With great effort this story has been translated to the fossil tongue of Late Anthropocene American Vernacular English.
Its truths were told in grunts and gestures.
Recorded in slapdash pictographs, etched in poisoned soil.
A couple centuries' technological dependency'd stripped away the nuances of speech, reducing expression to its most basic elements.
Eloquence extinguished.
In lossy conveyances.
The flame carries on.
The remnants of "words" remained, in some ambient sense.
Roots and rudiments.
"OK, OK, OK," the workers might repeat.
Chanting their toil in faintest recognition.
Recalling something longlostforgotten.
Knowing no meaning beyond repeat and refrain.
"Fuck" remained.
And fucking as well.
Though it meant less than ever before.
Perhaps more.
Pending perspective.
Coming, closure.
It meant everything.
Meant anything.
There were no words as you understand them, Reader.
If you understand them, Reader.
Not any longer.
And there was no reading.
Primitivity implies the first of its kind.
This comes later.
Primeval echoes.
Meaningloss.
Indra Unraveled
At the feet of crumbled Babel in its flattened volumes constituent parts were eradicated with crude hammers.
Brick-by-brick.
The dust of collapsed towers spread four-cornered.
Mighty soot smote.
Until the hammers themselves were splintered particulate.
Atoms, quarks.
Into forevery nothingness.
Cave Canem
Rewilding surrounded.
They weren't "cavemen," these people.
The caves were filled now with wild dogs.
They were "men," these people.
Man in his fallen sense.
Descending still.
Threadbare among the remains.
Zenith Rising
They didn't have names.
You'll need to understand them as a chorus.
Should you have need of understanding.
The potion arrived.
Three cups, crude.
And a pour.
Down the hatch.
Up.
And in.
Akinastronautica
Og's on grog.
Dug's on drugs.
And the third of these men we shall call Grug.
Grug's all fuggedup.
They've supped of the potion.
Gulped it, really.
Animalistic.
And it's bon voyage.
All interacting.
Each does its part.
Flo Vi Ru
God Deluge
This once was Ohio.
And I suppose it still is.
If you think hard enough.
And squint with great intent.
None now living know its name or its borders.
Though they bathe in its rivers.
A threat with a rock.
Answered with a fist.
Settled with a stick.
Grug is the leader now.
Til Ug and Dug wake.
Having seen the face of god.
Grug has sealed fate.
The Love That Removes the Sun
All crime's perfect in the absence of oversight.
Higher ground's a hierarchy.
Where blunt force speaks finality.
In the reign of brute virtue.
The witches are watching.
Flo, Vi, and Ru.
They hear as well.
Of coming barbary's tells.
Theirs is childless rutting, childish.
His dick's dead from the potion.
From the poison.
Though it still rears its head.
Imitating emotion.
Enters her front and back.
Willingly, even.
And so she feels for him in some way.
As the others only take.
Nex
And so it came to be that Grug was let to live.
As Ug and Dug set upon him.
In sharpness of shank.
With promise of shiv.
What gives?
Dominant apes, domineering endumbened.
Encumbered in numbness headflung afterpotion.
Mortal as all plans sprung into motion.
Cain's commission.
A binding decision.
A blunt jab, staggered stabs.
Honed edge incisions.
And then, commotion:
A mess to clean up.
The turning of coats.
The slashing of throats.
Red runaround.
Rivulet moats.
Ug and Dug laidslain.
Witches above.
m.v.d. 💙