All noise is perfection.
His is with the others, the same as them all - his breathing the same, his purpose the same, his hearing the same. Everything.
And he surrenders wilfully to the master. The black has done what no-one else could.
Every heavy footstep, chanted word, smashed door, deep breath is a wonder. The music of life, of the glorious death. Sound is everything now, pealing magnificently all around - the curse has been lifted, he is free.
His mother’s and sister’s screams ring beautifully in his ears.
But he heard nothing, he had never heard anything. All he could do was watch, watch his city collapse and fall under an evil weight no-one could have imagined.
It started all too quickly, a pillar of fire raced in from the east dragging behind it a storm of destruction. There was no army to defeat, there was no beasts to slay, no generals to capture, no siege engines to destroy, no battle to be fought. The forces of the city were useless against the storm, as venerable as children and just as terrified.
Thick walls could not stop a nightmare from above, only serving to group the doomed together for an easy execution.
He watched on, cocooned in silence as always, from the grimy window of the single rented room he had grown up in all his life. His hearing family, mother, father, sister, sat around the simple table sharing words of comfort, words he would never hear. Down in the streets people ran to find shelter or else stood, screaming silent screams at the one sure thing left in their lives: death.
Black clouds hung over the city, pitch pillows of pain casting an early-morning midnight nightmare, drawing all light into itself. The boiling mass parted for a second and shafts of light streamed down onto doomed heads, people stopped their mute terror to gaze wide-eyed into the heavens.
Had their prayers been answered?
Had an absent god returned showing mercy?
Would the evil force be chased away?
No.
From beyond the clouds thunder struck, black lightning ripped through the shroud, lacing the earth with a thousand strikes, sending evil shadows skirting through sacred souls, piercing Gaia’s fragile shell. The black light hung in the air for a second, gaining purpose, seeking refuge in blood. Condensing, crystallising into form, the black bolts shiver into shapes, standing silent in the soil’s screaming scars.
Servants of evil now walk with the damned, champions of darkness, knights of pain in cloaks of hate snaking rancid tendrils into pure hearts. The malefic masters of mutation do not kill or main but simply convert - turn the good to evil, shatter the innocent dreams, rip the feeling from a body, corrupt souls, twist minds until there is nothing but the darkness - idols to the atramentous evil that chose the city for it’s numbers.
He watched it all soundlessly happen.
The life, the good disappearing from people’s eyes to be replaced with nothing - a black, bottomless nothing that is death. Death of the soul, death of the mind - of freedom, of will.
And now a physical force marched in the city, behind the black-lightning knights streamed the once-happy faces of friends, farmers, tradesmen, nobles and peasants alike. An army of nothing, a swelling void, a growing hole in the world swarmed the buildings and streets extinguishing life as it goes.
And steadily, silently, the army moves towards him.
The sure sound is nothing to him, but now he feels the vibrations ripple through him, shaking his bones, the continuous drumming of lifeless feet. He stays gazing out the window as the sea of soulless swamp the streets below him and around the building like a tsunami come to eradicate life and grow darkness in the empty shells it leaves.
He turns as the door crashes open sending tremors across the floor to him. The tremors bring darkness.
His mother, old as she is. His sister, young as she is. Both taken not by the darkness but by the army - souls intact, spirit living, hope ebbing. These two, as all women, are not the fighters but the relaxation, the games. Brutal games.
If the darkness took their souls, the games would be no fun. Their screams were all that mattered - their screams, their womanhood and their ultimate demise. But the games end slowly, last weeks, months.
His father is just another number in the swell, spirit crushed in an instance.
Then it’s his turn.
His screams his own silent scream - it rattles in his lungs.
Darkness streams towards him as with all the others. In a second it is inside him and taking his very being. Ripping apart his self, his free mind, his individuality - he is with the others, the same as them all - a drone in the army of darkness.
It takes him in a burst of glorious sound. The world rushes into his ears, into his mind and the noises are golden. All noise is perfection.
His is with the others, the same as them all - his breathing the same, his purpose the same, his hearing the same. Everything.
And he surrenders wilfully to the master. The black has done what no-one else could.
Every heavy footstep, chanted word, smashed door, deep breath is a wonder. The music of life, of the glorious death. Sound is everything now, pealing magnificently all around - the curse has been lifted, he is free.
