Mogwai, Second Encounter

Mogwai, Second Encounter

A Story by Damion Ravenbourne

      Behind a window painted black by the fallen sun, a shadow creeps. It sneaks along the wall, dancing in a macabre manner. Pointed claws whisper and shout as they clutch the thin air and the limbs of such a sullen haunt stretch to sizes of a most malevolent nature, and still the quivering shadow dances. Lank and hollow, his shaking silhouette shuddered his maniacal chuckle, erupting from a pulsing skull shade that jerked and jolted in baleful aberration. All the while, in this deathly dance, sat lonesome in the center, a strained soul, surging beneath the shell of a man, threatening to shatter in a solemn moment. Now summoned the spectre's, all daintily black, while they scamper to surround the sacrifice, and thumping blasts, beat upon the ears of the tortured one, while the spirits shriek mutely in a intangible tongue. The dance is full, it's tension risen, the stomping feat and thumping beat that burrow beneath the center, as blackened walls grow grimly around our sorrowful friend.

      The echoes of the backing booms, a pulsing bass that buffets the drums of animal and man, as if a voodoo ceremony is circulating about his very room. A room that has sunken, deep within a looming shadow, as the hole in which he sits is bored deeper and the shadow grows and grows to a malicious monster, looming and loathing and spreading it's wings, to wrap around him only to stumble aft, as if pierced through the heart that failed to flourish, and shake mass, all mightily, with greatest authority to sunder a doom far from hell, but abound to the very earth, and plague beneath the bones of man. Yet harken! An angel, bestowed below light, to risk such a beauty, and healthy light thought, with her bringing pardon 'fore she tore out his heart, to feast upon voraciously as she drew back the light, and pure golden hair had dampened to grey, while the withering face of a banshee, shriveled and demented, shrieked gleefully at the pain of his chest, aching and shredded, with bones stuck from his breast all splintered or cracked, as the rot of her taint began to take charge, and chomp at the flesh.

     Now limp and lost, and sobbing, our chum, grew weary of dreaming these deranged foreign things. Defiled by nail, the scratch would soon fester, and lurching to sway, another night had been downed, the man stumbled to gain foot in the floors below, where the creatures of dark all seemed to hail, and once more he was lost, as familiarity and passion, when the walls started twisting to fiction to cause a thrashing, and beat upon doors! Yay, any surface or solid, one ounce of a project determined to follow in line of a fear that was tailed. Gods! Be it the last, no never. Hold grip against the object of which the identity could not be fashioned, as the swirling world before us claws the back of my skull, to place fingers near iris, and poke out mine eyes, or hold head as a trophy, be it chained or a mantle. The thrashing and thumping that shakes in my head, as I twitch maniacal, daft, frenzied, and delirious, in a dormant attempt to spit out the demons. Every creak is a bombshell, and the ways have all been lost, for the time that I've spent sitting, I've seen a life I cannot trust. Now, with the Behemoth before us, I tremble under the weight of the many on my back, quickly stumbling ahead. And the roars of deafening caliber that quake and move the land, but the army's not arrived? Seems to shed a new plan. So with strength of false heartbeat, and a mask upon my face, the fist of this felon, a criminal of the deep, slams down beside him, a warning of his wrath. But soon his form is shrinking, he bellows breathlessly as he falls back into shadow, another obsessive defeat.

© 2013 Damion Ravenbourne

Author's Note

Damion Ravenbourne
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Added on February 12, 2013
Last Updated on February 12, 2013
Tags: Mogwai, Damion, Ravenbourne, short, story, scary, demons, dark