Die Writing

No reason

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 30, 2010


This may face further re-writes.


“Now mister, I need you to understand something. There is no good goddam reason for what’s about to happen.”

Clad in all black, smacking of  cheap booze and stale tobacco, the speaker was the poster boy for everything that’s wrong with people. The short steel pipe in his hands had numerous kinks and scratches. It lived a life removed from its intended purpose.

The man being addressed wore a fine silk robe. His hands desperately gripped the morning paper and a cup of coffee. Faint steam slowly rose from the cup. His frozen eyes were fixed on the speaker in panic and shock. Luxury surrounded them. The speaker’s faded black leather jacket was in perfect contrast to the fine white leather of the furniture.

Others began to enter the room, slowly, silently.

A car plunges off a cliff, and it’s screaming toward the jagged rocks. The driver’s brain nearly fries itself imagining the crash a million times over. His heart, his breath and everything inside his chest contract, shrink from the inevitable.  And just as the car is about to kiss those rocks, that very moment, is exactly where this room is right now.

“You think we’re hooligans and scum. Y’know, you’re right. We’re pretty rotten people. We grew up in the shit, my mates and I. The worst. The kind of stuff you see in your police dramas on TV, only worse, ’cause it was real. The way we came up, everyone got shit, and we sure got ours. But that got us thinking. This shit got us philosophical.”

The men stood still. They were skinny and muscled, like hungry wolves. They were frighteningly still.

“Nothing bad ever happened to you. Which to us, that means something’s got to. Mind you now, this ain’t politics. This isn’t some Robin Hood, comic book bullshit. This ain’t justice, mister. This is just the terrible, awful things that happen to everyone. It’s not because of anything you did, or didn’t do, or who you are, or how you vote, or where you shop, or what brands you wear. You didn’t cause this, and it’s still going to happen. There is no reason for this, and I need you to understand that.”


Different spots

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 22, 2010


What seems broken, might be so on purpose.

Well anyway

“There was an old man,” he struggled, pressing fingers into his temples, wrinkling the sweaty forehead. “Bald, and with a scraggly beard. It’s dark. Smelled terrible, too.”

Something feels very wrong with this situation. The old man is holding something frightening, though the shadows are hiding exactly what it is. It’s something slick, long, and probably heavy, like a shiny metal pipe. There’s water all over the filthy floor. The window is in the distance somewhere. Dim streetlights are poking through.

“This ain’t the place, youngster.”

The young man, wild-eyed, is clutching desperately at the wall and the door knob. He’s dressed kind of too nice for this place. Goddam junkie, tweaked half-way out of his mind. Always coming through here, useless. Always think it’s fun to go slumming, until someone sells them a bad pill, and they run all over the place. People live here!

“Look, officer, I have no idea how I ended up in there. I was at a party, that’s the last I remember.”

Head hurts, pounds. Everything seems kind of beat up and abused. The air is an unnerving mix of sterile air conditioning and stale sweat that has penetrated every object in the room. It’s sunny outside – you can tell by the light coming through the tiny window, through the iron bars. The cop seems utterly disinterested. He’s just sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room, droning off questions.

“Just tell me what you took. What were people passing around? Describe it to me. You have to remember something.”

Everything starts to taste stale at this point, and things look faded. There’s barely the strength to speak. Even sunshine isn’t welcome – it’s just the sign of yet another night gone by without a single minute of solid sleep. Another night pulling morons out of the gutter. Another round of pointless stories revolving around parties, and someone showing up uninvited, and then things getting out of control, and then someone coming out of nowhere – he came out of nowhere I swear! I swear! Another tale of memory loss. It’s like every night is a worn out copy of the night before.


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 19, 2010

Whiskey burns on the way down. It doesn’t hurt too much. Not enough to make me stop, anyway, but just right to be a distraction. It serves its purpose, momentarily shutting everything else out. I know, that doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t help. But sometimes – just sometimes – it’s to get away, forget, and not mind the world. Just a few seconds that are for me and nothing else. Forgetfulness… sweet forgetfulness. After all the time dealing with whatever it is, don’t I deserve a little break? For just a precious second?

And then another second. Just one more. It won’t be as good as the first, but it’s still better than nothing. Then another. Then another, and another, just to remind myself what the first one felt like. And another still…

There will always be more hurt. There will always be more whiskey.


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 16, 2010


I feel this entire thing might be an aside.

Further in

What’s the point of a stupid thing?

How much time do we spend figuring out the point of something? The time we could have spent doing that thing instead. “It’s about the journey, not the destination” thing has become so cliche it practically leave a rotten taste in my mouth when I say it. Which is sad. That basically means we’re too cool to do something we don’t fully understand.

Sometimes you can’t know the outcome.

Sometimes you shouldn’t know the outcome.

Sometimes you shouldn’t care to know.

Pour another round of shots. Fumble with the blowdart gun. Someone ready the slingshot. Time to get lost, get bruised, and have a story to tell.

