the sun was generous to illuminate the way at such a late hour. the glare torn by thieving leaves, sweeping the light from the air in a bitter frenzy.
so out of place was this Man, clad in a steam pressed suit, endowed with the hallmarks of the city, complete with briefcase and corporate hair. the forest floor beneath His sleek shoes, crackling in defiance of every step.
the sun faltered, relieved to have guided this city Man to His destination. the sun departed, but not before casting a foreboding impression of the city Man upon the weathered wood of His destination. a black figure wreathed in the fire of the evening sun, upon the mouth of oblivion.
oblivion was a shack in the woods. sitting awkwardly beneath the bough of a fallen tree, and amidst a colony of fungi and moss.
the inelegant sounds of the city had all but died out, replaced with the chorus of the earth. the wind played out a percussion on the shack, sending its shutters wrapping in an irregular dissonance.
the city Man approached the door, His silhouette acting as a doorman to welcome him. contrary to the door itself, whose rusted hinges denied entry until the Man applied the weight of His conviction against it. ignoring the stowaway algae logged on the breast of His suit, he entered, pressing the door behind him with unwavering intent.
the interior was silent, as if it were a vacuum beyond this world, as if the forest outside had become mute with trepidation.
the interior had fallen into dilapidation, although it was quite apparent that it had once been a quaint and cosy dwelling for its previous inhabitants. furniture, now sullen with a fine silt of dust and dressed in ancient cobwebs sat around the room, arranged neatly as if patiently awaiting the return of those now gone.
the city Man hung His blazer on a copper nail, protruding awkwardly from the door frame. he didn't react to the immaculate venetian fabric parting under the nail's jagged spite, but instead proceeded into the modest kitchen space, His steps full of intent, ringing against the tired wood beneath His feet.
a humble iron stove sat in the one corner, smeared with charcoal stains and a stomach full of ash. it shrank into it's corner, as if the impossibly red rug sitting at it's feet was a misdeed of it's own doing. the rug sat fresh and in stark contrast to the monochromatic decrepitude of the rest of the tired shack.
sinking to one knee, the Man swept the rug from the floor, sending a cascade of dust through the air in a choking plume. the sun fingered it's way between the boards in windows, desperate for a glimpse at what the Man had discovered, sat beneath an audience of old jars on pantry shelves, sank into the floor.
it was a square panel, a rope attached at one end, fixed in place with red rusted hinges at the other. without intrigue or hesitation, the Man clasped the rope firmly between His hands, and heaved it into the air. the trap door rose from the floor with much reluctance, whining and wretching against it's hinge, to reveal a stairwell into the earth.
the sun flickered against the Man's tongue, which slid to whet His lips, and taste the dank air that heaved from the ground and then fell like a foetid curtain. the sun retreated behind the horizon, closing the eyes of those who would witness the Man's descent into the earth, full of intent and conviction, placing each step confidently on the falling damp stones, despite their angles and irregularities.
he ran His palm against the wall, steadying His descent, full of confidence and conviction despite the rapidly enveloping dark. eyes wide, the Man proceeded. His fingers lost all trace of the mortar, instead an orchestra of soft gelatinous vegetation greeted the soft contours of His hand, thick with the sweat of anticipation for His arrival. they thrived in the dark inexplicably, isolated from the suns invasive tendrils. they slithered their own against the Man's skin, guiding His descent into the maw of the planet, each step becoming rhythmic in unison to the inexplicable things which lived in the mortar, born of the evil that lay at the seat of oblivion.
then came the screams, so distant and tiny to begin with, each one distinguishable and individual of each other. guttural and whet with pounding suffering, some hoarse and tired, yet still so desperate to convey the pain of what hosts them. ever increasing in a crescendo of misery as the Man descended, anything discernible of the toils of humanity long since retreated in the darkness above, His footing was completely submerged in the flesh of those that gave structure to oblivion. the walls writhed in sexual agony. they supported the leather of His soles with muscular tubes, sweating profusely and pulsating beneath His hand, beating as the innards of a mortal world should, guiding His descent still with confidence and jubilation, for He had returned.