Of Chaos and Consequence

Consequences, mapped, spread, and stretched across the chaos they so deftly served in their given time, are ordered by unseen forces. We grasp at straws to find reason and rhyme, some semblance of "the why" when the seemingly random shatters our steady ground.

As I look around, the massacre, to the untrained eye, seems, for the most part, an unmitigated disaster, one that beauty has forgotten. To the trained eye, the maestro's vision was one of untapped wonderment. Where crisis and chaos sculpted into something majestic, beyond the ordinary, beyond the...

I stood around, marvelling at my masterpiece. At all that had gone before and was yet to come. The Unravelling, my life's work, was delivered to me as I looked out at the void for an answer to "why" and the void, in its way, responded. The illiterate—those bastards of existence—might claim I was simply playing a score written by another. Oh, if it were—trouble would be calling me from the bloodquake that surrounds me, engulfs me.

Woe to those who look for another, as I stand in their midst. The Reckoning is by my hand alone. Woe to those who look for another. The Reckoning is mine, and mine alone. The shapes that once were bodies, whether those that are still fighting pitifully, begrudgingly for survival or those who have succumbed to their inevitability, now lie still in the wake of my final act.

As the life drains around me, and filters down into the streams that I stand in, I wonder if they thank me, in their cries, or spite me. It matters not. It matters not. Repeat for emphasis, repeat in mantric form, until it becomes the last thing they remember. Before they are forgotten.

The void, The Unravelling, the last great work of magnificent brutality. Serenity accomplished. Silence restored.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This is my entry into the unquestionably talented and inspiring Gabriel Huizenga's "Beginning-Endings" Unofficial Writing Challenge, which you can find out more about below.

That's all I'm saying.

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