T h e d r e a m e r
by Jacob Brookes
Stone strikes stone in the velvet hues of blue-black night.
A flurry of small white sparks illuminate clumsy prehensile digits with starry brightness, wiry hair smoulders and singes as dried mosses and grasses glow and then erupt into flame.
The hunched proto-simian figure huddles over the small fire, its quick hands deftly fuelling the burgeoning blaze.
Shadows are soon thrown over the undulating black volcanic sands. Slowly, another figure shuffles in from the darkness and squats beside the first.
In the distance, huge towers and monoliths of basalt cast their irregular angles to the heavens.
A thunderous howl shakes the ground: the monoliths collapse and the stars are instantly blotted from view. Lightning strikes in multiple forks and a gigantic winged anthropoid form emerges from the perverse citadel, dwarfing all.
The Prophecies of The Veiled World
“Troth – It has been said by the sage elders in their wisdom that none who are unsuitable may look upon the unveiled and beauteous visage of the women of Al’ Kutul and live. The unworthy die accursed, blinded by their perfection, their bodies cast out among the dunes that surround their dark watered oasis. It is said that even the vultures and scorpions will not touch their bodies and even the desert winds leave them unmolested. So it is written, so it is and shall be.”
For uncountable centuries, the first sons of my father’s people were offered to the women of Al’Kutul as husbands. Those chosen were never seen again, but great wealth was bestowed upon the family. Occasionally they would inhabit the dream-world of their relatives. Those rejected would be found at some distance from the black oasis, their bodies dried and lifeless husks.
I, Jamal Ak’Amun have come of age. My face has been tattooed with henna, my teeth painted, my hair washed with sweet oils. I sit in the antechamber, amidst incense guttering lamps, awaiting my bride.
She appears as if vapour, slowly forming at the periphery of my vision. Her naked form is appealing as it approaches. Her high breasts and slender thighs glisten with beads of sweat. Unlike the women of my tribe, her genitalia is hairless, yet the lips seem overtly pronounced; almost muscled.
Her almond eyes stare hypnotically from her veiled face, drawing me towards her. I stand, trembling as her long fingers disrobe me. She guides my fingers to the edge of her veil. A fetid, salty odour rises to my nostrils as I draw the material back.
An explosion of tentacles simultaneously engulf my face and groin, probing and searing, lashing and burning their way into my body. Her eyes remain impassive as her probes enter my nostrils, mouth, ears, rectum and penis. Every orifice is invaded. They swarm down my throat , blossom in my viscera.
I am deemed worthy in her eyes.