The Duchess and the World To Come
A piece of horror-tinged flash fiction I wrote today on a plane from eastern Washington.
Absorbing seminal matter, the Duchess of Queensbury wailed flatulently and worked her tendrils into the crusty sinuses of the assembled machinists of the Steel Menagerie. There, they wrapped around the errant tracts of their shaken guts. She brought forth the intestinal tunnelage of the forsaken men and nonbinaries to her festering pile of decomposing biomaterial, from which she would birth the next World Mother.
Errol Matthis receded from her grasping, suckling opening and regarded the devastation. The Menagerie laid in ashes, thick roiling clouds of evaporated blood rising to the sky. THe despot king Joe Gallow and all his insipid heirs were dead.
"How do ya like that?" cried Errol, "'Yer feckin' wealth asn't done ya no favors, ya eedjit. There's only room for one man in this World To Come, and it ain't you! It's 'ole Errol with his magic cock!"
The Duchess inverted her orifice and wiggled down into her bio-pile. She craned her long neck down, low enough for Errol to see her face clearly for the first time.
Her sockets were dark and eyeless and betrayed some of the Cataclysm's horrors so irrevocably witnessed in their depths. Above them, the deep punctures left by the duchess's old crown circled her forehead. From each wound sprang a rivulet of congealed blood and cerebrospinal fluid within the trenches of her sallow skin. Her new crown was six black spikes that started where her ears should have been and curved upwards. Her full beautiful lips were crusted yet wet with purplish ichor. These she parted to address Errol:
"There is no room," spoke the duchess, sliding a tendril around his waist, "For you, 'nor for anyone. Only my lovely daughter and I shall persist in the World That Has Come."
And with that, the world came.
Errol Matthis receded from her grasping, suckling opening and regarded the devastation. The Menagerie laid in ashes, thick roiling clouds of evaporated blood rising to the sky. THe despot king Joe Gallow and all his insipid heirs were dead.
"How do ya like that?" cried Errol, "'Yer feckin' wealth asn't done ya no favors, ya eedjit. There's only room for one man in this World To Come, and it ain't you! It's 'ole Errol with his magic cock!"
The Duchess inverted her orifice and wiggled down into her bio-pile. She craned her long neck down, low enough for Errol to see her face clearly for the first time.
Her sockets were dark and eyeless and betrayed some of the Cataclysm's horrors so irrevocably witnessed in their depths. Above them, the deep punctures left by the duchess's old crown circled her forehead. From each wound sprang a rivulet of congealed blood and cerebrospinal fluid within the trenches of her sallow skin. Her new crown was six black spikes that started where her ears should have been and curved upwards. Her full beautiful lips were crusted yet wet with purplish ichor. These she parted to address Errol:
"There is no room," spoke the duchess, sliding a tendril around his waist, "For you, 'nor for anyone. Only my lovely daughter and I shall persist in the World That Has Come."
And with that, the world came.
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