Bart Simons

Getijde #129

Getijde #130

greatjones

Faceless #12

Faceless #110

Faceless #32

Faceless #35

Faceless #191

NameTag

August 7, 1870

I won’t ever forget her face. I was running—running with more heart than I knew I had. But as I turned the corner in the park, I saw her. Her bright red dress appeared first, but it was her face that bore into my soul. Terror had enveloped it until her face wasn’t a face. It was an emotion.

As she got closer, she continued to shapeshift into something that made me weak in my knees. I had stopped running. Without looking up, I knew what I would see. There they were. The objects that had appeared this morning, far above in the sky. The “lucky meteors” were now very clearly not meteors.

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