Lacrimosa
A short story about a dystopian and post-apocalyptic future, a red sea and devastated sky, saturated in solitude, a protagonist wondering why all this.
The reason for that creature that she baptized as "the final angel" was there, the reflection of human errors made flesh and bone.
tw: philosophical crises, post-apocalyptic world, the main character questions existence, religion.
Year [Unreadable... The number is corrupted...]
Date [Corrupted]
Time [Corrupted]
Location [Imprecise]
The sky is red, and the water looks like pure wine.
There were no signs of life; it's been a long time since I last saw a dog, a fish, a bird, or even an insect. Everything seemed to have vanished.
The only things left were cities flooded with red water, destroyed and submerged cities, scarce patches of dry land that could be found.
And if there was still a part of the land that the water hadn't destroyed yet, those things would do it – those tornadoes coming straight from the sky that seemed to have a life of their own, knowing exactly when to appear. They would destroy whatever was left there, and the land that couldn't be submerged was dry, as dry as a desert.
Sheets of metal abandoned in those deserts, the catastrophe of Black Sunday, it could have been avoided, but they chose this, they chose to condemn us all. Those who were supposed to protect us used us as lab rats.
Only solitude and pain were left behind.
The strong wind from the whirlwinds, gently tugging at the tail of my scarf, the pull of my hair being drawn by the wind. I watch as once again, those whirlwinds sweep through.
All I could do was watch, what else can I do besides crying?
There was nothing else to do, all hope was gone. Was there even hope to begin with? Was there ever hope from the start?
God, are you there? Do we even matter to you? I can guess not, you don't even exist, you're not real.
Just an invention of humanity to give an origin to our existence.
And if you ever were real, God, then you hated us
Hatred, I feel hatred for that nonexistent being, hatred for those who condemned us, hatred for this civilization that sealed its own end. Words will never be enough to express all the hatred I feel right now, there are no words to explain the hatred I feel every attosecond.
When the whirlwind finally disappears, I can see the hole in the clouds, the red sky rumbling, strange cables slowly emerge from the cloud hole, slowly approaching the earth; or perhaps from my point of view, they move slowly. They slowly pierce through the dry earth, I don't know if they simply "connected" or if they are drilling into the interior of the earth. Perhaps it's responsible for the deserts?
A white light illuminates from above down to the cables until the light finally fades upon reaching the earth.
Perhaps hours passed or maybe minutes, I couldn't say, I haven't seen the sun for a long time, its brightness and warmth overshadowed by the reddish sky.
By the time the light disappeared, the cables slowly moved away and returned to the sky, the clouds closed, and the tornadoes disappeared.
Descending from the large stone tube, the sound of my worn-out boots against the dry ground, with each step, the sound of the earth crawling could be heard.
Now I knew what those cables were doing, they were drills, drilling into the earth for reasons unknown to me, but at this point, it was the last thing or perhaps absolutely nothing that mattered to me.
I still remember, I remember the day, Black Sunday.
I was at school when it happened, suddenly the sky lit up in pure white blinding us and then the sky turned red, the ground shook, and a strong dust cloud that wiped out houses was approaching us, and large pillars of light rose behind, we didn't have time to react when it hit, the screams, their bodies imploded and so did mine, cascades of blood and the remains of clothing and bone left behind.
When I opened my eyes again, I only saw a large sphere with different colors, I was part of that, and we were being sucked into a black hole that seemed to come out of something white.
I don't remember what happened in there or what happened outside for us to escape, sometimes, I see those lights again. It took me a while to realize that those spherical lights were the remains of what was once the physical form of a human being, that's how I used to be before, my body had been destroyed, and what was left became part of the red, and the rest was taken by that thing.
Those black holes belonged to that, they weren't black holes; they were more like mouths, we were being devoured. It spat us out after a certain event outside, our remains returned to our reddish waste, and we regained physical form.
