Hidden deep within a glossy crimson apple, riving and riddling
around its core cavity, my deceased father searches for his escape,
half insane with desperation, he splits open a solitary glossy
brown pip, which to him is nothing more than a peculiar brown
object. He has no idea of his location, and his only sparse memory
is that of his weeping son. After much pulling and tugging the
pip splits open with an audible hiss and crack, releasing sweet
melodic music that weeps out from deep within its centre.
My father he hums along to this beautiful, breathtaking symphony,
and almost as if drawn magnetically to its source he slides his
head gently into the darkness.
Squinting then into the gloom within, father's eyes take on a
dreamy quality as they feast upon the fireflies that like sparks
of flame shoot hither and thither before him, in dumbstruck awe
he pulls his whole tired body into the internal cavity of the
pip as the music incessantly resonates all around. His eyes, now
adapting to the gloom, are suddenly stunned by a fresh wonder,
a quaint trickling brook, and field upon field of golden corn
as far as the eye could possibly see. Is this Heaven? Is this
what I have been seeking for so long? This must truly be what
people in life call Heaven. And oh that music; it does draw him,
gently, insatiably towards its source. And its source to his surprise
is the musical meandering brook.
He staggers over to its waters, a lustful look now in his eye
as he dips his head into its sparkling chill, he washes his face
of the grime and filth that has coated his skin, and his eyes
abruptly do behold a strange sight lurking within the shadowy
waters. The face of a white, putrid, puffy, scarred worm now stare
with crimson eyes that pierce through the murky waters, and chillingly
and deeply into the core of his entity, and the heavy weight of
realisation suddenly pours down upon him like an avalanche. "No
God please, this can not be, this can not be me, pleeeeese, oh
pleeeese, let me be wrong, please."
And a mewling noise escapes his blubbery white gash of a mouth,
and tears of blood trickle into the brook, mixing with the crystal
clear waters of Hell. And a voice suddenly booms out all around,
greeted by loud glorious triumphant trumpet calls, "Hell, hell,
helll! You my son, for that is what yee be, are now resting in
hell, a hell that is fit for Kings, princes, and Noblemen, and
all forms of wicked beasts, and you my worm shall lye before my
throne of fire, where you will entertain, and worship me, and
my first servant Nacha the spider God, who has been waiting so
long, oh so long for your arrival will feed upon you, slowly and
perversely, so that you can enjoy, and thrive upon the pain, for
this be our welcoming gift to you, you see, piles upon piles of
glorious mouth-watering pain."
