Colosseum  colosseum stories

miltonpigeon I have a compulsion to write.
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago


His eyes opened to spotlights above splitting the darkness with light clarity and the roar of the crowd.

Lying flat like a cadaver, touching the muddy ground of the Colosseum he braced himself up on his elbows, absorbing the blurry, foreign environment where he found himself.

He blocked the light using his hand as a visor. So many featureless faces. He got to his feet rubbing his eyelids. Reading the situation. Much mud. He had a tattoo covering the face of his hand.

Still raw. Infected. The crowd fell silent. Space between notes. The rhythm of the living dead pulsing, imperceptibly.

Siphoned by the black gate in the Colosseum wall he could feel the black vibrations breeding, stronger.

Each step that the heavy dead beast, beyond the black gate, let contact the floor he felt spike into the bottom of his feet. Aching up through his shins.

Urine streaming down his mud covered legs. Looking down at the puddle forming in the circle of the Colosseum he noticed a hatchet on the ground, patiently waiting to be wielded.

The hatchet shaking from the dead beast making movements and moans. Legs shaking as much as the hatchet he grabbed the weapon and looked up, back and forth: no one paying attention.

The tattoo beginning to freeze in time. The mud coating the handle. The bars of the black gate vibrating, violently, guarding and rattling with rage.

A woman screamed, "I love you!" He looked to the sound seeing only the chatter of indifference. "I love you!" the woman's voice more faint than the one before: maybe different, too.

Fear and lust and death running through his lungs. Breathing in the crowd. Breathing in the dead. Breathing in the beast. His hands felt as if they wouldn't hold the hatchet. Fingers fading.

Looking at his hand, hatchet hitting the ground of mud, he noticed the tattoo changing: from tribal to primal. "She loves you!" the voice in his head.

He waved watching for a woman with woeful eyes.

The music of moans and movements of a dead beast building with the cries of the crowd of the living dead, he scanned and scanned,

feeling the steps of the dead beast breaking into the dead hole of his chest, fangs at the bottom of the black gate opening like the jaw of a black snake. The mud hardening.

He grabbed the hatchet: becoming one with the hand of his primal grip; looking through the dead crowd; heart becoming a rabbit; the blackness of the gate and beast beginning to breed a ghost.

Blank face; blank face.


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