/lit/ - Literature

The anger felt good. It wasn't the same frustration that pulsed and strained against the sides of his head. This anger flowed like a river. It was a torrent of fire that spewed forth like spray from a fire hose. Where he directed it, change took place. Everything bowed before his anger. Most everything simply cowed from its fury, but anything that resisted it was brought to heel with crushing force. It was exhilarating. The vindication of emotion was intoxicating. The anger took the form of lightning, somehow both bright and dark. It took the form of fearsome beasts, a ghoulish glow in their ever-twisting fangs and claws. It took the form of a terrible darkness, at once unfathomable and yet completely understood by the dangers it hid. The anger was a swirling mass of death, pain, twisted life, unspeakable pleasures, hatred, malice, dispassionate judgement, and passionate execution. The anger felt good.

"Why are you doing this?" One of them asked, the labored cry made hoarse and quiet against the storm. The anger did not answer with words. Such questions only encouraged the maelstrom. It devoured, yet hungered still. It longed to make the ignorant understand, and yet destroy them for them for their ignorance. Nothing could stop it. Nothing could change it. Nothing.

The angry one was formless now, an instrument of passion. Nothing could stand against the anger, not in front or behind, and its creator shared that fate. The anger grew and grew, a destruction so terrible. At once a howling gale and a quiet breath, it consumed. The angry one grew faint and weak, but the anger still hungered. Deep underneath the shouting in pain and the gnashing of teeth, deeper still beneath the muffled squirming of the crushed and the broken being further clenched, there lay the angy one, exhausted and pale. The anger still flowed, now distant and echoed, and it wrapped the angry one in the darkness of its palm. The world disappeared, leaving only the anger. And it felt good.