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I slipped between the clamor of the mob and the whispers
of nearby movement. My silence wrapped around me like
loving arms, and my hands filled with saw-toothed laughter.
The rank smell of fruiting corpses traveled upon the breath
of the thing that entered the shadows at the bottom of the
stairs. Its movement vacillated between a shuffle and a
purposeful gait, outlining a struggle between primal and
prudent dispositions. It inhaled deeply, combing the air for
signs of prey. A beam of light shot through the cellar window
and brushed its face.
The thing’s countenance was as conflicted as its
movements, expressing the extremes of a barely human
condition. Its white eyes were sunken into its face like
heavy, lusterless stones thrown atop a filthy pillow, and they
peered no deeper into the world than was necessary to locate
sustenance. This most certainly concerned the swollen
meats of the dead—more specifically, human corpses. A
septic pit of rough-hewn teeth comprised the thing’s mouth,
which it kept slightly agape, as if to reduce the distance its
jaws would have to open to admit its next meal. The longer I
looked upon the thing, the more I detested it.
Ultimately, there were two principal attitudes concerning
art. The first seeks to capture reality, faithfully reproducing
its every mundane detail, admitting little to nothing of
the imagination. The second type flies the world, chasing
dreams, foolishly hoping to catch them. It goes without
saying which art I practice, and this creature was clearly the
work of a practitioner of the first type. The grotesquery was
nothing but a portrait of a single basic urge, embellished
slightly by the coarse appetite of a nightmare. The creature
was, however, undeniably well-made, the attention to detail
impressive. But I much disliked the trite theme it was
obviously designed to reflect.
A second noise emanated from the upstairs as something
else entered the house. The peripheral glow of a flashlight
frosted the cellar stairs as the second intruder investigated.
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