Post by Lord Greevon on Mar 10, 2014 2:14:34 GMT -5
The Play
It was the play that finally did it. His mind, desperately holding on to reality, succumbed to the manic dancing and flailing of that unholy play. He was a writer, a desperate and cracking one at that. He took his seat, weary from long hours alone in his room. He sat with many others, all looking for a moment’s rest, a diversion from the day to day. Looking for a small assurance that there is a better life, a better world, than the one around them. All this they looked for in the play.
It was late, a midnight premier of the play that would be showing in town for the next few weeks. On his way, he was nearly lost in the dark whorling mists of the hour. Through some kind of magic or cunning not within his memory he made his way there and he took his seat. The stage was dimly lit, the actors still preparing for the mad play that would come to be prohibited across nations. When the play started, it was hard for him to see. At first he thought he must have gotten a bad seat, perhaps the worst, but when he really looked, he could see all the actors clearly. It wasn’t the stage sets or the props that made it difficult to see, each was painted marvelously and distinctly, as if real. The play as a whole took on a blurriness, as if reality began to melt down as the actors danced strange dances and sung garbled songs of lost gods and ancient peoples. By the time the lead actor had made it on stage, the police had already been called and some members of the audience were already on their way to the hospital.
Even before the play, his mind slipped daily further into insanity. His small home, filled with stacks of old books and tombs, was akin to a library of the occult. Documents of bizarre happenings in Middle America, tattered papyrus that claimed incantations of the black arts, bottles and jars containing peculiarities of genetics and things that no scientist could explain. All of this he collected, but none of it he heeded as the truth. That was, until the play. The play severed the strings holding him down, the strings of common sense and knowledge and science. His collection of oddities became a trove of magic and horror that he could use to achieve… to achieve only God knows what.
It was the play that finally did it. His mind, desperately holding on to reality, succumbed to the manic dancing and flailing of that unholy play. He was a writer, a desperate and cracking one at that. He took his seat, weary from long hours alone in his room. He sat with many others, all looking for a moment’s rest, a diversion from the day to day. Looking for a small assurance that there is a better life, a better world, than the one around them. All this they looked for in the play.
It was late, a midnight premier of the play that would be showing in town for the next few weeks. On his way, he was nearly lost in the dark whorling mists of the hour. Through some kind of magic or cunning not within his memory he made his way there and he took his seat. The stage was dimly lit, the actors still preparing for the mad play that would come to be prohibited across nations. When the play started, it was hard for him to see. At first he thought he must have gotten a bad seat, perhaps the worst, but when he really looked, he could see all the actors clearly. It wasn’t the stage sets or the props that made it difficult to see, each was painted marvelously and distinctly, as if real. The play as a whole took on a blurriness, as if reality began to melt down as the actors danced strange dances and sung garbled songs of lost gods and ancient peoples. By the time the lead actor had made it on stage, the police had already been called and some members of the audience were already on their way to the hospital.
Even before the play, his mind slipped daily further into insanity. His small home, filled with stacks of old books and tombs, was akin to a library of the occult. Documents of bizarre happenings in Middle America, tattered papyrus that claimed incantations of the black arts, bottles and jars containing peculiarities of genetics and things that no scientist could explain. All of this he collected, but none of it he heeded as the truth. That was, until the play. The play severed the strings holding him down, the strings of common sense and knowledge and science. His collection of oddities became a trove of magic and horror that he could use to achieve… to achieve only God knows what.