Bloody Ballet




She pirouettes
adorned in a dress
of black gossamer,

Spinning with blade
in hand to music only
she hears.

Flame red hair sweeps the air,
flinging outward, as
drops of crimson
drip from the tip
to the cold hard floor;
knives held tight by
delicate fingers.

Her hands move with
the intensity of the allegro.
Alive, brisk, and deadly.

The sharpness of her tools
keep up with her demands
of dissection and delving.

The other dancers
fall before her
as if in silent repose.

Arabesque to glissade,
her strong legs coupe
across the floor,
she cuts and cuts and cuts
and does a sourbresaut
like a cat jumping
onto her final partner
in this ensemble of now
only one.

She seeks his heart
as the point punches through.
Death follows
Yet still it beats
as she holds it,
Still it beats
as she takes a bite.
Still it beats
as she rises from
her grand plie.

and takes a bow
to the crowd
center stage.

By Philip Wardlow

The Hunt: Chapter One

bondageHumanity has fruitlessly battled many horrid, devastating diseases in its brief history. In sub-Saharan Africa many a young child have had their last moments in writhing agony as the Malaria virus ravages their already abused bodies. Mercilessly it torments them with splenomegaly and hepatomegaly a condition where the sufferers spleen and liver balloon to cartoonish proportions before the rough choke of a coma engulfs them. Their pain only ended when the rusty blade of death is finally and without hurry slipped into their emaciated ribcage.
But atrocious diseases do not only plague those unfortunate enough to be born in third-world countries. In England, one of the healthiest, socially and technologically advanced nations the world has to offer a hundred and sixty five people fell victim to the private Hell commonly known as Mad Cows disease. A fantastically nasty disease that turns ones brain into a mushy discharge that would be more easily recognized as a broth served in the many poor houses scattered throughout London only a century or two ago.
Bleak isn’t it, inoculation and cures seem pointless. Even when created and widely distributed a new strand or entirely new disease is always at the ready to claim more innocent god-fearing persons whose only crime that cost them their content lives was to be a the wrong place at the wrong time.
But for all the viruses that make the sufferer uncontrollably shit out their vital organs or bleed their vital fluids out from every possible orifice there is only one that is truly rampant and of epidemic proportions in modern societies of every country. There is only one that causes daily deaths worldwide yet shows no discernible symptoms. Cures have never been researched solely because its existence, while known and acknowledged by society, is so basic and primal; it raises no cause for concern. It is of course sexual gratification. All-encompassing sexual gratification.
Not the physical release that is the sticky substance of spent seed and its residue, which ooze from the body upon climax like pus from an infected wound. But the trombone blast in the chest area and the crashing of waves in one’s temples right at the cusp of the ear, smacking the brain, rattling at one’s timid soul. A sensation that eludes nearly all sexually active persons throughout the entirety of their lives regardless of how many partners they engaged in sexual activities with. Nor can it be effectively described by any of mans most talented writers or captured by its most expressive artists, living or dead. For this is an almost ethereal experience, a force so powerful it latches onto ones core and bends it.
No one knew this better or as bitterly as Seth Ederton. An uninformed observer couldn’t be blamed for asking why not. For Seth possessed all the crucial factors an uninformed observer would assume would be required to make it easy for him to obtain this elusive feeling.
Handsome in a presentable, strikingly masculine way, achieving the fine balance between a male model and a relatable boy-next-door type, his appearance was as chameleon-like as his sexual gratification methods and tendencies prone to change as if accompanying his shift in emotions which were highly unstable at the best of times adhering to taking his prescribed medication. Aside from boasting a face lovingly crafted by the Gods, Seth was also very wealthy. Not just a respectable wealth that would be a source of equal parts admiration and condemnation from his friends, if he had any but a vast, can light Cuban cigars with a fistful of hundred dollars kind of wealth. An affluence which he was not born into but earned himself, like a Junkie shakily shining a light over their withered arm looking for that little blue line to bliss, Seth, found a means to getting exactly what he needed and exploited it. He was a self-taught computer programmer. Internet Website Designer to be specific and an exceptional one at that, it was a pursuit he had developed a fondness for a lifetime ago during his stay in the mental institution. He had found computers and the Internet much easier to understand and obsess over rather than facing the trauma of why he was committed in the first place.
It was with all this knowledge he had so voraciously absorbed, prowling around the countless corridors that comprise Hell that is the Internet that Seth first contracted the disease of permanent insatiable hunger for sexual gratification. It was an unprecedented case beggaring belief, one so severe it was worthy of a mention on the god-awful Amazing Medical Stories that pepper the putrid salad bowl of world television. Given Seth’s horrific past it was not surprising he would be instinctively drawn to and debilitated by his need for sexual gratification. What had happened to him as a child left a large void, demanding to be filled.
