| The Light of the Lord | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 4 2013, 09:22 PM (28 Views) | |
| Bladeneo | Apr 4 2013, 09:22 PM Post #1 |
|
A sense of fear and dread descends; enveloping, consuming. The soft crackle of flame is barely audible above the smothering sound of silence. The eyes steadily adjust, although it takes more than a few minutes to truly comprehend the surroundings. Eight figures stand motionless, save for the almost rhythmic rise and fall of their chests. Their heads are bowed, hidden beneath large hoods, arms folded between the draping sleeves of their grey robes. They stand in two rows of four, set out before the areas only light source. The fire is still in its infancy, almost as if the kindling and the flames are still getting accustomed to one another, becoming steadily more acquainted. This courtship, however slow, was beginning to show its influence on the exterior; little by little the backdrop was becoming visible, starting with the weathered and worn brickwork walls directly behind and beside the fire. The fire was placed on top of a raised platform constructed once of the finest marble, its features now dull and faded, cracks tarnishing the once magnificent design. If examined closely enough, the image of two humans can be made out, seemingly a mother and child, but it serves now simply as a decaying reminder of a lost time. Before long, the flames begin to consume the copious quantities of wood beneath them, the fire growing and growing until before long it erupts into a ball of warmth and light. The darkness recedes immediately, although the surroundings still feel consumed by black. The figures remain still, seemingly taking no notice of the burgeoning blaze before them. The skin begins to tingle as the temperature rises; all efforts to keep the flames at bay are becoming more and more futile as the flames flicker ever closer. The frantic movements finally stir a response from one of the figures, although from the speed of their almost laboured response, it would seem they aren’t nearly as concerned. The figure does step forward however, raising his head just enough to illuminate his weary, wrinkled face. His movement spurs the others to follow, almost in robotic unison, each robed man sporting the same wizened visage, the same vacant expression. As they ascend the steps of the platform towards the growing inferno, they begin to emit a low hum, beginning from the back of their throats, echoing effortlessly in the emptiness. Eventually, there is nowhere else to retreat from the onrushing flames; they begin to whip and lick at the feet, the air soon contaminated with the suffocating pungency of burst hair and seared flesh. A whimper is emitted, although choked back down almost instantly. The figures begin to circle the fire, their low hum building, expanding, matching the increasing intensity of the flames. Eventually, it can be contained no longer. “STOP THIS MADNESS! PLEASE!” The scream smothers the hums of the figures for but a moment, in fact, the sudden outpouring seems only to fuel them further, their volume and intensity rising at the same frequency. “PLEASE! MY FAMILY ARE STARVING! YOU DON’T GIVE US ENOUGH TO LIVE!” Once more the outcry is ignored, absorbed, replaced by the terrifying placidity of the unorthodox choir. Finally, the first figure moves towards the flames, throwing his head high and proclaiming: “For the crime of theft, of that which we hold so dear, bread, and water, I condemn thee to die. Pray forgiveness, and accept the consuming warmth of He who protects, provides and prospers.” He speaks in seemingly a whisper, but his voice is heard high above all else. He raises his arm aloft above him, timing his movements perfectly to capture the screams of agony now filling the chamber. “Please...I beg you. My family will not survive.” The head drops, eyes closed as the efforts finally take their toll. The pleas are, mercilessly and for the final time, carried away on the echoes of the ceremony. The hums finally reach their crescendo as the fire peaks, holding for one deafening moment before dying out into silence suddenly. One final glance is made, the spectacle memorized, his face etched into memory before finally there is nothing but ash. Nothing but ash remains. My son, burned alive. And it's all my fault. |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Writenings · Next Topic » |






6:46 AM Jul 13