The Song out of the Void

The busker strummed his guitar and what sounded was madness.

The busker did not care. He was no longer human, or anything. His soul had been hollowed out at monstrous cost and filled with an incomprehensibly-old god from a void no mind could comprehend. The busker was now the key and the gate. The key opened the gate for the song. The song was madness, living and miasmic. It would breed a thousand young.

People in the wide street flinched away from the chord. An old man went mad and fell at his feet, drooling.

The busker coughed and sang.

This story is an attempt to do something Lovecraftian in a space not particularly friendly to Lovecraft-sized plots nor his style. I decided if I couldn’t use a ton of adjectives, I’d try short, punchy sentences (hopefully) evoke more than I had room to say explicitly.

Maybe it worked. You tell me! And after you do that, check out the prompt and tell your own story!

I have another story itching away at my writer-brain that I thought I’d get written along with this one, but I don’t quite have time to get it done right now. I might see what I can do later this evening. If you see this picture show up again later tonight, you’ll know why.