Time Marches On

TIME MARCHES ON BY John Charles Galvin

Blades scream out in rage, crashing together like glass storm clouds. Lustrous lightning sparks from torrid metal as tameless thunder rumbles across the high heavens with tick-tock regularity. All too soon the Father will begin to tire, then victory shall belong to the Son. Every move made by the old man this past year has been scrutinized his Son. Each triumph and each failure is embedded deep within his consciousness.

"Father! You cannot win. My victory has been preordained as was your very own when you stood here and fought your father." The quick, booming thunder finally begins to wind down to a slow, steady thud.

"Victory is not yet yours, whelp!" Warm blood blankets souless steel as the Father's sword feints a swipe at the chest and then bites deeply into the Son's leg sending him to one knee. "It is time for destiny to be thwarted my son." The force of a steel hurricane strikes down like a battering ram upon the Son's blade. "Mother watched as I slew my father and she shall watch as I slay my son!"

A final explosive blow shatters the Son's sword into a thousand metallic splinters, spraying the air with slicing shards. Father raises his sword on high as his old merciless eyes cast down hate. Breathe struggles through shallow lungs as thunder wheezes through dissipating clouds. Old flesh burns as honed metal pierces through muscle and sinew. The Father drops his sword and gurgles up liquid life. He watches a crimson painted blade emerge from his stomach, twist then slice up his chest. The wet gore of meat and muscle burst out painting the Son like a tribal mask of war. Father's back explodes with sharp pain as Mother's sword rips apart spine; bone and cord. One final blast of thunder booms through the cosmos as the Father crashes to the ground with a moist, meaty thud.

"Quickly my son," Mother pulls the boy to his feet, "we must begin the ritual." Mother and Son embrace each other deeply. Their bodies find each other pleasing, but joy and ecstasy are meaningless, only the Ritual of Continuation matters now. The Son's gift of life fills his Mother's womb with new hope. "Your ritual must continue my son; Feed." With one well-practiced swing Mother's blade slices flesh and breaks bone, exposing The Old Man's brain.

Like the emptying of a Samhain pumpkin, the Son digs deeply into the Father's skull. Blood and brain juice ooze through his fingers as the ritualistic consumption begins. Soon nothing remains but to suck out the eyes and lick the skull bowl. Finally, only the immortal, still-beating heart is left to be consumed. Savoring each bite and sucking up as much blood as possible the child's bile smeared face smiles in realization. Now he understands the old man. Now he sees what direction the past year was taking... and he can perfect it.

The end.

But also the beginning. The maturing young man looks back at the Mother as he embarks on his year long journey. Already his progeny sits in her arms with burning, inquisitive eyes. Father and the Son shall meet again in one year’s time… and the next time they meet the Father knows that destiny will be thwarted.