Thursday, May 9, 2013

Sky-Cement

       “Call these images forth for these fools! Allow bloody earth and sap-filled veins to enter their eyes! No cauldrons bubble, but they crumble! A wicked king's head babbles nonsense from their twisted innards! Establish now the walls, those consisting of the limbs of the fallen, around and above those who dare cast us out! Snare them in our power! Keep them silenced!”

       The skies are blocked by soft pavement. The disturbing lack of thunder acts as a coffin for those who fear it. Thoughts of being struck down by the sound corrupt their minds and cement their aversion to the world beyond their shelter. From within what they call a tavern, they discuss all it is that they believe to know. If they waited for true understanding, they would never speak.

       “Weird. It's just weird. These clouds look heavy enough to crush our hopes and dreams, so why isn't it raining?” The stranger questions those who are familiar. He is known as Sarazin and is, in fact, a native to the place. His birth occurred in the backroom of the kitchen, which mainly consisted of drunks who were unable to walk home. His mother was one of them. For some time, it was told to him that he is blessed by the gods, that they rescued him. But none witnessed the birth. His mother had come into nothingness in bringing him into being, and the others were not conscious of the event. His story is known to all across the town, and yet, he remains a stranger still.

       “The gods are angry at us! Did you not see them upon the hill?” One of the familiars of the tavern responds with sickening certainty. The familiar, a tall male worshipper with no distinguishable features, gazes upon Sarazin in search of weakness. All the familiar finds is individuality. Sarazin is only slightly shorter than the other, but carries upon himself a much larger body. To most it seems that his body purely consists of fat, as opposed to possessing muscle. But most, as usual, are mistaken. Sarazin had once lifted weights for entertainment. Some of the strength he obtained during that time still remains.

       “They're just mortals like us. Don't be silly.” As Sarazin's lips move to allow the projectiles of the tongue shoot out, his scar is condensed against his eyelid. The pinkish mark is a result of Sarazin's graveyard work. His task is simple. He simply has to wait for the dead ringers to awake. Before he began, they were less common, but now they are more common. The scar was formed when his shovel was thrown at him by a mourner of a soon to be dead ringer. When the haunting sound resonated through the graveyard, the mourner ceased all actions. Sarazin rushed to his shovel and supposed the mourner wished to save his friend, but instead, the familiar screamed at him to leave it be. A simple movement sent the shovel into Sarazin's face, leaving nothing but the scar between his right eye and upper lip. Whispers of the hurtful sort occurred commonly involving his scar. When his ears caught the said waves, he simply disregarded it.

       Back in the present, the tall familiar steals a step away from the one different from all others. “Leave us! You'll bring doom upon us all!” The same one screams, his voice bounding with fear. He shoves at Sarazin and attempts to throw him out of the run-down tavern. Failure haunts his thin size. The stranger does not do battle with the familiar. In slow, honest, movements, he collects his things. He places his large black round hat with low bending ends over his shining bald head. The external light is cut off from his eyes. The internal remains.

       No condensed and broken pieces of the sky-cement tumble to the ground. The form remains stiff and unmoving, but time shatters all things. The town cannot be seen, except for a few lit windows, coming from small shacks characteristic of the ruled. Sarazin's hard leather boots come upon the stone paths that were grass before they came. Time wore the grass to dirt, and those of the hill had the familiars place the stones to create the illusion of domination over the ticking. His blackened coat brushes the tavern door to a partial clean. The filth remains. It always does.

       All Sarazin can truly distinguish from the familiar darkness is the candle of power. Around it stands its slaves, those who cursed the town. No more than a broken whisper comes from their lips. It snares them in place for the stranger to overthrow them. Each step is a letter that combines with the last. Each slow and drawn-out breath is a space between the words. The message is clear to those on the hill, but it is black ink to him. They know the words and he understands the meaning.

       Flight may be a viable option for those huddled around the thin spark of power, but the sky-cement hangs over them as well. Sarazin slowly and carefully writes out the letter. Occasional steps signify periods. The final period comes and goes. Their letter of resignation has been written. He faes the short and skinny men, who possess no physical attributes that are greater than Sarazin's. Their dress is one of formality and business, not of practicality. ]

       The stranger bends over and hushes the flame into permanent sleep. The sky breaks apart and cackles with amusement. The liquid cement of the body falls onto the four silent men.

       It has been done.

-Zero

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