Cthulu Juice

Cthulhu, they call me. Great Cthulhu. Nobody can pronounce it right.

I was spawned uncounted aeons ago in the dark mists of Khhaa’yngnaiih. I slid out of nameless nightmare parents, under a blubbering gibbous moon. It wasn’t the moon of this planet of course, it was a real moon. On some nights it overfilled the sky and as it rose you could watch the crimson blood sluice down its stained and bloated face until at its height it bathed the swamps and towers in a gory light.

Those were the days. Or rather the nights, on the whole. Our place had a sun of sorts but it was old, even back then. I remember the night it finally exploded we all slithered down to the beach to watch.

But I get ahead of myself. I never knew my parents. My father was consumed by my mother as soon as he had fertilized her and she, in turn, was consumed in my birth frenzy. That is my first memory, as it happens. Squirming my way out of my mother, the gamy taste of her still in my tentacles.

Which reminds me, did I remember to feed the shoggoth? I thought I heard it gibbering.