The Gospel of Devastation

There's nothing to fear except... me.

Forget what FDR said; he never met me.

Born from the wretched and venomous womb of my dear mother, I was brought into the world. No screaming. No red flags flew overhead.

No one considered that one single, insignificant child. The product of violence and coercion could pose the threat I did.

I ate my way through the crusted and bitter tomb of my mother's degenerated body and left her for dead in the pit of Despair.

The Laughter of the Gods was upon me as I sought out the wisdom of the fallen and the power of the leaders.

I bled nations each night of the first year of my life.

During the second, I subjugated and enforced my will upon a world that posed no real threat.

Bombs and guns were the playthings of children of a greater kind in the playground of the Vastare. I counterbalanced fate with despair, hope with horror. I became the Vastare.

I betrayed the bastards of worship and proclaimed my name the mark of Devastation.

Even our Creators, the Caprificus—filigree, cancerous things. Reason was their sadism, control their creed. Even they prostrated themselves before me. The children of Atrocity, exsanguinated alive, their shrieks my lullaby. Their suffering, my throne.

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Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: As it's another micro, decided to publish this today as well. Darkness.

Here are some other things: