Thursday, August 2, 2012

"Death's Beacon"

Before you die, they say you see something in a black cloak. You remember all the tales you'd been told, that Death comes on a pale horse, that underneath the robe is a skeleton, that his scythe is more akin to an extension of its arms, that when Death knocks on your door all you can do is follow. You remember all this, and with one glance at the thing before you, you realize it's all comforting lies.

Standing down the dark hallway in your home isn't even a humanoid object. It's tall and thin, but it has no visible limbs. This is Death's Beacon, a towering featureless black robe, and it's slowly moving down the hall. Through the only opening in the robe, a freakishly large pale cone juts out. The Beacon's beak.

With every passing second, you feel more blemishes and sores opening up on your body. You feel bugs crawling under your skin. Your bones crack and cringe, freezing you in your tracks, trapped in the headlights of the slow but inevitable end.

The moment you caught a glimpse of this ominous sight, you felt a loud sense of helplessness and mortality. This is a monster you fear, and you know that it does not fear you. It does not care for you; it does not even notice you. Looking at this abomination, you are reminded of old stories where men encountered giants. You feel as if you are staring at the foot of a giant that does not see you underneath where its next step will be. Where's the rest of this giant? Somewhere in the darkest corners of comprehension, beyond the land where doors lead, below Hell itself.

You fear that you may be going insane. The fact that it'll all be over soon gives you a brief moment's relief before the Beacon passes, your eyes turning upwards in their sockets and your stomach eating itself from the inside out.

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