He would prowl through the most dank and sexually depraved corridors, casting an ominous digital silhouette as he did so. In his youngest of sexually active years Seth was somewhat satisfied by hardcore gangbangs and the like including Bukkake.
But quicker than a drunken fart he grew weary and bored by the same clichéd scenarios carried by out the same tired-looking women. Worse Seth could no longer obtain any gratification however faint or forced. Until the slightest groan of feigned satisfaction or a thin trickle of a half-hearted climax eluded him completely. It soon reached such a concerning stage, he could no longer even sustain an erection over the stale material. His traitorous genitals would lay limp and shrunken, refusing to rise and be the vehicle for pleasure. A lesser man would’ve immediately began to panic, perhaps suicidally so but not Seth. He would not allow himself to succumb to petty misery, not when so much was at stake.
He realized the only way to tackle and hope to resolve the problem was to dive head first into the most hardcore, gruesome and sexually sickening pornography he could possibly find. Considering his remarkable skill at tweaking the tendrils that comprise the web, this provided a very large selection indeed, enough to last a hundred sex addicts for a thousand lifetimes.
He dabbled in anything and everything save anything involving minors. Focusing on one kind of filth, say a obscenely obese woman gorging herself on a King’s ransom in food then vomiting and defecating on herself, for a few weeks to a month at a time, never maintaining interest or arousal for longer than that just as suddenly as he had become infatuated with it, that sort of smut would be callously tossed into the digital ether of the rejection pile.
A runaway train, Seth barreled through literally tens of thousands of sites in a tornado frenzy, torrenting more terabytes of porn than all the other viewers in his country combined. His thirst never remotely sated, the more Seth saw, the more he craved, more than anything else in his empty and restless life. Sleep was a relic of the past or a figment of his imagination, definitely a hindrance he waged war against with opiates and energy drinks.
Pretty soon watching porn and mangling his long-suffering genitals was all that he did with his life, transforming the act into a demanding full-time job, one in which he was constantly on call and always worked graveyard shift. He wasted away as food was of no particular importance, he was a demented hermit, a terrible sight to behold yet on he went and his condition continued to worsen.
He found early on that fluids were his sexual vice. The glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel to sexual fulfillment, his own private Kingdom of Heaven.
No doubt some goatee stroking, thick glasses wearing psychologist would be able to write a whole paperweight of a doctorate on the origins of this fetish but Seth did not care in the slightest. He had his fill of shrinks trying to crack the facade and appraise his mind back at the institution, they had been of no help then and he would never trust another for the rest of his days. Their smug voices still haunted him but those years were tightly compacted into a trunk shoved deeply inside his closet of secrets in a cordoned off area in his head.
His sole reason for ongoing existence was for finding his itch and scratching it. A compulsion which he had so tirelessly worked to obtain since the tender age of fourteen and even now at the age of twenty five still eluded him.
Expanding his searching to pornography involving fluids, he began gliding through countless achieves of water sports, specifically groups of men urinating on women or vice versa. The women need not be attractive to draw his attention and not surprisingly the majority that he encountered were not. For it was the act, in all its filthy glory that resulted in his groin tighten and the faint crashing of waves in his temples pulsating from his big head to his small head in a series of intricate circuits. Sadly it was faint and always vanished as suddenly as it arrived, without the result he so desperately needed.
This constant abysmal failure brought him back to the brink of insanity that was where the memories and their vile sibling nightmares stemmed from. Each failure brought the fetus of his baby brother back imprinted on his eyelid whenever he closed it for longer than a second.
Seth had never been one to go out in the bright summer sunshine and embrace the day but he was becoming even more of a recluse, a stranded ghost in a mansion of impeccable taste and furnishing. He took to ordering all his essentials online thus preventing any human contact whatsoever, he supposed it was for the best, he had attracted a large amount of unwanted attention with his disheveled appearance whenever he ventured out – so never venturing out eliminated any danger of this.
His lover was his massive high tech computer; her breasts were the six giant monitors hovering in front of him. Their sex was the Internet and while it was long and passionate his electronic mistress would never let him properly climax. Reminding him of his dominatrix S&M days where less was better and deprived was divine, but this was not what he wanted, it was the exact opposite.
Seth kept calm though including taking his medication though he partly blamed it for his sporadic impotence. It was no use freaking out, it would only cripple his chances of striking gold, so he buckled himself in for the long haul and kept at it.
