250 Words: Empire

She wades thigh deep in blood, sending thick but graceful waves ahead of her into the dark.  A constant drip from the cavern’s roof reminds her of all she has encouraged men to do.  Forever the blood falls and splatters - once every other second, for centuries at a time: enough to make a mere mortal go insane.  Such a sound to her, though, is music.  It keeps her alive in hope and in nourishment.  Cupping her hands, she drinks ravenously from time to time.  That is, when she stops fantasising about the next surge forward or rebellion crushed resulting in mutineers on the gallows.

At times it pours down.  When it does, she occasionally wonders if it will ever drown her.  But she knows it will not.  That, even when the blood does run dry, it will at some point pour once more.  Because men lust after the things she needs, she will always receive them sooner or later.  Her invisible, intangible, un-knowable web is spun close to the most foolish flies who happily wrap themselves up in it, knowing not what they do.

A sudden gush and she can hear the battle’s roar.  She lets loose a cry, thirsting for more soil to loom over, casting her shadow over the people for as long as it lasts.  The flag is raised and, in ecstasy, she falls backwards, submerging herself in the new effort to make her glorious.  And she floats happy, smug and quite bloated for some time.