Die Writing

A girl in the bar

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on July 19, 2010

She was making her way through the dense crowd with grace and ease. It was less of a struggle to squeeze through, and more of a light dance – a tap here, a quick triple step there – all along dropping hellos and effortless flirtations. In one hand she was holding a slender martini glass, her hand in a half-twist, holding the drink near her shoulder. The other hand, holding a burning cigarette, was folded behind her back. The cigarette left a thin trail of wispy smoke as she glided through the crowd.


Writing a letter

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on July 13, 2010


I ♥ words.

More, then

A large crate filled the role of the writing table. It was covered with loose pieces of paper, some filled with writing, some with drawings of places and people. A half-empty bottle of wine, a sheathed saber, a heavy riding glove, and a few other things  sat haphazardly on top of the heap of papers, keeping them in place. The tent blocked the sun, but gusts of wind still found their way inside, occasionally whipping at the edges of anything that wasn’t pinned down. A tanned, bearded man leaned heavily on the make-shift table, hurriedly scribbling away. Writing was a bit of a struggle – his rough hands have long lost the finesse needed for the refined cursive he’d learned in his youth.

The Devil and the Musicians, part 2

Posted in The Devil and the Musicians by erdaron on July 9, 2010


I can’t stop listening to this band.


It was late in the night, and the Violinist stepped down stage to play a solo. With his eyes closed, and leaning into his instrument, he carefully, patiently hung the lonely notes on the midnight air. The rest of the band huddled behind him. They seemed to be in a slumber as the Violinist played, their stillness occasionally betrayed by a nod or a tap in rhythm with the music.  Silence entered the room as everyone intently listened to his tale of love.

He didn’t have to look up, or even open his eyes to know that She was here. Her presence was so poignant to him that a beating heart was the only sense he needed to feel her near. No one had seen her enter, and it’s entirely odd how she had found an empty table in the crowded house. Strange things happened in this joint.

Yet there she was, beautiful as a summer’s shadow. All that the Violinist could do was grip his instrument tighter, draw a deep breath, and keep on playing. Tears rolled down his face. He dared step closer to the edge of the stage, and leaned forward, inching toward the temptation. But as he opened his eyes to catch a glimpse of the old memory, she was gone in a wisp of thin black smoke. Directly behind her, leaning on the wall, was the Devil, the never-ending cigarette stuck in the wicked grin.

“You can have her,” the Devil said silently.

“No, I can’t,” replied the Violinist.

The pamphlet

Posted in Neuropilot by erdaron on July 8, 2010


Cliff, if you’re reading, this a thing from that thing we talked about.

Take flight

The pamphlet feels rough on my hands, almost like sandpaper. Hypersensitivity from the combat cocktails must not have worn off yet… Its edges are starting to rip, and the glossy finish is no longer all that glossy. It’s in poor shape, but the words and the pictures are clear enough still. While the sensation is harsh, it’s pleasantly reassuring to feel something as simple and real as a piece of paper.

The picture on the front cover features a young fighter pilot standing in front of his craft – gray armor, hulking engines, glistening cockpit – saluting and beaming a movie star smile. His Expeditionary Fleet uniform is perfectly pressed. He is surrounded by a small gang of children, all radiating smiles and mimicking his salute. “Protect our future!” The pamphlet implores, “Take the fight to the infinite skies!”

As the pamphlet unfolds, it reveals more inspirational pictures and messages. There is a wire diagram of the fighter craft, with neat pointers identifying its awesome weapons systems, engines, and armor. The star pilot is there again, this time in a closeup giving thumbs-up near his cockpit. Over his shoulder are two rows of stenciled stars, indicating an impressive number of kills. A photogenic family having a picnic in the park is followed by a burning enemy ship, its sides shredded by shells from a strafing fighter. As more enemy ships come alight in the background, a fighter wing sweeps across the scene in perfect formation.

The final picture features another wing of the fighters parked on the tarmac on a bright sunny day. The pilots are in front of their machines, standing at attention. “Join the fight,” the pamphlet here proclaims. “Join the ranks of history!”

The Devil and the Musicians

Posted in The Devil and the Musicians by erdaron on July 2, 2010


A true story.

Down and low

It wasn’t just music they were playing; these were memories. From the gypsy strings, they effortlessly crawled into your heart, curled into a ball, and gave that unequaled comfort of a love long lost, of tears long since dried. In the question of who came first – the music or the Musicians – it was definitely the music. The Musicians hung off their instruments, held up by something unseen, but undeniably felt.

Meanwhile, the Devil sat in the back of the room, the never-ending cigarette between his lips. The never-ending cigarette, of course, is a perk of being the Devil. He closed his eyes, and tapped his fingers to the slow beat. This was his favorite place to be.

“I want your souls,” the Devil said without moving his lips.

“How we wish we could give them to you,” the Musicians replied with their strings.

The Devil smiled, heartbroken, and thought about all the times he’s been here already, and all the nights he was going to spend here yet.