Eventually fate deemed that enough time was spent and he was rewarded for his exhaustive efforts with the liquid, that heavenly nectar that would sexually gratify him completely and utterly, without falter or failure. Finally the thing he had dedicated months of every waking minute to locate had graced his screen.
It was blood.
Details can be spared but needless to say when a soul as corrupted as Seth’s first discovers something sexual or otherwise that fascinates them, they test their limits. Seth certainly tested his, browsing through some sites that could be classified as authentic snuff films. Some material repulsed him, most did not, but this intrepid trawling through the sites finally put a name to what he sought. Vampirism. Blood had been the canvas but vampirism had been the painting, which had been taking a shapeless form in his head tightening inexorably around his brain, defining itself through his imagination, beckoning from beyond the computer monitor and at that precise moment Seth had never been happier.
Then reality set in and Seth realized how absurd he was to let such senseless joy blind him. He was only at the beginning of his epic journey and such naivety would be a disservice to finally getting what he craved more than life itself.
Seth collected his thoughts after a particularly brutal masturbating session, planning how to proceed. The fundamental aspect of which was women. He needed beautiful women to engage in carnal acts with. For although with some of his other, sexual fetishes where the women participating need not be attractive in order for him to take pleasure, Vampirism was a different story altogether. For Seth and his Vampirism it was crucial women were as physically appealing as possible to truly get the most out of it. Though not in the traditional style as society has grown accustomed to with every glossy advert over the past few decades. The modelling world was all high cheekbones and skeletal frames with eyes as dead and soulless as a child’s stuffed toy. For Seth his perfect partner needed to be as angelic and sweet-looking as possible, a girl next door type but stunning in an undeniable way an individual that exuded beauty as if it were perfume emanating from her pores.
Vampirism. His fantasies were taking shape and clarity in his imagination, he felt like the ancient indigenous tribes that consumed peyote in the desert setting in an attempt to learn their purpose in life from a divine source. The desert was his equally isolated mansion, the Peyote was the Internet and the hallucinations were actually his fantasies flowing from the deepest, darkest pockets of his mind. He was the master of his destiny sure he had some niggling doubts but what pioneer could honestly claim they had not. He was whole again or rather yet to be whole pending finding a suitable partner. In the meantime his many fantasies kept bubbling to the surface, crying out to be carried out in the real world.
One of his favorites involved him descending upon some blonde big bosomed beauty in a darkened area somewhere. He would melt from the shadows, blocking her path and cross over to her as if floating on feet made of fog. She would gasp and her lip would quiver but her eyes would implore him to make haste. They would embrace and she would stare with her wild blue eyes darting around admiring the Hunter that had captured her and claimed her as his own.
Her perfume, a cheap flower number tinged with just the right amount of fear would invade his nostrils, more intoxicating than any liquor Seth kept in his well-stocked cabinet and to then give her the Vampires kiss. To not taste at first but feel the sticky heat of blood first on his lips and then slowly down into his belly and then the taste would slowly follow. A coppery taste sweetened by her pretty soul and at that very moment when her blood was mixed with his own he would enter her, wetness upon moistness, resulting in a whole atom bomb of a climax, the likes of which he had only dared to picture in his wildest dreams and even then only fleetingly. In that single act the pair of them would be bound together for all eternity and no amount of memories or nightmares could taint his existence again.
The sky was the limit; well actually there was no limit. Seth had always nurtured his imagination, for it was what kept him relatively sane after he discovered the photos that had been the cause of his mental breakdown. His imagination had grown into an out of control entity as a result, one that thanked its owner by turning him into a genius. But they were each other’s worst influence and right now they were conspiring together to make fantasies. It was a vicious cycle, reducing Seth to a sweaty bag of bones with sunken eyes and a temperament to match.
Yet the rushing of fantasies kept coming unbidden and Seth was happy to forego whatever slivers of sleep he allowed himself to give them audience. Seth relented, surrendering control to these gruesome impulses and desires as they popped into his head. Each more vivid and salivating inducing than the last.
Such as the Feast which was Seth’s initial fantasy on a grand scale. Where he would lead a group of true believer Vampires to an isolated location and they would hunt and prey upon each other as nature intended. Those afflicted with a faint heart need not apply this event would only be for true Vampires who survived on the blood sucked from the bodies of their victims and they would look to him as their unquestioned leader.
One must admire Seth’s tenacity with his pursuits however it did little to actually make such grandiose plans come to fruition. Finding a willing beautiful woman to perform actual acts of Vampirism was substantially more difficult than finding one willing to dress up in a naughty nurse outfit, or climb into an ill-fitting French maid outfit.
