It was over. We were done. I thought the red dress would be the last thing I ever saw.
That was my memory of The Day.
-CV
01: The Day
clownvamp a terrifying memory,
(b. unknown)
1870
Oil on canvas
1870
02: The Night
June 8, 1870
Fire.
The other red.
The air ships that dotted the sky rained hell upon us. Our cobblestone streets turned to ashen playgrounds for our new oppressors. It was too early to know their intention, but it was clear it would not be good.
Men stumbled through the streets. Drunk on terror. The religious among us tried to draw conclusions as they are wont to do. The end times represented a convenient explanation—a level of definitiveness that we all could appreciate.
But here we were. Alive. Avoiding kinetic destruction, succumbing to existential dread.
If these weren’t to be the end times, they would surely be hellish ones.
-CV
CLOWNVAMP
A TERRIFYING REALITY,
(b. unknown)
Oil on canvas
1870
June 8, 1870
The streets were ablaze. Kinetic energy in the form of fire, sure. But also something darker.
Roaming vigilantes tried to take matters into their own hands. Makeshift tribunals were found in the alleys of our city. People accused of collaborating (with what or whom I did not follow) were given a dark end. Some were lucky to be shot, but many found themselves on the receiving end of hell’s fury.
The screams, chilling.
The crowds, roaring.
One last gasp of the population’s resistance. One last semblance of control. Only to be wiped away.
-CV
03: The Stake
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