Die Writing

Not feeling it

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on February 23, 2011

“I can smell your breath, Michael, you can’t hide!” Screamed the demon. He was strutting, toting an enormous weapon with both hands. His eyes were scanning the rubble through clouds of smoke and dust.

Rounding another pile, he finally came upon his foe. St. Michael was sprawled on a pile of what used to be a brick wall. His coat was torn up, his clothes bloodied. Every shallow breath made his chest shudder, aching with broken ribs. He was half-buried in the rubble; a thick slab of concrete was crushing his right shoulder.

“Why won’t you die, Michael, why won’t you just fucking die?” The demon shouldered the weapon and grinned.

“I don’t feel like it,” St. Michael spit up thick blood as he spoke.

Blast.

The demon staggered and dropped. The bullet ripped a huge hole in his chest.

“And I’m a better shot.”

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