tragedy-art (November-2024)

Our Last Stand:

It has been 34 years since I and my brethren survived the onslaught brought forth by the bug’s first attack. Its haunting images still stalk me at night. Mares of crumbling walls, streets riddled with bodies, and chains to hold me captive. Sometimes I gaze upon the rolling hills of the farm I grew up on. Humanity’s Final Haven shrouded behind the shadows of our walls and the ever-looming threat beyond. Our nation has fallen into darkness. We do not celebrate the complexity of our body or soul anymore. What is there to celebrate when all we are is fertiliser to them? I’ve been feeling it. The tension in our garrison, the depression of our economy and families alike, the smell of their cancerous swamp hungrily reaching up our stone prison, their fungi tendrils growing between its cracks, lusting to consume. It is happening once again. History is repeating, and this time, we will not have the numbers to fend off the hordes of Cymanty. The world order has fallen, and our allies will not answer our plea. I am writing this letter to any remaining force of humanity out there, hoping that one day, the tale of our resistance may be told.

I seal the letter in my name and lock it in a metal vault, before burying it in my backyard, next to the graves of my dearests: one last prayer, one last goodbye. The silence of the night is broken by the thunderous sounds of our last remaining manned cannons. I return home and tightly take hold of my blade once more—my last remaining friend. The sound of a thousand legs crawling up our walls echoes through the valley, and the time for my last fight has come. Maybe it's my lust for resolution, or maybe it’s the spores of their mould rotting what’s left of my mind, but as I stand here to defend my home one last time, I feel at peace. At least our suffering ends here, in one last moment of glory.