Swarthy & 'Fro

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Synopsis

A group of people from every walk of life appear together in the same nightmare as an unwanted guest affects their conscience.

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I’ve only seen it in my dreams, and only felt its presence in real life. I had to carry a heartbroken tone through a missionary blithe. It comes and towers over me, it feels as if it rules over me. And as it hides behind alpine-esse creations, a reflection of our fort degenerates when a blink seed has been planted many centuries ago. And those seeds grow into nothing as it withers into the soil to never create life—but a nightmare made for others to only fear. 

Nighttime is here, a storm triggers the beware, the wind gushes into the oblivious and faint stars and moon, and so, the impossible here’s always assumed.

The skies above us are a metal-tasting gray with an ashy fog that blocks our sight of the Monster’s stray. Only a few who once lived among us climbed Mount Stratosphere and saw the creature’s “face.” But they descended down the mountainous levels as the Monster knew itself to be ill and self-maced. Which is why the victims would say, “it is stealing our energy essence by essence” until they fell down sick in our presence. 

‘Fore the man who rowed the boat upon the River of Styx met their souls, they told, “it has no eyes to see the evil it has done, and it is too tall to see the lives it has stepped on. But yet, the creature’s mastodon head somehow “glares” at its victims with no hesitation—what feels like an eerily sense of full infatuation. And so, we looked at it, genderless, hairless, but masculine and fragile—skinny with skin made of bleached ashes, but dominantly weak. And so, it is filled with a definite deathening streak; and so, this courage we once upheld began to feel bleak.”

I did not predict this to be a preparation of the wicked—for thou I feel the wicked itself knew this monster’s arrival for thee upon this vast land of…no…not darkness, even darkness does not have a containment here, but just the stygian lives of what could have thrived. 

There’s nothing around but the treacherous terrains that slightly crack upon every step the Monster takes. I fear as the Monster meanders gleefully in its own world it had create, where it touches the tips of mountains just to bleed out tears of its victims’ sake, the last remaining survivors’ foothold will tremble and break. 

But will the Monster fall as we fall? For though, it will have no more footing. Is it true since it is tall will it fall harder than us all? For though, if we die; we never wake up—have we truly escaped its appearance from within our disappearance? And with our eyes open in the flesh, it still upholds trauma within our land as if this monster’s more than a guest. Yes, we have no dreams of blue sparkling fairies landing onto an emerald turquoise prairie.

Yet, here we are. We’ve not fallen. Yet, everyone else has given up. But I’ve prepared for battle—readied and set. 

I dreamt of a sword held by my hands. I gathered my own intuition of how I would slay this creature who appears to belong here, but somehow, I knew the creature was never meant to be here. I’ve come to a realization this supernatural ghastly being is not aware I’m ready to destroy it in a battlefield none dared had imagined. Almost as if I was to do so—I would feel myself as a criminal even though it was the Monster who trapped us all here, no matter where we came from or what we look like, every night in this monstrous nightmare. 

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