The Creator

“Ugh! I give up.” Papers flew into the air, flipped and fluttered. But then something strange. They started to take shape!

Smash. A gnarled, black and barren tree slammed down, rooted itself in the floor. A crow settled on its branches. A giant spider peaked
kaleidoscope eyes from behind the trunk.

“Oh my,” was all she could say. Astonishment snatched her breath as the pages transformed into more painted horrors. A jackle cackled. A
satyr blew its pipes. She stood transfixed, unable to move. The spider crawled up to her, under her, propped her on its carapice.

“My goddess, my creator, we need thee.” She heard the voice in her head.

Red light cracked the tree’s trunk. It opened. Revealed a door, ancient stone stairs descending inside.

She fought for control, but the pipes had her. She panicked. The spider lurched forward, carried her to the tree.

“Don’t fight lady. We appreciate you. We love you.” Flames danced in the demon’s pupils. They began descending the steps, the tree closed
behind. “Don’t you love us?” Her fear beat in her chest, strangled her lungs, punched her guts. “What goes up, must come down.”

The spider circled. The satyr followed playing its pipes. It grew hot. Great fires blazed through the hollow. She tried to turn away. A
barren hellscape and all her horrors waited. Their teeth gnashed, tongues licked their lips in greeting.

Through dust and flames she spied a great throne. It was vacant. They crawled forward, wails of misery assaulted her. “Your new home lady,
queen of the hopeless.” The pipes ceased their playing and she ceased to care.

Copyright © 2019 Nathan Washor, All rights reserved