A Dream of Azia
by: Friedrich P LaVey
Her demure form stoops to look at a puddle in the storm. She reaches for it with such amazement; like a first gaze into eternity. She feels the smooth black substance and shrinks back from it’s ichorous consistency. Pale skin clad in morbid black, her delicate Asian form a contrast of moonlight on pitch. As she draws back, streaks of black plasticine ooze languidly back into the puddle. Tendrils of ooze fall from her hand, but they look more like they are rising up from the puddle. It was as if the puddle was forming her.
The storm continues around her. The sky is black, as if light had been banished. The only light came from the looming orb in the sky, oddly visable through the storm. Lightning seemed to be eminating from it’s very core. It hung there low as a cruel spectater illuminating Azia, but not intervening on her behalf. She takes no notice of the storm. She stares, her eyes fixed in a naïve trance on the ooze. She is oblivious to the ooze deepening. Creeping up her knee like malignancy incarnate.
She is being consumed and she is completely unaware. The sludge has risen bosom high. The realization pounced upon her like a striking tiger. She was drowning.
At first, a will to live gave her body firece, wrenching torque. She twisted violently from to and fro. She was a frightened animal, dazed by circumstances she did not understand. She struggled, trying to free herself from the gilatenous restraining force that kept her swamp-bound.
The dramatic fight of the china-girl continued until she saw a brilliantly glowing yellow lilly descend gracefully to the puddle. The ooze was up to her eyes now. There was nothing she could do. She finally succumed to futility, and seemed at peace. Her final visage was of the most graceful lilly imaginable.
As her face slowly sank out of view, white petals gently wafted down to the slime, from some unseen flower above. They landed softly, and soundlessly. They were her only mourners. This was her only funerary service. There was nothing but an imprint in my mind to suggest that she ever existed. I still pity her, as I did then. I don’t know who she was, but somehow, I miss her. I can still see her face if I close my eyes.