Where Do You Get Your Inspiration From?

Where do you get your inspiration from?

Jeeze. I’m inspired by everything. Music, certain feelings and atmospheres. Things will simply snap into place in my thoughts and I’ll see very vividly what they’re producing.

Hey, so I have a website now!

Lots of craziness there. Check me out at https://thesovereignarchive.blogspot.com/?m=1!!!!!

A dance.

The crash of behemoth legs, thick as tree trunks. Pillars to hold up flanks that could encompass all of the sea and sky and earth. Rising. Falling. Walking mountains claiming this Earth in deliberate, primordial strides led by yawning shadows.

A dance.

Furious horns and proud frills. Cracked shield-faces thrust up, out, and retracted, unyielding. Painted in striking bold pronouncements from one clan or another. Dizzying arrays of horns like an endless parade of the finest, fiercest blades. Sheathed in keratin to exaggerate, enlarge.

A dance.

Swaying, armored sides. Lashing tails clubbed and spiked, beaked mouths barking, snapping, coughing. Angry forms thrilled for a fight, eager to prove against predator malevolence. A thud shattering hungry teeth. A crack that splinters bone. A sickening slash at flesh that brings bloody rain.

A dance.

A thousand, thousand voices. Chorused, harmonized thunder. It sings out. It whispers. Valleys caressed, mountains mapped, islands charted; all by those who sing, those who speak. Entire histories dwell in those reverberating hymns, whole cataclysms preserved by undulating notes and howling requiems, chirped directions, screeched prayers.

A dance.

Great, crashing jaws crack the moon into pale macabre slivers like pitiful bone. Splintered, fragmented hopes dashed on fang numerous and terrible. They are swift and silent as death, archangels in the flesh and bear names as devastating as holy disaster. Shadows leaping, twisting. Leviathans sprawled. The dragons of old. Alive.

A dance.

Something ties them. Something conjures thoughts too abstract for the minds of mere primitives, something too vivid drives impossibly intelligent stares. In every guttural snarl are unspoken designs. Through slashing claws emerges a design. A unity.

A mind.

The primary visitor safari and campground of Jurassic Park: Arizona. Now featuring an open air display of the vicious Velociraptor!

This rifle was the Devil’s favorite. He slew legions of angels with it in the War of Heaven, hungry golden bullets that could crack universes and turn concepts into meaningless bundled words. It is beautiful. Metal so black it’s almost blue, refined onyx overlaid with silver, ivory.

You pulled it from dead hands. Victorious.

It feels perfect— familiar. Like an old friend. The sinking Sun descends and throws warm red light over everything, drowns this world in blood.

Somewhere deep down inside, you can’t help but feel that this weapon, this rifle— has been waiting for you.

You dig. You’ve been digging a long time. A featureless blue sky sprawls, staring down at you. It scorns you white-hot sunlight, painful and scorching. Judgmental as long vanished gods.

You’re dirty. Dust on clothes that in another world, another time, were expensive, implication of status. Now they’re just a shell. A hollow you live inside of.

Digging. Digging. Digging. A shadow crosses the sky on huge wings, plunges you into darkness for just a heartbeat. There’s blood under your fingernails. You swore you scrubbed and scrubbed, you were careless this time, so careless—

It’s done. Another doll in the dirt.

Dusk comes and chases the Sun over the horizon to usher in perpetual, desert midnight. Cold, unblinking stars manifest in silence. You numbly climb into your car beneath them. Driving away from this, from the thing you broke.

She’s there by the side of the road. Bloodied. Gazing at you.

Every mile is accompanied by that face.

No other cars. No gas station light, no haven town.

Just a cracked, porcelain face and bottomless, black eyes.