Something greater

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 14, 2010


Oh, Devotchka.


Something greater rose within him. Something to supersede the sickness, and the alcohol, and the shackling depression. As everything within him and about him was slowly falling apart, he was writing. He was leaning heavily on the table, shivering, aching hands straining to hold on to the pen, sweat covering his face. Most of him irrecoverably broken, and perhaps as his life was finally fading from the shattered vessel, it focused on this last, final task. The words were unstoppable, and it is possible to scream with the tip of your pen, then that’s what he did. Lines and lines, pages after pages, burning off whatever was left of him in one blinding flash.

Possessed, others would say. Finally happy, he thought.

A gentleman

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 14, 2010

The gentleman stood relaxed, hands in the pockets of his dress pants. The expensive jacket – ruffled over the hands – bore signs of extensive recent wear. It more crumpled than one would expect, with gray scuff marks on the left arm. The tie has been long unraveled, and hung on by a miracle. The starched shirt’s top buttons have been undone, and the collar has obtained a certain off-white quality suggesting that something – perhaps makeup – rubbed off on it. The entire ensemble represented the finest things tossed around with only the slightest of care.

A burning cigarette hung loosely from the man’s grin, adding the final devilish, debonair element.

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Going by the feel

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 11, 2010

In a recent conversation with a friend of mine, I realized that dancing is largely a tactile experience. I have a habit of sometimes closing my eyes when I swing, and I no longer count the beats (I did when I first started). I listen to the music and I’m simply aware of the beat. Though partner dancing is often broken down by lead and follow, it is actually much more interdependent than that, and that is especially true in swing and blues. You can’t even assume the proper stance in swing without a partner – the flexible, rubberlike connection allows the two people to sort of hang off each other.

The dance movement is more of the same, it’s a bouncing, bounding action. There is a sweet continuity in it. An end of one move is just the beginning of the next. The momentum is never lost, just stored in stretching or compressing the connection the two partners have.

In all, there are hardly any words spoken. Slight changes in balance, a subtle, guiding push of a hand is all the communication needed.

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A door

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 10, 2010


Keep it simple.

And then…

“Please no dead bolt… please no dead bolt!” He prayed as he launched toward the door, from a sprint, feet first. There was shouting somewhere behind him, and hurried scuffling, and madly bouncing flashlights. There weren’t many doors around, and at this moment, he simply had to pick one. So he picked the one right in front of him. The one for which he could get a good run.

Only a couple feet of air, but it felt like a mile. Get enough adrenaline in your blood, and nothing feels like it should anymore – everything’s too slow, too light, too… incorporeal.

The shock of pain that shot up his spine was definitely real though.

“Fucking deadbolt,” he cursed, desperately trying to suck some air into his lungs.

Lying on the floor, he noticed that the door to the left was actually slightly ajar.


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 7, 2010


This has been an odd exercise in public seclusion.



The door tweaked, hesitated for a second, then slowly opened, reaching for the ground. Bleak, rusty sunlight tentatively glanced around the edges of the metal door. The view matched the screen exactly and yet… it was better. Slowly rolling hills, a sea of dust, a distant rim of brown mountains. It was about as monotone as one could imagine, and yet, the most fascinating and beautiful thing any of them had ever witnessed. As the door touched down, a thin cloud of red dust puffed up and rolled away along the ground.

A sole feature broke the monotony of the landscape, it was more square and darker. It sat alone, covered in layers upon layers of dust.

“Prep the cargo bay,” finally one of them said. “Let’s get him and take him home,” the same voice continued and its owner motioned toward the square shadow. “He’s been here long enough.”


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 3, 2010

Steve is not intimidating. He is not of the large, burly, rough kind, who seem to never find a suit that fits right, who can strike fear into you by merely shifting their posture, and when they put their calloused hands on the table and look at you, it’s because they’re figuring out a way to hurt you very, very quickly – and that is very, very clear to you.

That is not Steve. He is not intimidating. In fact, he is rather pleasant. Not meek, mind you. He may be short, but he clearly works out. He seems agile enough, square shoulders and straight back betraying an athletic background. Though you can easily assume that this is due to gymnastics, or swimming, or some such. You look at his long, thin fingers and imagine them strumming a guitar. Steve is quick with a joke, which won’t be offensive or too funny, but very timely and just right to put everyone at ease. He will ask you about your mom, inquire if you had trouble finding a place, and recommend a lovely Italian place downtown. Steve is nice.

Steve is the last person you’d expect to swing open his coat to reveal body armor, rows of guns, grenades and knives, and then proceed to unleash what can only be described the most beautiful and cinematically perfect wave of brutal violence Hong Kong’s best could ever imagine.

And, as God’s sense of humor would have it, that is exactly what is about to happen.

Steve is not intimidating. But if you knew, with absolute certainty, that you are, at all times, the deadliest person in the room by a mile – would you spend the effort on looking scary? No. You would smile.

And then you will destroy everything.