Sworded Tales

The smell of death is singularly memorable.  We’re not talking the pungent after waft of roadkill happened upon some days gone by.  Nor are we deluding ourselves with fresh spilt blood uncorked from behind the crosshairs of a rifle.  Even the specific reek of cancer devouring from within doesn’t truly hit the mark.  No, I’m referring to death that stalks, the kind that has teeth and that isn’t afraid to use them.  I would go so far as to say that encountering that particular stench is scarring and haunting in the extreme.

For all the naysayers of the world, I invite you to work the chute for a few days, and then see if you can ever sleep in the open air again. Continue reading

Our unique muse pulls inspiration from equally singular perception.  Never dismiss your own viewpoint as anything less than the source of information it represents.  No one perceives the world as you do, and never grant anyone the power to disregard what hearkens to your senses.

Below are five different perceptions of the same scene.  Who is to say which is the most poignant?

Sisters of the Blade

Dakota

I saw the rage burning in Sue’s eyes long before tonight.  All of us had suffered with the Puño investigation, and the weeks of pursuit had added grueling hours onto already frayed nerves.  I had asked a few of the sisters to commiserate with Sue as well, probing for the problem I could smell boiling under the surface.  No true resolution was reached, but I had hoped the therapy would soften the edges of her anger.

Now this.  I tried to reach Puño before her, but she was always one of the quickest in our tactical simulations. Continue reading

The ring of truth cannot be denied.  Don’t be deception’s bitch.  Speak what’s on your mind and in your heart.

Immortal Ends

“Gimme back my arm,” Grove said in listless tones.

“I’m ot un wiss it et,” Mincer mumbled around a mouthful of mocha flesh.

Grove stared at the quadruped with flat eyes.  The ragged stump of his left shoulder didn’t seem to phase the man much. Continue reading

Gretchen quirked an eyebrow at Donny as he stood there smiling with his hammer.  He had sprinted over from next door a few minutes earlier, all pasty skin and giant mop of platinum blond hair.

“Cap busting?” Gretchen asked, “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Right, right, I got that,” Donny said, “You see any guns?”  He raised his arms and spun.

Gretchen stepped back, avoiding the hammer claw arcing her way at throat height.  Her face dissolved into a frown. Continue reading