Page 112 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1
P. 112

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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