Front Row Seat to The End of the World

Klingon Hamlet

The waves.

My eyes are shut but I still hear them. Thick heavy sheets rushing up the shoreline with a hungry roar, then dying off with an indignant sigh. Over and over they come, edging closer, getting louder, with each attack.

I open my eyes and squint. Blue, everywhere. Different shades. Dark, empty sky. Metallic sea rippling and wriggling under the weight of an unseen moon. Pale sand crunching like snow under my feet. The air dances, disturbed by the waves.

There's a tall and narrow chair standing on the largest of the beach heads, black as the approaching night. Still as a soldier, empty. Gothic designs are twisted into its frame.

I step towards it, my feet plodding dully in the sand, each footfall bringing my shoes deeper into the sand's grip, until grains spill into my socks and stick to my legs.

I wade closer, and an ache swells across my forehead. I frown, trying to dispel its pain. I take another step, and the pain increases slightly. Yet like a magnet, I'm drawn towards that empty black chair. Like a moth to a flame, I ignore the burning pain.

Close enough now, I can see the designs: letters and words and possibly faces, all carved and slivered through its ornate spines. It stands there waiting, its back towards me, facing the dead sky and the hungry waters.

My head and face are so sore now, as if someone had punched or kicked me hard. My cheeks are throbbing to the rhythm of my heartbeat, which quickens with every step. The sea is loud and violent, its silver-white army wreaking havoc on the sands. The air is cooling. Night is growing. And that chair is sucking me in.

I place a hand upon the backrest, feeling the metal, surprised by its warmth. The pain dies off, and my head is clear. I feel reborn. The sea is calming a little---or maybe I'm just calming down. It's just a chair, I say to myself, smiling at my irrational fears, even as I feel something heavy smack hown upon my hand.

I look down and see a rotting corpse-hand clasping mine, attached to an outstretched arm, clothed in a man-suit. A face looks around from behind the chair and the dead man's eyes are blacker than night. Critters fall from the gaping sockets and his mouth opens wide, sharp teeth glistening as he smiles.

I pull back in horror and scream, but no sound hits the air. He has me by the throat. That headache returns a hundredfold. Drums beat hard in my ears. Blood punches the inside of my cheeks, hammering to escape somehow, someway. I swipe out with my own fists and catch the corpse in the jaw. His grip loosens an iota, enough to fall back, and run away from the demon, the man-beast, the devil. Up high along the hillside looking down upon the shore, I reach there and further, and dare to look back.

The thing in the man-suit is staring up at me. And he waves.

pickarooney

That's bloody good, I have to say. Can't think of anything negative to say about it, in fairness.