I knew of the monolith’s existence, the nucleus of this place, the singular source of belief, and power. This object might have not even been real, on account of the few people that had actually seen it. Knowing it was there was enough. Those responsible made sure of this by strategically placing religious patrons around the city.
You recognized them instantly, they wore dark robes and metallic, beetle shaped helmets. They presented themselves as ambassadors of the monolith, roaming the streets and serving as an oppressive reminder of god’s existence. Nobody ever dared to approach them. Probably on account of their menacing appearance. They never spoke, not even to each other. Their performance was orchestrated to insinuate they had transcended their humanity. There was almost nothing left, but a shimmer that revealed itself the longer you stared at them. They had no need for instincts, conventional language, for they had seen the monolith.
"Hush, hush, my darling, don’t look at them," a mother whispered into her daughter’s ears as she pushed her along the cobblestone. The truth was, as I would later discover, underneath those costumes lived lost souls who had nowhere else to turn. They were hiding from the world.
—
You are currently traversing the limitless expanses of Visual Fiction. Each narrative fragment in this collection unravels a memory of a man drawn into an alternate reality. With every piece, he steps deeper into the unknown, attempting to describe the indescribable, to paint the unseen, and to make sense of the senseless. These tales offer glimpses into bizarre worlds that can at times feel both intimately familiar and strangely threatening.