I prefer to call that thing "The Final Angel", the Angel so immense, larger than the earth, maybe even two or three times larger, soaring through space with the sound of flapping in the muffled noise of space.
I look towards the horizon, the red sky turns white, and the reddish is engulfed in cobwebs that snake, changing shapes, the horrible white iris, black lines snaking through its eyes, the pallor of its skin, and its horrible smile. It smiles, smiles as it left us, it was a smile of victory and fun; she smiles at seeing our destruction. But there's something more in its eyes, there was pain, it wasn't an "Angel", not a "Demon" or a "God", it's a human.
With a final look at the gracious being, its gaze melts away, leaving the horrifying gaze, bony face, and sunken eyes that flicker with darkness.
The pillars of light that had lost their shine regained it forcefully as they ascended slowly into the sky. The dust rose in large clouds of dirt where the pillars once stood, the fresh air hit my face, my scarf dancing to the slow rhythm, and I could feel my hair gently swaying.
I half close my eyes; I can't see myself, but I know in this moment, my face must have a grimace; everything was going to happen again, right?
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Atlantic
"what is it all for?" i ask Them, "why must we continue if it is infinite? is This an endless task to keep us occupied long enough for our very atoms to return to the universe, decaying into regressively lesser states of being until there is nothing left? are our pursuits the mobile above our crib to silence us long enough for the universe to complete its work, in spite of the wreckless life you inflicted upon our molecules?"
silence, static fills my ears as my brain searches for an answer.
"it is not,
"you ask why your ancestors fought the forests, then the oceans, and now the skies, challenging ever more difficult terrains each more apathetic of your existence. Our existence.
"you curl into your dens with Us and you say words to us in a language we both know,
"you cross the seas of time and distance, you invent units to describe energy and light,
"you discover words out of the very fabric of reality and you give them names so you may speak them to your fellow man,
"you have so much language yet to discover, my friend but i will tell you that the purpose did not require any of it. for We have been saying it to you since the dawn of existence,
"We've written it in chemistry, in history, in evolution, We wrote it in the forests, and the oceans, and the skies,
"We whisper it at the center of objects far too massive to comprehend, and We scream it between points in space so close that our most advanced vocabulary cannot distinguish them,
"We speak it into your very mind,
"Why else does one learn a language if not to say this?" and They were right, it was spoken into my mind, and unworthy, i heard it everywhere.
"come with me, i want to show You something new,
"i long to show You something beautiful."
M.A.Morrow
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??: The Button || burnout, disability, decay, existential despair, expectations, gods, reflections, oww oww oww
When I was made, I was given purpose by the gods.
Press the button.
One, pure commandment to live by. What could be more simple than that?
My hours were spent in righteous communion with the divine, following their vision, pushing it over and over again, as commanded.
And a paragon I became, the envy of all others who labored at the same. For I was tall and the button was within easy reach. To press it was only natural. Trivial even, a matter of routine so simple it required neither effort nor thought, none beyond that I was made for this.
Those shorter than I labored at it, struggled with stepstools and tiptoes, leaps and pulleys, bemoaning the difficulty of the task to which my very being was perfectly suited.
Most of them failed, sooner or later. Most of them gave up in laziness, frustration, pain.
So they made excuses. They found their own reasons for existence, looked instead to the earthly and profane for purpose, unable to meet the standards the gods had set them.
I pitied them, pitied their hollow joy, the fleeting meaninglessness of their lives.
And then I changed.
So slowly it was imperceptible at first.
Now, my back is bent and crooked.
Now, my knees creak and refuse to straighten.
The button that once was so easy is now reachable only with pain and difficulty.
Now, I grow weary when I try to reach for it.
Now, my thoughts scatter when I must focus on it.
Now, I question the point of pressing the button at all.
Now, I weep knowing that the gods have forsaken me.
I weep that time, the great destroyer, has rent my body and mind.
I weep that I am unlike the others, that I was never forced to make peace with my mortal fallibility.
And still I wonder what it is that I was made for.
~??
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