Of course, but those kind are a dime a dozen, I need a real woman. Damaged goods with a history of mental disorders, just like me. Then sparks will fly, this is how it was meant to be. With new found energy Seth returned once again to his beloved computer and the Internet his faith in them unshakeable, their devotion to the cause unquestionable. Seth had the presence of mind to accept that his current physical condition was unacceptable; he could not be expected to charm women if he looked like a meth-addicted vagrant so he vowed to shave off his unkempt beard and resume a strict training regime naturally between sessions on the computer.
With his physical and mental health markedly improved Seth found many networking sites for supposed Vampires. Over the course of the next few days they flocked to him without any real effort on his part as if the powers of the galaxy wanted him to succeed. Despite his enthusiasm Seth was still reluctant to engage in conversations in open chat rooms with other members, as he was deathly worried that many of these so-called Vampires were little more than attention seekers.
He could picture them in perfect clarity, ugly and boring charlatans in the extreme that had only gravitated towards Vampirism as a last resort because they were shunned by the rest of society. He couldn’t bear the thought of arranging to meet a prospective partner only to have her freak out at the all-important moment. Consent was crucial, he would never force himself on a woman he hated those that bullied and abused women with every fiber of his being and would rather kill himself than cause any female the slightest discomfort. So his selection and weeding process was grueling and mind-numbing but he persisted nevertheless.
Through message boards on the many sites Seth visited he discovered several questionable ‘clubs’ in his city. His skepticism was intact and as potent as always so for an age he ignored the invitations but as he happened across more and more there seemed to be a constant trend and matching in descriptions.
Although the clubs were scattered all over town from the affluent areas to those predominately occupied by industrial sites they were all basically the same. Missing were the regular fixtures attributed to night clubs, flashing neon lights out the front and a gorilla security guard jockeying a non-existent guest list and a vicious gleam in his eye. Far from it. Indistinguishable from the front, just a large heavy-looking door which you would rap on with your knuckles and wait until a slate was replaced with a pair of stern eyes staring at your fiercely at which point one would whisper a password obtained from the message board posting on the relevant websites. Oftentimes a hefty fee was charged just for the privilege of being told the password but it didn’t end there. Sometimes entry was only granted after performing an act of faith; one night required him to drain a glass of blood passed through a small latch. It could have been laced with AIDS for all Seth knew but he gulped it down without a moment’s hesitation anyway, that was the nature of the Vampire world he had so utterly immersed himself in.
The clubs interiors were mainly gritty industrial setups, Seth guessed many were old abattoirs or at least decked out to look as such. Complete with hanging rusty hooks, or flaked bloodstains on cracked white porcelain floors with lots of comfortable plush chairs and sofas thrown into the mix for good measure. Lighting was even poorer than average nightclubs allowing for patrons to recline in the shadows and observe those mingling around unnoticed before deciding to approach them. Women paced around restlessly or hung together in small groups in the more brightly-lit spaces, most were prey eager to be plucked but there as distinct number of predator women as well, hanging in the shadows and biding their time. Seth paid them no heed, he was after a worthy partner and armed with solid confidence he approached whoever he fancied on a whim.
Sadly most of the women he struck up conversations with were unsuitable for a varying degree of reasons. Primarily it was their looks or lack thereof, which made him decide against inviting them back to his humble abode for a little private feasting he was superficial and powerless to resist because that was what his fantasies and their fulfillment required. Also many of the girls he chatted to gave responses both verbal and physical to his carefully worded and expertly timed questions which he knew meant they were unsuitable.
Even with knowing them for only a night and introducing themselves with obviously fake names he could tell they were not hardcore mere timid lambs masquerading around in wolf-skins. There was a clear anxiousness that was etched into their features and exhaled with each breath like on a frosty morning. A poorly masked desperation to say the right thing as if seeking some petty approval from a paternal-like figure all the signs were there, painfully obvious to a bind man.
The way they lit cigarettes with trembling hands and subconsciously toyed with jet black or platinum blonde hair as a safeguard informed Seth they would never go through with the feasting when it finally came time.
You poor silly girl, why are you going through this charade? Why not accept who you are and be done with it, leave this place and never like back.
Seth felt only pity for these confused specimens he came into contact with. It made him think of how incredible and life changing it would be when he inevitably met that special lady that would gladly let him feast on her. The scope of how much they would enrich one another’s lives would be unfathomable.

