Thursday, August 18, 2011

Interlude 1

They reached from their dark graves, swatting at the angel's muddy and bloodstained feet, begging for his mercy, to release them from their personal hell, the rotting flesh hanging from the bone with a permanent look of agony fixed to their dead faces, screaming for relief and receiving no pity from the angel making his way through the yard of the damn towards the dark towers ahead. He came to a massive grave with a stone obelisk jutting up from the soil that looked as though it had been freshly dug, a featureless head had been carved into the stone facing with the letters INRI chiseled beneath it with wreckless hands, as though added after the initial construct itself. Beside the grave sat a demon, stripped of its flesh, its skull polished to a fine sheen with two large black circles that refused the light devoid of gaze, yet were aware of all things around it. The demon held a long bone flute between its hands, forever fixed to its lips and played for its theater of misery, and as it played its song of sorrow the graveyard calmed to almost a whisper. The angel then heard the bells tolling high above in the towers. Slow gongs resonated out across the gardens of hell, an invite from the inhabitant within. The Flutist stopped playing its song, but quickly started once more at a glance from the Angel who respectfully asked it to "Continue playing." with the wave of his hand. The request scorched the demon's dark soul, easing the pain once the chilling music played that also forced the dark shadows in pursuit to retreat back inside their lost tombs. The Angel eyed the obelisk, his eyes heavy with sorrow and tears as they rest upon the lettering, somewhere inside the dark tower he would find Grigori. Somewhere inside, he would find the answers he had sought for over years. Somewhere inside, he would find Baphomet and his doppelgangers waiting, a deal signed in blood long ago waiting for closure and an executor. Somewhere inside, he would find her waiting for him. Most importantly, somewhere inside the dark tower he would find his Son, The Genesis Seed.


  1. "... But to that second circle of sad hell,
    Where ‘mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
    Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
    Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
    Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form
    I floated with, about that melancholy storm."

    You, and Keats, and Dante, all rock.

  2. Okay. Waited long enough. More, please!

  3. It would appear as though I am writing this just for you. Nonetheless, I forge on. It might take awhile longer to craft these as I am trying to find the music to fit the mood, and then write whatever madness comes from it. Another teaser is coming soon.

  4. Despair not. More will come. The music, if nothing else will draw them. The story will make them linger. Soon your readers will be legion. (grin)

  5. "Bone flute"? Is that like a skin flute?