Your Ascendance is slow and stately, a dizzying upward spiral on snow-white stairs. All around is blank relief, bright void, star matter, and you are lost upon the essence of nothing.
(Maybe Death is blind.)
Knowledge satisfies you as you climb, knowledge that you, mortal, have been enough. You, nothing, have become everything.
Serenity tastes cloying in the air.
Askance is a bitter anticipation of sweet reward, deserved and unfounded. It is strung with black roses, held still in place by their thorns, stitched piece by piece together by a patient yearning. Glass crunches under your feet.
(Maybe Death is velvet.)
The small stillness of your own heart is silence as eternity stretches around you, all encompassing and shrivelled at the edges. Time and sense is lost. You should be able to hear yourself breathe.
(Maybe Death meant nothing at all.)
A sudden gust of chill air sweeps hair from your face for a wild moment, and you take in the slow shrinking of mindscape.
You have reached the top.
The nothing is opposed by a something.
A something that whispers of warmth (the cold will serve you nicely), belonging (do you really believe that?). Home.
(Come on in, then. Come in and bring the crows.)
You reach out a hand, a question, a being, and feel yourself pulled forward. Relief has a defiant edge. Your smile is bright and imprecise as you enter (at once a siege, a murder, a plague) the high embrace of heaven.
You are faced with a locked iron door.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
Short StoryWelcome to my writing space, where I post random one part stories of all shapes and sizes for you to enjoy! There's a variety of everything in my mind, so there'll be a variety of everything here!