By Samuel Elliott


They strung up my three cohorts by their necks from a thick beam in their cathedral. A thousand white and red candles from a massive black iron chandelier lit the cold, dark interior, flickering flames of light against the stained glass saints who hallowed the slaughter.
The bodies of men, women and children lay scattered and heaped, blades of blood slashed across their naked flesh like zebra stripes. The pews cracked and crumbled beneath their weight. A pyramid of half-decomposed heads with maggots and flies for hair stood by the altar. Flesh-cleaned skulls lay strewn, some cracked like antediluvian eggs, others with their jaws crushed to powder, teeth thrown like nuggets of salt. On each skull was painted, with a finger heavy with jeweled rings, an ocher cross. Small statues of saviors were flecked with old brown blood. The smells of shit and piss soaked into the three-hundred-year old wood.
Scimitar blades were attached to twenty-foot-long poles for them to reach high into the airy bodies of my accursed brethren. The red-robed priests, their faces veiled with satin and lace, long ebony rosaries dangling down their torsos to their knees, raised their pikes and slashed at the bodies above. The blades hacked open sinew and muscle, mangled the innards until the steel-slashed organs – intestines, stomach, ovaries, uterus, liver –fell in a wet slap to the mosaic tile floor. Threads of blood streamed in lines from the bodies to their eviscerated flesh below their swaying feet.
It was with this action that I saw that the feminine member of my three cohorts had been with my child. The little blood-white worm twitched on the stone floor, mewled softly from its lipless rictus of a mouth, and sank down its tiny head to sleep forever, nestled in its mother’s bowels.
My heart no longer existed, therefore, it could not break.
The hanging and disembowelment of my magi was to torture me. I was their leader. The priests wanted me to confess, so I gladly did, but they wanted more. I was to be a warning to others of our kind, I suppose. Frankly, one never knows what these holy Knights of the Inquisition truly want.
I worship Satan. Find him a more grounded god than any Christ. He is an entity with predictable purpose and single-minded intent. There are so many versions – interpretations and revisions – of the Christ that one can only be confused by what the Holy One wants from his Flock.
They found me and my coven worshiping our god at midnight in the forests outside Madrid. Perhaps we should have moved farther, across a border or near the sea, but their reach extends across the continent. Religion is no freedom except for them. They’ve expelled, or butchered, the Jews and Mohammedans, so why we Satanists should receive protection is madness to think. (Ah, we all make the simplest mistakes which cause the most complex annihilation!) They kill all who differ, even those of their own members who vary slightly in the interpretation of their scriptures. There are priest’s heads also in that pyramid by the altar.
Our religion – which it is, as legitimate as any other – requires the worship of our god be done in full nudity of both genders. We praise the human form instead of scourging it with reeds and hair shirts. We rejoice in life, therefore we copulate with all of our members. The act of the fuck is hallowed, as uncriminal an act as lacing one’s corset or feasting on venison. What foolish philosophy would impart shame in the act of clothing oneself, or seeing to one’s gastronomic needs? We find this – them, their religion – to be utterly ridiculous. And yet we do not foist our beliefs on them with torture. We perform violence only to protect ourselves and our god. As they do. But they do more. They hunt. They torment to convert, and they butcher those who refuse to renege their god.
Like me and my cohorts. But we expect this from them. They worship a bloody cannibalistic god, so one cannot expect them to relinquish their appetite for flesh. Mere words of my own prejudice? Or facts gleaned from my eye’s witness? Four of them raped a five-year-old Jewess child on the catafalque until she bled to death from her wounds, commanding her the entire time to renounce her false idol god. They wiped their cocks on their robes, then knelt to give thanks for the blessing they had received, claiming to do their lord’s work.
I lay now on the catafalque, the virgin’s shit and piss and blood beneath me. I watch their torture in fascination. I scream and wail as they wish, as my body directs, but try to keep quiet and still to observe their techniques.
I am bound by wrists and ankles, a rope around my neck bends back my head over the stone edge of this death altar.
