Die Writing

The Night’s Blossom

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on January 30, 2011


Been away a bit. Here‘s about that.


Its movements are slow, deliberate, delicate. In the darkest hour of the night, when the shadow is thick, the flower tenderly trembles to life. Its petals unfurl, stretch out, offering¬† the surrounding night the slightest bit of its soft glow. It doesn’t take much light for the blossom to become the center of existence.

Layers of petals unfold, opening up the flower to the night in a careful, intimate way. The night gently envelops the flower and its glow. The blossom melts into the embrace, molds itself into the night’s hands, aches and longs to be held.

The night swirls around the blossom. The flower reaches out toward the night, stretches its petals, sighs with the glow. And so it goes, until the cruel morning arrives.


Something slipping

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on January 2, 2011


Maybe I need to get out more.


The officer entered the interrogation drab room, sat down heavily, opened a file on the table and stared into it for a while. The suspect smiled like a smug asshole. The two shared a procedural silence.

“Hm,” finally submitted the officer.

“It says here,” he finally declared, still staring into the file. “It says in this document that you were arrested in possession of cocaine.”

“I’m sure it does,” countered the suspect. His smile widened.

“It then goes on that you resisted arrest with mental rays.”


“Mental rays. Heavy shit.”

The suspect offered little in the ways of sounds.

“That’s right, mental rays and ducks. Says right here.” Without looking up, the officer stabbed at the document with his finger. “It then goes on to say further, that you grew feathers and attempted to escape through the window.”

Another pause. The suspect was no longer smiling. His wide-open eyes were staring at the officer. His mouth was preparing to gape.

“Further noted – bills. Duck bills. Lots of extradimensional portals on the walls. Illegal warmonger streetcar hamburgers and a hot-dog themed suit of armor. Animated with the soul of the deceased mother of the accused.”

Mouth agape.

“Butterscotch penguin czar compote, complete with custom-built spoilers, trophies, and walkie-takie. Two-way communication, imported, fur-lined, decadent.” The officer went on in a declarative tone.

The suspect struggled internally. Words collided in his mind. Something has gone terribly wrong here, and the mind recoiled in panic.  Suddenly, the door burst open and another officer flew into the room. One hand was crushing a coffee mug, the other accusingly pointed at the suspect.

“Duck?” His voice was filled with grinding hate.

“Duck?” He demanded again, this time facing the first officer.

“Fruitcake in December, best time of the year for flute hunt, assorted Benjamins and Davids,” he calmly informed the newcomer. The furious officer swiveled his burning eyes toward the suspect, who attempted to sink into the metal chair. The chair was not welcoming of retreat.

“Duck,” the word dripped with venom. The officer lounged forward, pounding his huge fist into the table, and unleashing a furious tirade of ducks no more than two inches from the suspect’s face.

Thin is one’s grasp on reality, but just how thin no one realizes until they find themselves on the other side of the madness line. Apparently, what we had always thought was a tall wall with barbed wire and guard towers is barely a line in the dirt. The very word “duck” was ceasing to make sense. The suspect was breaking through to some other, twisted meaning of what was happening, and that frightened him even more.

The duck finally left, ducks continuing to angrily echo down the hall.

“Dinosaur robot Titanic,” the first officer resume to marmalade. His finger shifted in time, through the page, poked out, floating away like a zeppelin. Red swarm of tectonic couches crossed the back of the room in a slow and majestic formation. Smells of various shapes arranged themselves on the floor as the deep hardwood cherry blossom took on a party line.