His mother’s and sister’s screams ring beautifully in his ears.
Good.
An HHAT style review.
An HHAT style review.
Thankee.
I've had another idea - so expect another story in due course. More death and destruction - the usual.
I've had another idea - so expect another story in due course. More death and destruction - the usual.
Armageddon. I like reading about catastrophy, especially when the forces of darkness prevail. You've not posted a shory for a while. I like.
I liked it. Good descriptions.
Work out what tense that was in and I'll show you a green dog.
A green one.
Woo!
Meh in general.
A green one.
Woo!
Meh in general.
The peace screamed pain, silent skies rained death.
But he heard nothing, he had never heard anything. All he could do was watch, watch his city collapse and fall under an evil weight no-one could have imagined.
It started all too quickly, a pillar of fire raced in from the east dragging behind it a storm of destruction. There was no army to defeat, there was no beasts to slay, no generals to capture, no siege engines to destroy, no battle to be fought. The forces of the city were useless against the storm, as venerable as children and just as terrified.
Thick walls could not stop a nightmare from above, only serving to group the doomed together for an easy execution.
He watched on, cocooned in silence as always, from the grimy window of the single rented room he had grown up in all his life. His hearing family, mother, father, sister, sat around the simple table sharing words of comfort, words he would never hear. Down in the streets people ran to find shelter or else stood, screaming silent screams at the one sure thing left in their lives: death.
Black clouds hung over the city, pitch pillows of pain casting an early-morning midnight nightmare, drawing all light into itself. The boiling mass parted for a second and shafts of light streamed down onto doomed heads, people stopped their mute terror to gaze wide-eyed into the heavens.
Had their prayers been answered?
Had an absent god returned showing mercy?
Would the evil force be chased away?
No.
From beyond the clouds thunder struck, black lightning ripped through the shroud, lacing the earth with a thousand strikes, sending evil shadows skirting through sacred souls, piercing Gaia’s fragile shell. The black light hung in the air for a second, gaining purpose, seeking refuge in blood. Condensing, crystallising into form, the black bolts shiver into shapes, standing silent in the soil’s screaming scars.
Servants of evil now walk with the damned, champions of darkness, knights of pain in cloaks of hate snaking rancid tendrils into pure hearts. The malefic masters of mutation do not kill or main but simply convert - turn the good to evil, shatter the innocent dreams, rip the feeling from a body, corrupt souls, twist minds until there is nothing but the darkness - idols to the atramentous evil that chose the city for it’s numbers.
He watched it all soundlessly happen.
The life, the good disappearing from people’s eyes to be replaced with nothing - a black, bottomless nothing that is death. Death of the soul, death of the mind - of freedom, of will.
And now a physical force marched in the city, behind the black-lightning knights streamed the once-happy faces of friends, farmers, tradesmen, nobles and peasants alike. An army of nothing, a swelling void, a growing hole in the world swarmed the buildings and streets extinguishing life as it goes.
And steadily, silently, the army moves towards him.
The sure sound is nothing to him, but now he feels the vibrations ripple through him, shaking his bones, the continuous drumming of lifeless feet. He stays gazing out the window as the sea of soulless swamp the streets below him and around the building like a tsunami come to eradicate life and grow darkness in the empty shells it leaves.
He turns as the door crashes open sending tremors across the floor to him. The tremors bring darkness.
His mother, old as she is. His sister, young as she is. Both taken not by the darkness but by the army - souls intact, spirit living, hope ebbing. These two, as all women, are not the fighters but the relaxation, the games. Brutal games.
If the darkness took their souls, the games would be no fun. Their screams were all that mattered - their screams, their womanhood and their ultimate demise. But the games end slowly, last weeks, months.
His father is just another number in the swell, spirit crushed in an instance.
Then it’s his turn.
His screams his own silent scream - it rattles in his lungs.
Darkness streams towards him as with all the others. In a second it is inside him and taking his very being. Ripping apart his self, his free mind, his individuality - he is with the others, the same as them all - a drone in the army of darkness.
It takes him in a burst of glorious sound. The world rushes into his ears, into his mind and the noises are golden. All noise is perfection.
His is with the others, the same as them all - his breathing the same, his purpose the same, his hearing the same. Everything.
