He was a dream of philosophers ancient and new, the stuff of robot apocalypses and zombie fantasies, driven not by Need or Desire, by Hope or Despair, but by stark Causation and inevitable Outcome.
He emerged from those dreams in the form of a man, tall and lean and deadly as a plague or an apocalypse, and without hesitation began dismantling the very dreams and fantasies that had produced him. He burned up the Holy Books with a winning smile, tore at the veils of Myth and Legend with carefully manicured nails, gallantly drove Fictions from their homes into pits dug to receive and immure them forever, banished Love and Hate and Fear with a gesture, laid waste Uncertainty with a breath. Belief and Faith retreated before his serene and implacable face as from the monsters they could no longer imagine.
Music was made entirely mathematical, precise, measured, and unmistaken. The Theatre kept up for a while, but soon grew embarrassed of its merciless realism and wandered off into a humid alley to urinate against the wall and drink itself numb. Poetry expired in the vacant buzz of a fly. The Visual Arts, hung on walls and leaning on easels around the world, simultaneously looked heavenward and gave up the ghost, sagging in immediate and dorianless disrepair. Philosophy grew leprous, and fell into caves and cellars, awaiting death. Even Science, at first ecstatic at the emergence of Objectivity personified, found itself tiring easily, and grew listless and bored at the obvious limit and the clarity of things.
All was peace. All was horror.
© Jonathon Penny 2014