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From Clay, Through Soil, To Dust - by Elobo

From Clay, Through Soil, To Dust




The Farm Zombie's form began to fade and crumble, as its essence leaked from every orifice. "Is this my great reward for my unending toil and torment? Is this the end to my unnatural binding to undeath. How... gracious of the master to steal my life, then steal my freedom. And finally to release me into nothingness. Or am I merely set for a more heinous imprisonment still? Forgive me if I'm not thrilled."



Other Submissions by Elobo

Author Sort Ascending Sort Descending Title Sort Ascending Sort Descending Description Sort Ascending Sort Descending Date Sort Ascending Sort Descending Rank Sort Ascending Sort Descending
Elobo A Small Vagabond
When civilization abandons its machinations, nature's succession is quick and striking. But one scavenger-hunter takes on a nomadic lifestyle. Trying to find the remnants of the civilization it had come to rely on. A small vagabond in a bigger world. It is compelled to roam further, enticed by its new independence and the raw wilderness of the renewed land around him. So maybe tomorrow, it'll want to settle down. Until tomorrow, it'll just keep moving on...
4/16/09 0.00
Elobo A City Pregnant of its Own Filth
A city pregnant of its own filth, desolate piles of rot hidden behind a sparkling facade. And the sentries stalk the streets, always. Dissent is dealt with deadly swiftness. So all that remains are those who have deluded themselves into feeling happiness in this squalor. And this hate filled city will give birth to the end.
7/1/09 0.00
Elobo A Century of Blood
Some folks have asked me why the people of Spookane will not look at the Rosemary Mansion during a nighttime windstorm. We found this in some dusty archives, and it recounts the Shroudley. "The most notorious mass murderer of our times was a Rosemary. His immaculate white robes were stained crimson as he delighted in the bloodletting of countless people. After taking countless lives, he was finally lynched in his house on the hill. But his profane soul was condemned to the vile dwelling in his hereafter, never free to roam. Unless, that is, he could lock eyes with another and single them out. This allowed him to manifest in their quarters for that night only. His tortured wailing in the wind would cause the people of the town never to look at the roof of that mansion in the night for over one hundred years. And though he comes infrequently and the tradition holds fast... there is always new blood on his hands."
5/12/09 0.00

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