And he surrenders wilfully to the master. The black has done what no-one else could.
Every heavy footstep, chanted word, smashed door, deep breath is a wonder. The music of life, of the glorious death. Sound is everything now, pealing magnificently all around - the curse has been lifted, he is free.
His mother’s and sister’s screams ring beautifully in his ears.
But he heard nothing, he had never heard anything. All he could do was watch, watch his city collapse and fall under an evil weight no-one could have imagined.
It started all too quickly, a pillar of fire raced in from the east dragging behind it a storm of destruction. There was no army to defeat, there was no beasts to slay, no generals to capture, no siege engines to destroy, no battle to be fought. The forces of the city were useless against the storm, as venerable as children and just as terrified.
Thick walls could not stop a nightmare from above, only serving to group the doomed together for an easy execution.
He watched on, cocooned in silence as always, from the grimy window of the single rented room he had grown up in all his life. His hearing family, mother, father, sister, sat around the simple table sharing words of comfort, words he would never hear. Down in the streets people ran to find shelter or else stood, screaming silent screams at the one sure thing left in their lives: death.
Black clouds hung over the city, pitch pillows of pain casting an early-morning midnight nightmare, drawing all light into itself. The boiling mass parted for a second and shafts of light streamed down onto doomed heads, people stopped their mute terror to gaze wide-eyed into the heavens.
Had their prayers been answered?
Had an absent god returned showing mercy?
Would the evil force be chased away?
No.
From beyond the clouds thunder struck, black lightning ripped through the shroud, lacing the earth with a thousand strikes, sending evil shadows skirting through sacred souls, piercing Gaia’s fragile shell. The black light hung in the air for a second, gaining purpose, seeking refuge in blood. Condensing, crystallising into form, the black bolts shiver into shapes, standing silent in the soil’s screaming scars.
Servants of evil now walk with the damned, champions of darkness, knights of pain in cloaks of hate snaking rancid tendrils into pure hearts. The malefic masters of mutation do not kill or main but simply convert - turn the good to evil, shatter the innocent dreams, rip the feeling from a body, corrupt souls, twist minds until there is nothing but the darkness - idols to the atramentous evil that chose the city for it’s numbers.
He watched it all soundlessly happen.
The life, the good disappearing from people’s eyes to be replaced with nothing - a black, bottomless nothing that is death. Death of the soul, death of the mind - of freedom, of will.
And now a physical force marched in the city, behind the black-lightning knights streamed the once-happy faces of friends, farmers, tradesmen, nobles and peasants alike. An army of nothing, a swelling void, a growing hole in the world swarmed the buildings and streets extinguishing life as it goes.
And steadily, silently, the army moves towards him.
The sure sound is nothing to him, but now he feels the vibrations ripple through him, shaking his bones, the continuous drumming of lifeless feet. He stays gazing out the window as the sea of soulless swamp the streets below him and around the building like a tsunami come to eradicate life and grow darkness in the empty shells it leaves.
He turns as the door crashes open sending tremors across the floor to him. The tremors bring darkness.
His mother, old as she is. His sister, young as she is. Both taken not by the darkness but by the army - souls intact, spirit living, hope ebbing. These two, as all women, are not the fighters but the relaxation, the games. Brutal games.
If the darkness took their souls, the games would be no fun. Their screams were all that mattered - their screams, their womanhood and their ultimate demise. But the games end slowly, last weeks, months.
His father is just another number in the swell, spirit crushed in an instance.
Then it’s his turn.
His screams his own silent scream - it rattles in his lungs.
Darkness streams towards him as with all the others. In a second it is inside him and taking his very being. Ripping apart his self, his free mind, his individuality - he is with the others, the same as them all - a drone in the army of darkness.
It takes him in a burst of glorious sound. The world rushes into his ears, into his mind and the noises are golden. All noise is perfection.
His is with the others, the same as them all - his breathing the same, his purpose the same, his hearing the same. Everything.
And he surrenders wilfully to the master. The black has done what no-one else could.
Every heavy footstep, chanted word, smashed door, deep breath is a wonder. The music of life, of the glorious death. Sound is everything now, pealing magnificently all around - the curse has been lifted, he is free.
His mother’s and sister’s screams ring beautifully in his ears.