Die Writing

Pink dress

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on November 27, 2010


It’s a picture.

So pretty

A pink dress on a petite girl. Ribbons in her outlandish hair. Short skirt, boots, tight waist. She moves with the grace and lightness of a sprite; she not so much runs or jumps as merely teleports, it would seem. Even when perfectly still, she still seems to be bouncing. That is, movement is her permanent attribute.

Her appearance is perfectly complimented by the black, dull steel of a heavy machine gun. The mismatch is an eye sore. The pixie and the decidedly pragmatic, grown-up weapon are absurd together.

Though this is worth mentioning. When the place is blowing up at several thousand rounds per minute and the air gets heavy with bullets, costume-related oddities are the last worry on anyone’s mind.



Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on November 20, 2010


The right music makes all the difference.


I raise my arms toward the sky, and am aflame. With drums, and blades, and guns, harroo, haroo, I march on with hell’s fires in my deathly wake.

I speak this last prayer, and am no more. I am vengeance.

Green fog, part 2

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on November 20, 2010


The exciting conclusion to this!


It’s hot, so hot in here… sweat is pouring down the young lieutenant’s face. In this heat, you might start seeing things even without the radiation leak. Wipe your eyes and keep running.  Don’t think, just run. The sequence of ladders and corridors has been so drilled into his mind, he could probably find his way blind-folded. Train, train, train… so that even on the worst of days, you could still find your way. Wipe your eyes and keep running.

Did someone dart across the corridor ahead of him? Not possible… anyone left behind in engineering would be long dead by now…

The door to the engine room. The secondary control panel is ten paces to the left. Strange, not as hot in here. There is a beautiful fountain of sparks down the hall, filling the space in a magnificent, slow dance. Not as hot in here, not as hot…

Lift the cover, insert the stick with the override codes, and begin the shut-down. Once the core is cold, we can return and reprogram the local computer, restore communication with the bridge. Start diagnostics on the containment shields.

“Good job, lieutenant,” said the deck chief, coming around the corner in a radiation suit. He got out of sick bay fast? Must have found a suit in one of the science shuttles. Why is it getting so cold in here? Re-run hull integrity diagnostics just to be sure. Hard to breathe in here, pressure must be dropping.

“Truly, outstanding!” The deck chief smiles ear to ear, gives the lieutenant a hug. Back in the hallway – more crewmen running past, off somewhere with toolbags. The core must be cooling down!

“Pressure… there is a hull leak…” The lieutenant warns them, but no one listens. He turns around, starts jogging back. Everyone passing him pats him on the back, smiles ear to ear. Around every turn – more people. Now they’re just cheering on him.

“Great job, LT!”

“You got it, mate! You got the core!”

Everyone is laughing, cheering, saluting him. Hugging him, patting him on the back. Can’t anyone else notice how cold it is in here? There’s a hull leak… oxygen is getting low… no one seems to notice. Half the crew must be in this hallway now, it’s so damn crowded. The lieutenant keeps running, keeps bumping into people. So damn crowded.

“Hey, we got it,” says the deck chief, smiling ear to ear. He even got the radiation suit off. “The core is secure and we got that leak. Take a load off, LT.” The deck chief takes him by the shoulder, sits him down on a bench near the stairs. Someone wraps a blanket around him, sticks a cup of coffee in his hands. Everything is a bit hazy from all this running. The lieutenant looks up along the staircase, at the final bulkhead door, which is locked.

“I guess I got it,” he smiles to himself. “I guess I got it.”

His eyes closed, he lowers himself on the bench. “I got it,” he murmurs, falling asleep.

Green fog, part 1

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on November 15, 2010

“Ah shit…” the young lieutenant covered his face with his hands. He was hyperventilating. His hands were shaking. Sweat was pouring down his face and his eyes were tearing up. A muffled, nervous laughter escaped from under his hands.

“Listen, Brown and Dawkins are both qualified to do this. It doesn’t have to be you,” someone said.

“Shut up. I drew the lot. I’m doing it.” The lieutenant bent over in half, grunted in his hands. “Just give me a second.”

“The control on the main thruster is locked up, and it’s pushing itself into overload. If it keeps going, it’ll blow its core. It’s already breached two walls and leaking radiation into engineering. It has to be rebooted manually, and now.”

“I fucking know, alright? Give me the goddam stick.” He stuck out a hand. Breathing heavily, chest heaving, he assumed a sprinter’s stance, aiming himself at the bulkhead door. A corpsman approached him and put a small metallic device in his hand. Two more began to unlock the door. It clicked and whirred, retracting massing bolts.

“Oh fuck me…” the lieutenant whispered to himself. Tears filled his eyes.

“Two minutes, LT. Then hallucinations, difficulty breathing, eventual suffocation,” the medic spoke in a trembling voice. “It’s important to keep moving…”

“Shut up!” He cut off the medic.

With a heavy clang, the door was finally unlocked. The two corpsmen stopped, hands gripping the door, eyes locked on the lieutenant.

“Fucking do it,” he said in the dead silence, eyes shut tight. The door swung open, unleashing a wave of scorching heat. The lieutenant drew a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and launched himself into the engineering room. Flying through the door, rocketing down ladders. The bulkhead door thudded behind him.


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on November 14, 2010

The two of them came out of the diner into the bracing night air. The girl pulled up her jacket, looked at her cell phone and laughed. The guy was fumbling in his pockets for something.

“It’s past three in the morning! I haven’t done this since college.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, finally producing a pack of smokes. With shivering hands, he brought it up to his face and gently pulled out a cigarette with his lips.

“You smoke?” She asked, shifting her weight back.

“I’m not without failings,” he answered, looking for a light.

“Neither am I,” she said quietly. She wrapped her hand around his, and pulled the pack up a little bit. Flipped the top with her thumb. Reached over and with her thin lips pulled out a cigarette, lipstick staining the filter.

The goat story

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on November 10, 2010


For Amy C.

Warning: lots of profanity in this one. If that’s not your thing, don’t read. Seriously. FOUL.


The goat was looking for a fight. He set the hooves wide and leaned on the bar, sneering and squinting at the sparse crowd. The bartender parked on the far side of the bar, near the phone.

“What a buncha sorry losers.” The goat bent down and stuck its long tongue in the whiskey glass. “Fuck you,” he said to no one in particular.

“Did someone say something?” The goat asked in dead silence. People shifted uncomfortably. “Oh… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to interrupt your fucking party, but y’all are fucking assholes!”

“Baaa…” someone said sheepishly.

“Wazzat?” The goat spun around with surprising agility. “Did you fucking say something? Did one of you fuckers say something? ‘Cause I swear it sounded like someone said something, and that shit was racist! Fuck you!”

Another lick from the whiskey glass. “What a buncha fags.”

People stared at the wall and their pints, trying hard not to make eye contact with the goat.

The goat leaned to its right and stared at the man on the next stool. The goat swayed a little bit, trying hard to center his gaze. The man looked straight ahead, tense.

“Fuck you,” said the goat. “Your mother is a whore.” The goat spoke slowly, deliberately, grinning.

“Baaaaaaa…” said the man, unsure of himself.

“You wanna go? You wanna go, asshole? Let’s do this! Bitch, I got horns like a motherfucker! I’ll…” the goat suddenly froze up. A bubbly hiccup came from deep inside his throat. The goat jerked violently, flailed, grabbed wildly for the bar, and went down like a bag of epileptic bricks.

A stream of incoherent profanities, mixed with sounds of vomiting, rose from the floor.

“Would someone call his wife?” The bartender asked wearily. One of  the regulars grumbled, and started slowly digging for his cell phone.