An excerpt from “Thoughts of the Mind of the Infernal King”
It is a curious thing, death. In my many years on this Earth, I have become numb to it, in all sense of the word. I bat no eye at the cruelty of animals, instead salivating at the prospect of a warm meal. As my family grows old and dies around me, I grieve for the loss of an afternoon, not the loss of life. As the peasant class starves and collapses in the street, I feel nothing but the inconvenience of halting my wagon. I especially feel nothing for the millions that have died on account of my actions. They are but a number, an ever growing, ever condemning number. I said I have become numb to all kinds of death, but that is not quite true. There is one kind of death that keeps me up at night, and as you probably suspect, it is my own. Nary a night goes by where I am not reduced to a quivering mess, fearing the possible outcome. One does not earn the title and reputation of “The Infernal King” without making a few enemies. Tonight my first three meals were poisoned, before I found a clean dish. There were six assassination attempts this week, all quickly dispatched, but they occured nonetheless. It is not lost on me that time has become an enemy as well. I find myself groaning as I stand, wincing as my joints great upon one another. I find myself feeling tired frequently, and chilled constantly. Yes, it appears my reign is inevitably over. The cold clutches of that skeletal spectre cannot be put off long now. I await with bated breath, the different possibilities I have learned to expect. The smoldering pain of hell is surely in my future. I have no doubt that I will rise through the ranks of Satan’s demonic army, before replacing the original infernal king, ruling over my terrible undead kingdom. No, it is not hell that I fear, it is that cold alternative. Eternal damnation is still some kind of existence. My soul slipping away into dark nothing, leaving my corpse as maggot food, that is the image that has me awake at night. How can someone so powerful, so irrefutably grand in scale, be reduced to the faint light of a memory? It is disconcerting to say the least. When I had first felt the cold grip of death on my soul, I had still been an active leader. I had searched many a foreign land for all manner of cure and delay. Anything to postpone the inevitable. Everytime my search came up blank. It seems when you are as superior as I am, there is no escape from death. I draw no comfort from this idea, even now, my decayed legs tremble with fear and my hand shakes like a wounded animal. My retribution is at hand. Yet I regret nothing. Should I be given a second chance, I would do it all over again. All of the torturing cruelty, all of the savage warring. It brings a frantic beat of excitement to my tired heart. Alas, it is in the past. I now resign myself to my pathetic fate, be that hellfire or maggots or some other malicious catastrophe.
The Infernal King Richtus Alimaouse III
The air was filled with a crisp cold billow, and light but also dark. It was grey, like the proceedings before a storm, and cold like a long dead corpse. The chilling cry of the ravens echoed throughout the world, reverberating and diminishing off of every surface. They filled the sky, the black scourge of the air, gathering upon a summit. It was a grey day, and you could tell because the grass and the trees and all natural sources of color appeared diluted in their vibrance.
Solomon Crow perched on top of his power line, rolling his beady eyes. The sight before him was a familiar one, a pretentious one, an obnoxious one. The ravens were gathering before their fallen brethren, as they always did when their light dimmed. It was a funeral, all surrounding one, who stood over the corpse. Solomon Crow snarled at the sight. Raven’s acted so high and mighty, but he knew better. They were practically the same species, both birds of death and denial. They lived off of the rank scent of carrion, their heart beats picking up with excitement at the peril of their fellow animals. They were a plague on the animal kingdom, a dark angel, a reminder of death.
Although this was a common occurrence, something peaked Solomon Crow’s beady eyes this time. It is impossible to say what was unique about this particular funeral, but Solomon Crow was enraptured. He leaned forward on his powerline, peering intently at the birds before him. They were letting out haunting squawks and cries, a mournful cacophony of hellish screeching. After a moment, Solomon Crow took flight, gliding off the air currents, sailing through the chilling sky. He landed a few leagues away from the group, hopping on his spindly legs to penetrate the circle. The ravens did not notice him, so absorbed into their dark ceremony. Although Solomon Crow considered himself and the Raven’s to be one and the same, there is something to be said for their differences. The two species can communicate, though there is a language barrier, and a great many things are lost to the ether of translation. To this matter, Solomon Crow found he could not distinguish what this particular unkindness was on about. The screeching cries that their black beaks emitted chilled the black birds beating heart. He felt a few of their pearly white eyes rotating onto him, so in an effort to blend in, he flung his head back in simulated grief and joined the horrible melody.
