The Nightmare 29: Black Sun

A round of practising imagery. Darker, this time.

Twisting, turning, writhing, swirling, swirling. A black hole, twisting, turning, writhing, swirling, swirling. Black rotting snakes; their heads come forth from the dead orb's centre, their dire hisses purging the air of life. Shadows dance and flicker where there should be none. Unspeakable horrors groaning, moaning, crying, screaming, shrieking, dying. Ugly things, of horrid stench and terrible eyes, glistening carapaces, demented legs, putrid feelers, stretched out, attracted to fear as flies to corpses. Ash falls from shattered skies in this world of obliteration and eternal mismatched memories. A tundra of smoke and debris; no life takes hold here, only abominations exist. No light lights the way; all winds die here; no water, nor time flows through. Abyssal feelings, hopeless cycles of destruction, again and again; perpetual suicide. Soul-stealing wraiths wander, clutching their own dead hearts, broken and torn. Corpses of the long fallen, decayed and blasted black, eaten away by wriggling, white maggots. Despair takes root across the lands and stone trees sprout forth, from which felons are hung by their necks. A defiled church bell rings hollow in the distance, here where there is no horizon, here where there is no saviour, here where all things are dead or undead, here where the ashes fall eternally.