A small blade etched with the cross of their savior is held in the shaking hand of their oldest bishop. He slices the first line from the hollow of my throat to my navel, then passes the consecrated knife to a disciple-in-training. A deep enough cut to bleed and separate the skin, but too shallow to kill.
“Do you renounce Satan and his teachings?”
After a scream dries in my throat, I answer, “Satan is more merciful than all of your gods!”
“There is only one God!” the novice disciple, a boy of sixteen, growls in my face. Onions and semen on his breath. The old bishop has passed the knife to him, to train him in the art of Christian conversion. “One-in-Three, the Holy Trinity, rules all! Bow before Christ and your death will be quick.”
“I will sodomize your Christ when I meet him in Hell!” I yell back at the fresh-faced, pretty youth.
A bolus of phlegm shot from my lips to blind his eye. He wrenched back the rope around my neck. My tongue jutted from my mouth. Felt my cock stiffen. He interpreted it as lust, salivated a pearl at the corner of his young mouth, gripped my testicles in his claw, dug his red-painted fingernails into the soft skin.
“Even in death, your Satan fuels you with his deranged lust!” the disciple growled, his bulbous eyes staring into mine, spittle on his cracked white lips. “You also confess to being a sodomite?”
“Do you?” I spat back. “How many men and boys has your cock sheathed?”
A crack of his fist against my jaw. His teeth bit into a flap of my chest’s flayed flesh, and he tore it back to hear me scream. I obliged.
“I’m sure you’ve enjoyed all the tortuous displays since your capture. Perhaps you would’ve made a great priest.”
“I am a great priest,” I retorted, “but not one of your mad god.”
“Only the ways of men are mad,” the youth said. He has studied well, and been wholly indoctrinated. A good boy. “God is sanity enforced.”
I grew bored of him. I relaxed my body to let the torture proceed. His words haunted my thoughts. There was a truth in them that grew. As he cut and tore at my limbs, pulling apart muscle and sinew, possibly to see the pieces of flesh that made up a heathen like me, I was brought to a wondrous revelation.
Christ was Satan! In fact, worse than any demon. His earthly kingdom set up to last centuries, to butcher the freedoms of humanity. Did not Christ himself avow to be the enemy of the world? Did not his Saint Paul travel the world to convert the heathen – first with words, then with the sword? A truly benevolent god would not enforce his philosophies on the unbeliever. Did not his Saint Peter deny him thrice, and was given the Holy Roman Empire as his reward? The Jews have no missionaries or evangelists. Only a Christian god – worse than the bloodiest Roman Caesar – could create an empire of blood-lust such as the one that spread its tendrils from Rome to the pagan world.
Christ was Satan. But he needed to call himself a corporeal god, a prophet of peace, in order to be worshiped by the masses. Few populist movements that eventually call themselves religions would be created around an avowed demon. How would you convert a nation to the worship of Satan without calling down fire and brimstone on your head from other god-fearing nations?
Only a great lie can create a great religion. I wept at the brilliance of it all!
If I was to choose a god of apocalypse, I needed to convert to Christ. “I convert!” I cried, my strained voice echoing around the stone walls of the cathedral. “Hail Christ – Lord of this Heathen Earth!”
The disciple’s blade halted for a moment. His face moved to mine, a smile of black teeth. “Well done. Jesus will accept you into His heavenly kingdom!”
For shame…I renounced my peaceful god on a bed of torture. Not to save me from the exquisite pain, but because I saw the truth of the world around me. The history handed down since Man first looked to the skies and proclaimed the existence of a deity was one prolonged blasphemy. Nothing would change, I feared, due to my conversion.
The Satanic Christians were a mighty empire – now with Rome defeated and converted – which would rule for millennia. A great reign that would outlast all other kingdoms – for those were merely headed by mortals, whereas the Christians were guided by the loving hand of an invisible god.
Jesus was god – and Satan was an excuse. A scapegoat on which to blame the sins of the holy. I saw it all clearly before my head was severed to join the apex of the hollow-eyed pyramid.
My ghost watches from the black chandelier, nestled amongst the candle light. The red priests usher new heathen in daily; I taste their fear, inhale their screams, am given vision by their blood. If only they could understand the blessing of the Christ, as I did at the end. I pray for their epiphany.
The ghosts of Christ grow in number, have become an army to usher the unconverted into the only heaven any human being can expect.
We wait for them all.

By Rob Bliss