Die Writing

Blood and rust

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on May 30, 2011

The fog on the silver marsh parted, revealing a group of heavily armored knights. It clung to them with its wispy tendrils, hanging off the dull gray metal, catching the tattered capes. Stark moonlight drew them in sharp shadows, glistened on the dew set on the armor plates. The group glided noiselessly, moving between clumps of trees and towering waves of fog. The forest’s darkness and the dense fog billowed behind them like raven’s wings.

The men were hunched over in their saddles, exhausted by the endless ride. Their tired eye scanned the surroundings again and again, over every tree, boulder, twig and leaf, each familiar and remembered in exact detail. The black horses trotted heavily on.

“One last time, then, sire?”

“Yes. One last time, soldier.”

“Until the next time, then, sire?”

“Yes. Until the next time, soldier.”

The soldier’s voice resonated with faith and loyalty. The king’s voice had cracks in it, heavy with a painful burden.

The knights crossed the clearing and once again were swallowed by the shadows underneath the ancient trees. Their ride of the damned will never end, bound by a broken promise so many lifetimes ago.

Molasses

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on May 7, 2011

In the bar’s swirling shadows and thick air, everything’s a bit hazy and got a halo to it. It can be hard to focus on anything. Hard to tell whether it’s the alcohol, the music, or the atmosphere.

There is a peculiar way her eyes twinkle in the dark when she is looking at you. Outlined by the dim lights, her face is hidden in the night, save for those sparkles in her eyes. Like a candle floating in a deep pool of molasses. When you see it, it fills you whole. Those tiny flames spread across your being like a wildfire. The halos amplify, and the shadows run their fingers along your spine.

Oh brief moment, how I am in love with you.

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Hello, brother

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on May 5, 2011

Aside

Now, imagine this storyline, all the bits from “Guns of St. Michael,” as a comic book.

Sweetness

The young man stared into the coffee. The sun’s come up a couple of hours ago, and he’s been up too long. Sleep deprivation wrapped him in surreal detachment. He thought he was watching himself absent-mindedly stir the coffee. The prospect of a whole other day was annoying.

Someone dropped into the chair across the table suddenly. So suddenly, the stranger could as well have materialized in the chair. The stranger dusted his jacket, looked at the young man, and smiled.

“You are new here, aren’t you?”

“Uh… yeah. Never been in this place before.” Speaking took entirely too much concentration.

“Oh, I didn’t mean this joint.” He took a drag of a cigarette. Ice rattled in his whiskey glass. Did he have all of those things when he sat down? The young man couldn’t be sure. He focused on the man. Long, curly black hair. Work black jacket. Curious, intelligent eyes.

“What do you mean then?”

“I mean the world.” The stranger was staring at the young man, excited like he’d just figured out the world’s most precious puzzle. “You’re the new messiah, brother,” he said gleefully, leaning forward.

“Uh…” Was this real? “And who are you then?”

“Ah. Yes. Well. I’m Satan.” Another drag. Does he ever ash that smoke?

Arbitration

Posted in Guns of St. Michael by erdaron on May 2, 2011

Aside

No badass one-liners this time.

Remember

The Guardian Angel led the Young Man through the massive doors into the hallway. It was heavy and dark in here, like a permanent dusty twilight. Everything was cold marble and oppressively dark wood.

“Await,” said the angel. The deep voice echoed within his robes and armor plates. “The Arbiters will now come to their decision.” He turns around and moved back toward the doors.

“Wait, hold on, they don’t know everything. They can’t decide like that!”

The Guardian Angel paused, perplexed by the please.

“The Arbiters do know everything. All your deeds and experiences have been recorded. All your actions, thoughts, feelings, every last sensation are known.”

“But they weren’t there! How can they understand if they weren’t there?”

There was silence as the Angel froze in his stride, and rested his weighty gaze on the Young Man.

“I think I deserve a chance to explain myself. I am more than a bunch of records!”

“YOU WILL WAIT.” The words filled the hallway, compressed the air, more of a thud than a sentence. Like a violent blast of a hurricane, they left the hallway quieter, more silent than before.

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