They surf the tides of history, washed ashore, this time, on a sea of red and black and white, washed ashore on the promise of the Master Race.
They feed on blood, on war, on terror.
Vienna, 1913. A young man, here, chest decorated with a cross of iron.
An artist, failing.
Spite and anger well up in his chest, the promise of war, soon to be unleashed.
He speaks in huddled whispers, his voice growing, changing. The art of the liar, the orator’s gift.
A putsch in the beer-halls, a night of long knives, blood-stained.
Crystals shatter, the world is doomed.
They surf the tides of history, hungry for the blood of the innocent, gorging themselves on plumes of smoke and tongues of flame.
They rode this wave, of red and black and white.
Shadows race around the promise of future violence, profane whispers of cities set aflame, burning, burning. Promises of fresh blood spilled, fertilising moon-scape battlefields.
Now only weeds shall grow.
This is the only known image.
A little boy and his stuffed toy – one of the Magi, thirsty for blood.
Written for this week’s Flash! Friday Challenge.