The dust on the floors start to shiver softly. The wood in the house creaks and the air becomes void of warmth and humidity. Your breath is drawn shallowly as you look from the falsified safety of your bed room window. The light on the horizon shimmers like a reflection of the moon on fire in a lake of a dying world. Tree branches start to warp and wave as if they were liquid in the air. Bark on the limbs melts off and evaporates into molten dust. The light brightens on the horizon to the glow of a near by city of Hell, flames dancing miles high in screams of emptiness.
You try to turn and run. You try to unclench your fingers from the now rotten window pane. You try to part your lips and scream in confusion and anger. You try to think: you must move, you must flee. But you can not.
All you can do is stare into the approaching oblivion that is swiftly melting the air around you. All you can do is look into the emptiness and darkness that comes. All you can do is witness the end of everything. The winds of gusting howls from the endless depths of forever wrap around your eyes and as you blink for the final time, all you can see is that air around you has caught fire. Fire so white and purifying that your eyes can not handle the beauty of the horrors.
Blackness envelopes the searing opaque as your consciousness hints at the concept that the melting corneas were the last thing you mind will ever have a visual of. The liquid dust of rock and cities and arts and friends and of the everything twist around your tongue and use every taste bud at once in a cacophony of endlessness. Colors expressed solely through taste explode and singe your very thoughts.
All that remains in your hearing, for the coming wave of light, heat and emptiness has little sound as the wind whispers by. While the end is coming, you hear something. Something on the edge of forever. Something on the cusp of understanding. Softly. Gently. Almost incomprehensible. Something like… foot steps. Two sets of boots sifting through the ash of the world; onward they tread to a destination unknown. Time escapingly slow they come closer and closer. Your very essence remains to understand, to question, to comprehend what these sounds are. Whom to these sounds belong. What has happened?
The boots walk on, marching in a rhythmic cadence, trudging onward to your crumpled body. The sound of the boots stomping the ground, crushing their obstacles with the ease of dusting the remains of memories. They are so close now that you no longer hear them. There is no sound. There is only thunderous booms of vibration. Each foot steps barrages what is left of the earth, all in order to come nearer to your remains of nothing. Nothing but your sense of sound.
The booming cannonade suddenly ceases. The rumbling echoes of the footsteps shatter onto the ends of the infinite. The dust and debris settles around you in crackles and sifting sounds of silence. The boots tighten and twist, stretching the tightest of leathers, crumpling of cloth and old broken bones. You hear the air suddenly crystallize as what you can only envisage as speech deafens what is finally remaining of what you have clung to so desperately. And as your soul, your memories, everything you ever were drifts off into the void of nothing, you clasp onto the words that were spoken so clearly that they erase everything you have ever known, every emotion you have ever experienced. All you know is “Welcome to the Podocalypse.”
Junk and FatGuy have seen the coming of the apocalypse and that coming has yet to have a name. Welcome to the newest thing to make your ears bleed since a screw driver.
Check out the new Podcast here. We are humbled by My Remote Radio allowing us a safe harbor for us to rant and joke and complain in audio form. The first episode we are joined by fellow My Remote Radioer, One-Sheet as we discuss weird food we’ve eaten, New Years resolutions and about 7.079 tangents.