Short and wicked.
Neither Here Nor There:
She resembled mother far too much. They had managed to sever the umbilical before her highness – the Queen – had a chance to hang her with it. Yet, the grip held upon her was as tight and damning as it might have been. Except now, there was not the sweet release of death.
So was the gossip of the town, observed The Visitor.
Not so much its people, but the town itself.
The walls, they up and rose in this world, like scales shifting atop the back of a leviathan. The massive, repugnant beast – that which had been a home, a place for filial trivialities – now resembled the body of an armadillo of brick and mortar. A wretched, gnarled tail of white picket fence, yards of shredded and unearthed grass, lacerated and removed bits of the family dog, plus whatever other ideals it could fashion. The windows into the monster were a primordial red; the family’s twisted corpses and other loose insides splashed happily across glass. Beautiful plaster pillars turned to fangs, yawed and gnashed ahead of a oaken wood mouth, starved.
The abomination was not without course, however. Destruction and slaughter were not without its master. This was The Visitor’s dominion, and the house-creature, his servant. Together they would give the Old Whore, Her Highness a reason to be proud of her excommunicated little bastards.
However, the monster was not his creation.
It was hers.