blaspheme
DIVINE MACHINERY
My name is Raconteur. I am a storyteller by trade, but find scarce ears to hear my tales in this modern day. The Blaspheme was upon us; a day of joviality behest in heresy and fireworks. A day of much curiosity from foreigners to our mist-wracked land, for it is an enigma. The Old Gods are dead… aren’t they? Alas, no, dear listener, for they return once every two years upon the eve of The Blaspheme. One cannot rightly kill divinity, you see, for what is death to the divine? A stroke of flame, the tear of a bastard; veins now dry?
Great, sprawling spires claw at the heavens and tear at flesh and sinew. The church is ever so bloody, dear listener, soaked — no — drowning in the blood of The Old Gods. This city once saw the sun. No longer, O’ selcouth divine, does his cruel warmth bathe this place. Not since it became organic; not since the walls began to bleed. Not since mothers begot the wires linked directly to THEM.
We live in a beating form.
Throbbing, pulsing, we live in veins and blood vessels.
We lie on flesh and eat from bloated organs. “But, Raconteur! Kind fellow, tattling mice! You lie!”
Not quite, dear listener, not quite.
The Blaspheme is upon us! Only you can cleanse your sins with the ichor of The Old Gods. No one, I repeat, no one else. Metallic… throbbing like rust.
Eat your flesh, dear listener, before it rots.
Lost some steam here at the end but PHEW… HAVE YOUR INDUSTRIAL DIVINITY…
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Ohhh this was enticing in a way I can't really articulate. Well done.
lost steam MY ASS! i think this is perfectly unsettling, quaint in un-nature. that last line is extremely well done. (you gotta quit seducing me with rot.)