Hell Rift
Michael Steven
How it came to be
in my
possession I am uncertain.
The
origins lie beyond
my memory. A
scripture held by
hooded men
that
chant ancient lines
under open
skies lit with burning
stars.
I will do as requested;
I will
fulfil the needs
of the black
script. Ancient
tombs and broken
stones lay
scattered in their
eternal
slumber. It is
here on the moor
I will harvest
and
construct the instrument
of
eternal nightmares.
A mound of skin and bone,
bonded
through bloodline lie askew
at my feet, plucked from
the
earth they slept. I sit
before them
on bended knee, listening
for the
secrets that they keep.
They rattle
on my wooden floors, wishing
again for a chance to speak.
The black script passed
from
hand to hand is now partially
translated from ancient
text to
a form of broken English
that seems
easy enough to navigate.
It begs
me to wonder if it has been
passed about from scholar
to
beggar and back again.
“Could other constructs
exist?” and if so
“where and what has
become of them?”
the thought comes with a
chill.
The neck of the relic is
that of a spine belonging
to
a devoted father while the
body of the musical instrument
consists of a small child,
strung
together by the hairs of
a loving mother. The teeth
and joints
act as fasteners to prevent
it from
coming undone. A ghastly
image
now stood before me, it
glows bone white in the
darkest
of rooms it was conceived.
I gather it up in my
arms unsure of what to
make of it. My hands glide
up and down the spine
unannounced to myself they
find rhythm. My fingers
form
chords and work down
the neck, the sound was
indescribable.
I can only say it felt wrong
and held no place in this
world.
The bone casts light
that shines on the wall
ahead of me. My hands
pick up frantic speed as
they dance along the spine.
They
are no longer my own but
instead a vessel for the
instrument
to speak. Fragments of macob
images
flicker in and out. Ice
pours from
my brow and tingles my backside.
I calm
my nerves and slow my
hands until the picture
regains
focus and becomes clear.
An empty throne sits surrounded
by steaming caves of fire,
the more
I looked the more I saw.
Panic stricken
men run, grasping at burnt
earth
as beast made of man and
animal
snap and pull at helpless
limbs
forcing them in groups of
screaming meat. Worms crawl
from
every crevice and fissure,
vibrating
with every scream and act
of hate.
It was pure unchecked violence.
“I could never imagine
in all my life being witness to such
cruelty!”
My eyes lay fixed and smoky
as the images begin to change
and
dance before my very eyes.
What I
saw bends and warps
the soul, such things could
not be, images so beyond
the mind’s
comprehension, a blurred
reality of
what could be but never
could possibly become. Empty
deserts of sand and decaying
bodies, civilizations that
stood tall
now lay in dust and ruin.
A
curse brought unto our own,
a virus
spreading from man, woman
and
child, decaying loved ones
helpless to the plague.
Men speaking
to the stars asking for
guidance
only to be returned with
silence, an unforgiving
destiny
we walk unknowingly.
“How could I ever
dream a dream so pure knowing what I know
now!”
I have seen what lies beyond
the
shadows of man, true selfish
greed, a hate that cannot
be seen
but felt in crowds when
survival
of one’s self is beyond
that of others.
“Can such a thing
be true?”
Are we beyond repair, are
we
forever destined to walk
the
line of fate that is to
be human, to
burn in pits so deep simply
due to survival? What makes
us so
different than beast? Do
we protect
one’s own or perish
to the
hands of our own kind?
“Hell is not buried
deep in
The pits of the earth but
exists
on the plain of man”
if so, heaven must reside
among us.
Michael
Steven is new to the world of writing, who has written
“The Mirror” which was accepted in Feb 2020 by BP and awaiting print. As a
reader Michael enjoys the occult and the strange which in turn creeps its way
into his writing. He does not know where writing will take him but intends to
enjoy the ride even if the road is full of potholes.
