Die Writing

Make it dark

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on April 26, 2011


I need a blues late night. Need it.

Play that slide

“Gonna get dark in here.” Eyes closed, hat’s rim shifted down, the bluesman licked his lips as he spoke. His voice low as a grave. “Mmmm yes.”

A single note. Raspy, distorted, scum of a note.

The base player sucked in his cigarette. The bastard glowed like it was going to burst into flames. Then he poured out the rhythm. Simple, thumping rhythm that grabs your ribs, sucker-punches you, makes your breath quiver.  He laughed, pouring a cloud of thick smoke over the guitar.

The bluesman shifted the slide, changed the note ever so slightly, made it even dirtier. He wielded his strings like a shank in a bar fight. It didn’t matter who he left bleeding. There was a frenzy coming. But like every good storm, it was no good rushing it. The bluesman was patient.

“Fuck,” he growled into the mic, and matched the baseman’s rhythm with his own. It was slow, mad, menacing as hell. It was a road that led off a cliff.


Notes echoing, dying in the amplifier.

Silence settling in the place. Bullets itching in the chamber. Knives glistening in the scabbards.

“Fuck this,” were man’s last words. Then it came on, all over everything. Mad. Pissed off. Swarming the place. Sweat-soaked, cheating, whiskey-stained, bloodied up blues. It broke chairs, pushed people down, shattered a bottle. The guitars were torches shoved into buckets of tar. The end was coming, and this blues was cashing in all of its chips.


Personal death

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on April 24, 2011


I don’t know if I’m digging humidity. SF might be the only place in these United States where I feel comfortable.

Only you

A stranger was sitting at my breakfast table, forlornly looking out the window. He was wearing a mask – a brightly painted ceramic skull that was frightening and cheery, and perhaps even more frightening because it was so cheery – so I couldn’t see his face. Still, something about his demeanor was clearly forlorn.

He was skinny, emaciated even, yet did not appear sickly at all. There was something strangely cartoonish and animated in his slow, languid movements. On top of everything, he wore an impeccable black mariachi outfit, complete with a giant sombrero. A pair of gunslinger belts hung around his hips. Golden pistols with leather-bound handles stuck out from the holsters.

The long fingers tapped out boredom on his chin, and he slowly turned his gaze toward me.

The eyes! He didn’t have eyes. Darkness pooled where the eyes should have been, and within these pools something glimmered, likes stars in the night. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the night sky, somewhere away from the city lights, somewhere lonesome.

“Ah, good morning. I’m death.” He paused, regarding the moment. “Your personal death. You are not dead though.”


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on April 15, 2011


I’ve had a bunch of things kicking around my head for the last few days. But I’ve been on the road, and haven’t had much time to sit down and write. So yay for this evening and a flask of bourbon!


Skinny, full of smirks and laughter, dusty hat cocked back and to the side, posture careless like leaning on a bar, slick six-shooters held casually by the hips, sweet fragrance of yesterday’s girl hanging loosely about the neck, and those eyes, those sparkling crystal blue eyes.

The posterboy for dying fast and young.


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on April 15, 2011

“Nobody’s gonna hear you scream out here, friend, so just play along nicely.”

This was a big man. As one accustomed to towering over others, his movements were calm, even slow. His sheer size and brute strength allowed him to overpower his opponents without much need for skill. His companion wasn’t as imposing, but similarly grim.

And it was true what he said – the lonely park path wound deep into the woods, far away from any possible interruptions. The wind rustled the treetops, and this was the only sound to be heard. Everyone carefully weighed the silence.

“The same applies to you, too, friend,” was the reply.

You will die

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on April 12, 2011


Inspired by my very first night in Portland, OR.


The large digital clock on the wall displays not only hours, minutes, and seconds, but also fractions of a second. The glowing red digits blur into a furious mist as the clock accounts the relentless avalanche of time.

Directly underneath the clock, a sign reads in stark bold letters, YOU WILL DIE.

And just beneath the sign, framed by a varied collection of bottled liquors and girls dressed in corsets and lace, is the smiling, smirking proprietor. His well-worn patterned suit doesn’t fit quite right, and his teeth are stained with nicotine. His eyes spark and he spots you walking up to the bar, he motions sharply to one of the girls.

The girl pours something into a glass below the bar, and then slowly slides the drink toward you as she leans on the stained wood. She smiles sweetly, rests her chin on her hand, a perfect picture of the friendly cute girl next you’ve had a crush since forever. Somehow, this girl even looks familiar.

The proprietor waves his hand vaguely toward the girl and the drink, and his tongue flickers across his lips as he speaks.

“Have some. Don’t be a stranger.”

Can’t kill me

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on April 7, 2011

The Young Man stood, swaying. His right eye was swollen shot. The busted lips were caked with blood. Crushed bone and dirt ground on his teeth. He tried to focus on the demon in front of him. It wasn’t easy. He tried to spit, but couldn’t; he merely drooled bloody spittle on his chin.

“I was thinking…” The voice was hoarse. “During this little friendly exchange…” He grinned, baring his teeth in a painful grimace, had to pause to catch some breath. “Rage all you want, but you’re too much of a pussy to actually kill me.”