For several minutes, the birds cried, a shrill song of death. The raven in the center perched atop of the corpse, a silent monolith. It opened its wisened beak and let out a simple caw, silencing all the birds, all but one. Solomon Crow clamped his beak shut as soon as he realised his blunder, but it was too late. The entire unkindness turned to stare at him as one unit, almost as one organism. For an excruciating amount of time, there was silence. Then a low hum began to come from deep within the ravens, slowly amplifying to a guttural growl of sorts. They started to rock back and forth, back and forth, as they rumbled. Solomon Crow looked every which way, searching for some sign of sympathy, some sign of kindness. He saw nothing but malice in the empty eyes of the ravens. As one, they stopped their horrible noise and wretched motion. For a brief moment, Solomon Crow relaxed. Then they were upon him, an explosion of black feather and pearly white eye, jabbing beak and tearing claw. Solomon Crow cried out in pain at the fearsome flurry of endless agony all around him. He flapped and kicked and pecked, but it was all for not. The ravens were a ceaseless force of barbarity, tearing
through the helpless crow. First feathers, then flesh, then sinew and muscle. Solomon Crow was dead, then he was food.
The raven’s enjoyed their wake, chortling softly at the foolish crow. This was nothing out of the ordinary for them. While it was considered brutish to consume one of the feather, it was a mandatory part of any funeral ceremony. Had no crow been foolish enough to enter their circle, then the unkindness would have descended on the corpse, and the cleric, after he had finished his ceremony.
As the dark avians filled their gullets, a cold rain began to crash down on them. The grey sky opened up, and the clear beauty of water washed away the morose tones. Striking the earth, the water mixed and melded with the pools of blood, staining the ground with a pink-orange tint. The raven’s scattered, flying every which way, searching for any kind of shelter. A wet bird was a grounded bird, and a grounded bird was a meal.
The harsh cry of a crow penetrated the dark night sky. The beating wings of a full murder began to reverberate around the open field. Black clawed feet impacted on the moist earth, oozing out watery blood like a sponge. They gathered around the body of Solomon Crow, or rather what was left of it, and began their funeral ceremony.
From a nearby powerline, Simon Raven shook the water from his feathers and let out a squawk of derision. There the crows went, about their pretentious funeral ceremony, as if they were the most intelligent of the black avians of death. Wrinkling his beak, Simon Raven pondered what could cause such similar species to behave so differently.
Welcome to the Cosmic Diner,
You won’t find food finer,
In all of space and time.
We have every dish from Spain,
The best chefs from the Ukraine,
To your pallet, a shrine.
The warmest buttery wheat,
The most savory glistening meat,
Toppings of every kind.
We have every vegan option,
A chocolate volcano eruption,
Warm, simmering brine.
So again, I inquire,
What does your pallet desire?
Perhaps some flambé?
I’ll have some warm toast,
And some coffee that you’ll roast,
Oh. The same thing as yesterday.
The liars are talking.
Oh, what a rousing exchange this will be!
For nothing truer will ever be said,
Yet most untrue, the words are glee.
The liars are talking.
Their defensive gates are up,
Neither giving an inch,
Both unwilling to letup.
The liars are talking,
One with a passion to hear,
The other burning to share,
Yet both are completely unaware,
Of the other’s situation.
The liars are talking,
And blame doesn’t fall to one,
For both enter with deceit on their tongues,
But truth in their hearts,
Beating behind prison rungs.
The Liars are talking,
They begin to share,
sentences , phrases, whole thoughts, all lies!
With an underlying truth.
For they both passionately care.
The liars are talking,
And it's a massacre.
A great confession,
Or an elaborate deception,
The other responds in similar.
The liars are talking,
And all is laid out,
Or none at all,
But who’s to say?
A whole lot of nothing can be a great deal of something,
Depending on perception and intention.
For the one may have shared,
And the other may deeply care,
But truth without trust is no different than nothing.
Lowercase i,
Do you even try?
So tiny to your capItall superIor.
You must want to cry,
For your qualItIes are InferIor,
You’re not your own exterIor,
You cannot stand alone.
You must call out why,
A god would curse you so.
So I say goodbye,
Oh useless lowercase i.
The Slip-up
“Shit!” I cried as my toe slammed home.
The children’s eyes widened as they recognized the forbidden.
There little heads filled with new words,
New possibilities.
There little smiles beginning to spread manically.
“Oh fuck”...I gasped as I realised what I did.
And so there was life.
The being cried out “what's my purpose?”
“To exist” the heavens replied.
And so life ceased to be,
As the task was too daunting.