Unfinisihed and Untitled

-I plan for this brief unfinished abstract work to slowly grow some kind of legs and substance. If you have any ideas or suggestions for this piece please let me know.

Blood Runs Dry

A dew-soaked field. A stretched crimson sky. A setting sun, deep amid its raging burn. A blooded man. A corpse. The wind ruffled his red-soaked clothes. He turned his gaze upward, glaring at the heavens. His knees struck the ground, as he stretched his arms outwards like a parent looking for their child's embrace. No embrace would come. The field was empty. Just him and his sin. He tore his eyes away from the blazing sky and gazed into the white, lifeless eyes of the corpse at his side. The sight pained him. His mouth released and opened, a silent scream escaping his trembling lips. A tear rolled down his cheek. It slowly gathered speed, taking some blood with it. The tear hung from his jaw for a moment, before falling into the mix of dew and blood beneath the man. 

Another tear followed. Then another. And another, until a torrent was silently flowing down his face. Through the flood, he saw the stiff corpse at his side. Like the man the corpse had a silent scream painted onto his pale face. The knife was still stuck in his side. An eternal figure of unrelenting paint. A statue of torment. 

The man cried for hours until his tears ran dry, his hushed scream left on his face. It was the eyes that brought his sorrow. Two pale, static discs locked with his stare. The same eyes that had once begged with him, pleaded for mercy now stood stone cold, eternal reminders of his crime. 

With shaking legs, he finally pulled himself up his gaze still linked with the corpses. With one weary step after one weary step, he began to flee. Tearing himself free of the eyes of his sin, he ran. Ran with all his might, desperate for escape. Escape from his wrongs. Escape from the blood. Escape from himself. But run as he might, the trail of blood that followed him would never run dry.

To Fade

A shadowy figure. A dusty night. A gap. An absence in the darkness, a nothingness seeping through the blackened sky. The world is spinning, moving with a violence that shakes bones, that spills blood. The figure takes a silent step into the gap and the shaking halts as its feet strike the earthy ground. 

He steps through the muddy ground, sinking slightly after each step. It's a cloudless sky but there’s no moon hanging in the sky, or stars shining through the darkness. They seem almost to be hiding, fleeing the atrocities of what's to come. The figure continues his march, and they slide further into the mud with each step they take. The ground consumes them, dragging them down, taking their feet, then their waist until the mud is over the neck of the figure. There it halts, for just a moment and the world hangs still, silence filling all. Then suddenly, in a jerking gulp, the figure fully vanishes gulped into the earth. 

The mud fades over, no trace left of what occurred. The silence fades into the background, the whistling wind and rattling brook returning. But the stars stay dark, and the moon stays hidden. There is shame written in the sky. And shame never fades.

In the Silence

Silent. The forest is silent. The trees ache under the quiet bending and warping under the unbearable weight of this absence of noise. No creatures are scuttering underfoot, and no branches shake in the wind, right now, the world hangs in an unending, echoey quiet. It's a silence you will only experience once in your life, where everything vanishes away, fading into the quiet. And you are left.

Alone. 

So alone. 

And then the silence starts to eat at you, gnawing through your flesh, your bones all of you. Until even you have vanished, slinking into the silence. But you are still there. You can feel it-feel you, still there. Hanging by a single thread some final essence of you remains, some tiny invisible part of you is still present. 

And there is calm.

The calm will be broken. You know it will be broken, that it will fall and crash, this precious moment. And it does, like a vase hung by a single spider web, breaking into a million pieces and a cloud of dust as it all crumbles down. A tree lies at your feet, branches scattered in pieces, a cloud of dust rising from under it, swelling toward the sky. The silence is gone. 

Creatures scutter underfoot, a wind rises in the distance, pushing trees out of its way a rattling noise left in its place as it passes by. The world has not returned. It has not reappeared with the silence's end. 

It had never left.