Vengeance

By: RDV


The men of stick had begun rising from the muddy quagmire of sleep, each of them hardly remembering what sunshine felt like. For three millennia they had been buried underneath the sinking wet sands. Today, the moon, glorious in its quarter form, would experience eclipse. Today, the tall men of stick would cover the dome of the heaven, and the air would whisper their awakening and their names spelled on the walls of your homes. They would be in no humor to tell their story to the world, because the story of their shackling was an ancient code of suffering, which, in its gruesomeness and morbidity, the world had no right, nor enough dignity, to hear. They would proclaim their presence to the living once more. And the coldness that was only made conspicuous by its absence would return, even as it had dominated the earth’s spheres many, many ages ago. The men of stick would tower over the highest edifices, but not loftier than their long memories. They remembered. They remembered the day of their torment, when Apocalypse, prophesied to happen centuries later, descended on them before its time. Today, the crimes, unpaid, should see compensation. They would walk onwards on a pilgrimage, bearing on their backs the malice of their intentions. Stealthily, they would slither through and unload the yoke. It would begin.