BOSTON/NE BANDS, Fresh Stream

al.divino – KRPYTx2.0

And then we entered the magic mirror?

by

KRYPTx 2.0 by al.divino

 

Not sure why I decided to wander down
the alley. It seemed like a good idea
at the time. I had time to kill. A bo-
ne at the ready. Something about the
trash enriched humid air beckoned. Yo-
u should always default to “Yes”.

So I thought at the time. I looked at
the walls. Lots of strange cartoons s-
wirled. Amatuerish, but fine. What di-
d I expect? Fra Angelico? I walk and I
see lives shrewn out into collapsed tent
hovels. The stench of failure and
decay. Piss. Thoughts tearing away. S-
moke rises. I withdraw from the vortex.

I see a man throwing garbage into a d-
umpster. I see the Horn on it’s side.
The man looks at me. Eye contact. He
shivers. His demeanor changes. From a-
loof and vacant to stern. There is a f-
ire raging below the surface, barely
containing the steam pouring from hi-
s ears. Or was it thoughts? Either w-
ay, it’s comical. I laugh. There is
actually steam pouring out of the ma-
n’s ears. When he shakes his head in
disgust at me and passes through the
doorway, I realize he was standing in
front of an air vent.

The alley encloses around me. I see
tendrils descending from the roofs a-
bove. Terror spreads. I witness the
lightning flash of an internal movie.
A street. Long ago. Fitchburg. Looki-
ng out a window in Acton onto the st-
reet. Night. Three figures. Sub-mach-
ine weapons. Altercation. One shadow
figure is split in two by white hot
metal rain drops bathing the night a-
ir in hellfire, innards, and blood.

Entrails writhe. Coming back to life.
I see it clearly. The figure turns i-
nto an intestinal spider of vengeanc-
e and rage. There are no words for th-
e terror. Lifeless black eyes scannin-
g for consciousness. It looks up to m-
y window. Slow lumbering movement. Aw-
kward rage directed solely at me. Lig-
htning. Power surges through the oran-
ge streetlights. The scent of burning
plastic.

The memory has been sparked. Transpo-
rted from dream reality to the prese-
nt. Creeping tendrils wrap around my
shoulders. Burning into me. The black
eyes appear. Endlessly deep. Haunted.
It was around this time I knew I was
going to die. I was scared. Darkness.
I hear the sound of alien, impersonal,
laughter echoing off the brick walls.
Then nothing.

Local journalism is more important now than ever. Please support the Hassle by donating to our annual GoFundMe Fundraiser, subscribing to our Patreon, or making a one-time donation via PayPal.

Liked it? Take a second to support Father Alexander on Patreon!
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 License(unless otherwise indicated) © 2019