Welcome to my blog. No, I have not abandoned this place, I just find it very difficult to type very long stories on my phone. So until I get a computer, the many half-written stories will stay on my phone. Or maybe until I can finish them in a spur of inspiration.
This is my first blog post this year. Happy New Year.
Cooked this up a few hours ago. It is also my first experiment on writing with pen on paper.
Through musty subterranean labyrinths which have stood unused since immemorial times, they burst into into the night in an explosion of dust and rocks. Their fur clashes with the cold air, and three howls rent the air.
The owls will not come out tonight.
Their snouts need not search, for the summons have been acknowledged. Through fields which have lain umploughed for decades they move, their impossible claws turning over the sod in their zeal to reach their end.
Excitement overwhelms them every so often, and their forms would become elemental; they would burst into flames or disintegrate into the air as they deemed appropriate. From inside their mighty throats come chains dripping with their blood. Their blood drips from the junction of the chain and their neck, and it sizzles as it touches red-hot links, distributing the smell of blood about them always.
At the end of these chains is clamped a hand which was darker than the nights of Tartarus. The Masta holds tightly onto the three glowing chains, his form swimming through reality as the three hounds hurry forward.
The moon turns red in fright, and the argentine night becomes a vision seen through a mist of blood. Upon the shoulders of the Masta sits a burning skull, ignited when Mount Tartarus was still a molehill. From chattering teeth comes a shrill laughter; for though the hounds own this night, the Masta has not seen it since time immemorial, though he remembers with clarity the time when the hounds were sought with great fervour.
Oh, the marvelous worlds of the misty past.
At last, they arrive at the top of the past hill as rain clouds fight with the crimson moon for dominance. The hounds raise their voices again, shaking heaven and earth with their cry. They exult as they realize they have come to the end of their patience, for too long have they lain idle in the embers of a cooling hell as they awaited a summon.
In the ribbed valley below, a white fire is visible. Scores of figures draped in white still their lusty dancing and look upwards at the figures silhouetted against the crimson moon. Their actions change and with renewed vigour, they chant abominations and holler obscenities.
We Are Yours!
From the hilltop, the three hounds and their Masta howl with the rapture of their adoration. It crescendoes to an orgasm within moments. Then the howling stops.
The infernal hounds shoot forward, and in a moment of time, the slope is traversed. The hounds turn into furry wind held in leashes by the black hand of the Masta, and enter the embracing forms out the euphoric worshippers.
But this sabat is wrong wrong wrong. This is not the night/rite of possession. In short time, the white robed figures are splattered with blood and lying sprawled on the soft, trampled earth. Their dying screams enrich the enthusiasm of the hounds. In the blazing white light of the chemical fire, they behold the faces of the bringers of death, whilewith the periphery of their vision, they note the nude one with the burning skull as he stands just outside the reach of the light.
The Masta. Through the the vibrating chains, he feels the pleasure that the hounds produce as they feed upon blood and souls. He kicks his head back and laughs with spite at the heavens which have perhaps decreed that they would hunger forever. The valley returns the sound and a feeding hound, intestines wrapped around its snout, suddenly stares back at him in annoyance. The Masta does not see this attention. His last vision is of a pair of glowing eyes bearing down on him.
No one may laugh with spite at the heavens.
Presently, the chains lay sprawled on the blood-soaked sands.
Silence again. The massacre has cone to an end, and bloodied snouts stop sniffing. The hounds stand idle; triplet black gods of antiquity, alone without the Masta, the one who holds the chains.
The moon loses its crimson garment, and two pairs of yellow eyes stare with spite against one. One pair of eyes cringe with shame at the mortal consequence of its overzealousness.
In the time of old, they led the Masta to the possession or the slaughter; depending if that one word in the rites was mis-pronounced, but it was always the burning one who led them home.
Where is home? They only remember the serpentine tunnels which open into leaping flames, but not how to get there.
Their silence slowly grows into mournful growls, and uncertainty begins to descend on them. They dig into the earth, but the gates of fades have their situations.
They stare with fear as the fingers of a golden dawn brightens the edges of rainclouds. Their minds are seared with the unpleasant memory of an encounter with the dawn on the day the sphinx had been born.
The wind pushes through distance trees, and it sounds like the spiteful laughter of heaven.
The triplet hurry off in the opposite direction, painfully aware that they cannot outrun the sun forever.