Signs of life

Wrote some this evening. Not what I should be working on, but it's words down in ferric oxide. A few years ago I wrote a Cthulhu story about the Horn of Africa. Today I realized just what that story needed. I had the basic plotting, but the words never measured up to the feel of the story in my head. Today I figured out what the story needed to sound like.

No one sings me lullabies or makes me close my eyes, but I do. There my shipmates heads wash in her bosom, rocking in ecstasy. And they sing me a lullaby of screams. Always screaming. A sweet song of love. Mother Hydra calls me home. In the House of Dagon, oceans cold and deep, whales sound the eldritch dark, disturbing Mother Hydra's sleep.

Yes, the drugs help. Thank you. It's the lingering echo of their voiceless mouths in my ears. A tinnitus of screams which does it. The medications help keep them at bay.

The nightmares waited for my fifth night dreaming on Somali sands to ambush me. We'd finished patrolling this little shit-kicker village on the Horn. The observation tower loomed over our tent-camp imposing order and routine. Dieter and his squad held the edges of camp, making sure we would remain safe from scuttling crabs and any Al Shabaabi lost in the night.

That's very close to the beginning, but it gives the tone fairly well. Yes, I'm grasping the Cthulhu story cliche of the insane narrator.