“Ghlaad, Riotous of Violet, comes” the mad monk wailed, but in a tongue blasphemous to all that dwell in the sanity of light.

The bench before him was hand carved oak, and was bolted to the earth, so no storm could move it. Beneath it, the stone was a corrupted shade of night infected by bruised purple arcs. It shifted, scrape like bone on bone, but only revealed a crack of the tomb beneath. A black smoke crept out; tendrils snatched at the grass, so it could pull more of itself out. Up from the grave, a spicy decay warmed the air, and Kayden wiped sweat. Eyes refused to let go of the tattered hand that gripped the lid. The stone moved away.

Out of the grave, a black fog of defiled vapor billowed out onto the earth. Sparks of bruised purple frolicked through the miasma. A head rose out, though another lolled next to it, sewn onto the neck. As the corpse rose, another face unveiled itself, which was stapled to the chest. All of them writhed upon the perversion of a body. Chris, Sheila, and Brian glared at him in idiot hate. Their mouths worked in silent curses of alien malevolence. Three set of hands, pulled the lumpy approximation of a body. Several spines, twisted by a cruel god, made up the ghoulish trunk. It emerged, but he still stood. It grinned, yet Kayden remained. The smoothness of its movement boggled the sane mind.

“Kayden,” the Blasphemy cooed with all the delight of a hysterical man, unsteady yet urgent.

The amalgamation of flesh stood to its full height to unveil a gut full of teeth. Like a Venus flytrap filled with fangs, it spread and dripped drool. Out of a depthless hole, a mewling echoed from another world. Kayden screamed as his paralysis broke. A few drops of piss dampened his pans. He whirled around, and thanked anything that listened, god or devil, that his bowels held. At least I didn’t shoot the chocolate, his mind screamed and a jagged chuckle burst out. Away he dashed, laughter detached.

Fury of the Blasphemy of flesh boomed as thunder. A shrouded figure moved into the edge of Heavenly Springs. The sky was shredded to unveil another cosmos from a deranged reality. All of it watched in hate, desired the sane be undone. Countless eyes glared; infinite mouths gibbered, and all listened in abject loathing. Sight of its chaos blurred the order that swaddled this Dream Land. This god approached, emissary of profaned flesh, with contemplative step. Tall as a mountain, it moved as a crushing tide. Ghlaad cometh, a voice inside said, and Kayden knew it was another in his head.

This Dream Land boundless, but the Elder, Outer Entity was timeless. Kayden ran, mind numbed to oblivion, and wide eyes devoured the path ahead. From each grave a tree rose. Upon the bark faces leered with eyes of painful violet flame, mouths worked in horror. Wails filled the night, laments of endless time. Down from hefty boughs, a bizarre fruit hung. Faceless corpses swung in the still air. Their guts spilled out. Each had the head of a skinned goat, though screamed like burning cats choking on cicadas. They rained down upon the earth.

Death had abandoned these wretches, eternal decay nibbled at flesh. The Suicide Forest was filled with hissing screams. This is what happens to those, his mind insisted, who had tried to take their own life. Rot gnawed, flesh hardened and snapped, at the hung men. Bark cracked in the gentle sway of the unholy oaks. Each bled. The corpses had no mouths still screamed, although it was muffled. Between each wail, they sucked at the air. Every twitch of muscle broke their skin. Spasms of pain drew more agony. They whispered accusations from the trunk, faces twisted, and he willed himself to avert his eyes.

Still Ghlaad, Riotous of Violet, pursued Kayden in pensive step. Trees toppled as flesh writhed over the land. Crushed beneath the colossus, the Suicide Trees still was denied death, balm of the cold void. Their wails, symphony of the damned, grew to apocalyptic heights. Kayden screamed, coughed up vomit, but ran on.

Back he cast beech wood eyes. Down upon the land, Ghlaad gazed at the forest. The Suicide Trees’ trunks and boughs contorted under the alien gaze. Flesh grew, burst through brittle bark. Each of the oaks bore a new fruit. Double heads grew up, and turned towards the hateful cosmos above. They screamed, but it was quickly choked. Branches grew out of mouths with eyes at the tips, film covered and blind. They shivered and shook.

Kayden begged, and the vision behind him swallowed any rational thought. Before the gray could cover the world and pull him into the dark, his foot caught only air. Into the gloom he toppled.

Wind whooshed out his lungs, rattled a thin whistle. Kayden looked up from the crevasse. Ghlaad slowed, searched the Suicide Forest. He closed his eyes. I can figure this out, he swore.

“In the beginning,” the mad monk whispered, “there was chaos, life infinite. Order came in enlightened defiance, and it came as the Word.” Astrad pondered, “The Word made constraints.”

“What,” Kayden frowned, but a Word formed in the darkness behind his eyes.

The Word hung in the infinite blackness. No flat scribbled upon a page, it was math give form. Calculations beyond the mind of man, which flowed of pure consciousness, comprised the form. Anything and everything of the Word defined as within itself. The word and definition were one, but Kayden’s mind flailed at it. He could touch, taste, hear, smell, and see it; although, it was separate from him. He shook his head, reeled, but the Word remained. It existed detached from time or reality.

Its power was undeniable, for it nearly undone him. Language had power, Kayden already knew. All the beauty of the heart could bleed through. Fiction was keen at telling the truth through tale. Music could return you to the past; make feelings real with their words. People could be moved to great acts through speech alone.