Strange, Peculiar, and Outright Weird Short Stories

The Blood Ocean

A painted dove.

White and gold.

Flies, it's wings flapping steadily; heading out into the sky. The sky is deep blue, so dark it's almost black, yet there's fire in the sky. Red streams, orange flakes, yellow swirls, the sun is descending. It's laying its head to rest, it's bright fire diminishing.

The dove flies. It is but a speck in the distance.

It soars above a black sea, the waves wide and loud. They crash into themselves, merging and frothing. The white foam matches the dove's pale feathers. The sky reflects on its golden ones.

Peeping out through the canvas, star's appear one by one. Popping into glorious existence. No lights anywhere to challenge their brilliance.

They shine on the churning waters, small sparkles.

CRASSHHHKKKPPOPP!!!

Flaming violet fire slams down into the water. A spray shoots out from the impact. Sizzling sound and steam rise up.

Clouds are building, angry and pitch black. Darker than that of a murderer's pupils. They boil and expand. Spanning across the ever-growing expanse of sky.

CRISSSHHFLASSHHKKKP!!!
BANNNNNGGGG!!!

Another strikes down, spreading its sparking fingers out viscously. The light illuminated the small dove's body, casting a sickening lavender hue. The dove flies on.

BANG!! BANG!! BANG!! BANG!!

Lightning whips across the clouds, burning everything in its wake. Leaving only steaming ash and sizzling sea.

The dove carries on, dodging the deadly lightning strikes by a tail feather.

The sea is bucking now, it's waves a seizure on the horizon. It's murky depths are broiling, their innards spewing hot, hissing steam. It billows up and throws the dove off course.

The dove ricochets through the air, it's small downy wings flapping furiously to right itself before it plummets to certain death.

The sea is turning red, the enraged storm above it smashing its sparking fist into the surface of the water over, and
over
and
over
and
over again.

Pounding the lashing waves to pulpy foam.

The dove lurches and manages to right itself, it's golden feathers glistening starkly against its white ones.

Suddenly rain.

It comes down hard and fast, all at once it seems, slamming into the poor dove's tired wings and aching body. Slapping the top of the ocean and merging with it.

It doesn't stop.

It's red.

And thick.

Goopy and slimy and sticky.

Pouring down in a torrent.

It soaks the white feathers red, blood red. The dove struggles to fly, slowly lowering in altitude.

It fills and stains the ocean red, blood red. The waves turning into mighty, bloody surges.

SSSSSHHHIIICCCKKKBOOOOOOOM!!!

The lightning is pink, like blood-stained white shirts. Except it's hotter than the sun and faster than the speed of sound.

The dove trembles, it's exhausted body finally wearing out. It's wings are shaking, the glow of its golden feathers gone, washed away with blood and salt.

The sky and ocean heave and sigh, moaning and screaming out as one harmonious, destructive, and treacherous being.

The dove falls.

Plummeting to its untimely death.

It's mission failed.

It sailed down, its feathers like pleasant streamers behind it.

Such a small speck of beauty and hope, big dreams for a little thing.

It's tiny body swallowed by the enormous blood ocean.

It ate the dove.

Small white feathers now in the process of being turned into seashells that'll litter the shore for young children.

Tiny white and shiny shells.

Some reddish.

Some pinkish.

Some goldish.

Some whiteish.

Some a mixture of all the dove's colors.

Some the colors of other birds.

All that fell to the fate of those who can never escape the deep.

The darkness of the blood ocean.