The sky over Holy Hill

COMPLETED

Two campers get a taste of cosmic horror in Holy Hill State Park.

PARTS: 1, 2, 3

We needed to find shelter. We needed to go to Holy Hill. The rock loomed on the horizon, blacker than the night sky above it and drawing us ever closer. 

3415 words

Horror

Looking backwards

I'm almost two whole months out from graduating college, and have only just begun rifling through old things I wrote. I'll be posting them here because...no real reason, but I want to delete them from my computer and collect my silly writing.

As an engineering major forced to take an ethics/philosophy class, forced into a specific ethics/philosophy class by an ex-lover, I rebelled against the material by (essentially) shit-posting. Even so, my haphazardly-done essays are still fun to read, and I hope that class successfully rounded out my education.

Brother sleeps in the orchard there

Brother sleeps in the orchard there

Under the loam at high behest

Now harvest rich is my despair

The earth's wealth is for all to share

Throughout the lands our fruits are best

Brother sleeps in the orchard there

Our pears are gold, our apples rare

Cold, dry bones among roots do rest

Now harvest rich is my despair

Our croplands are beyond compare

Rich with life, and magic possessed

Brother sleeps in the orchard there

The leaves bring screams through the night air

From all below, betrayed, distressed

Now harvest rich is my despair

'neath stone and soil his life was pressed

By flesh and blood the land was blessed

Brother sleeps in the orchard there

Now harvest rich is my despair

We met in fair Arcadia

Sketch for "Dream of Arcadia" by Thomas Cole (1838)

We met in fair Arcadia,
As seedlings in the vale,
Transformed new from those gentle greens,
To shepherds of the dale.

Under the sun and cloudless sky,
We walked over the sod,
Searching for tender, soft-mouthed beasts,
For flocks meek, mild, unflawed.

In pastureland we spent our days,
With drowsy sheep nearby,
Playing our lutes, harps, drums, and flutes,
For grass that did not die.

We lived in this idyllic place,
Far from the rot of towns.
In our pure meadows we picked flowers,
And wove them into crowns.

Tribute we paid to our one god,
Three lambs and a bouquet,
Blessed he our land with subtle rain,
And kept discord away.

But even he could not prevent,
Our latent jealousy,
Which unpristined our precious plains,
Ruptured serenity.

You killed my flocks and plagued my crops,
And planted in me seeds,
Of sorrow, spite, and misery:
You covered me with weeds.

You did me wrong and in me grew,
A darkness just like yours,
That gave me strength to bide, endure,
And ready for the wars.

You cast a torch into my field,
Laughing as it burned,
But I had fire just like you,
And wrath that you had earned.

These former perfect, quiet shepherds,
Did revel in this scourge,
Anger bloomed in our savage souls,
From which grace we did purge.

Our paradise we turned to soot,
Will not recover now,
For it suffered a mortal wound,
And life it won't allow.

From ash and smoke we were born new,
And walked back out from Hell,
We turned away, did not look back,
And bid us each farewell.

My dear old friend, do not despair,
See me as I see you:
Know you ruined my Arcadia,
And I destroyed yours too.