Sworded Tales

The mentality of the human species could certainly have come under close scrutiny.  One could definitely question its sanity.  What other result could be expected for a species that chose to breed without regard?  The exponential growth in world population caused an increasing strain on the planet’s ecosystem for which it eventually could not compensate.  With mankind pouring poisons into the water, degrading lands and resources, and corrupting the air, the continuous consumption and wanton destruction brought about a point of critical mass within the planet’s existence.  When given such a final ultimatum, nature’s choice was simple…

…it retaliated. Continue reading

Broken Iris

Excerpt from the journal of Iris Craven, 18-Aug-2009:

I exist across realities.

There’s really no better way to explain it, as best as I can understand, and believe me, I have front row seats.

When the portal flared to life, the world just…shattered.  As I flew backward through the air, something visceral broke loose in my mind’s eye.  I was suddenly inside a house of mirrors, but all of my reflections were different somehow, unique.  Infinite variations of myself, nested within a single instant.

But I was the only one screaming. Continue reading

Originally from West Bend, Ohio, Andrew Deturck grew up in a stable yet disciplined dysfunctional household.  An abusive father and submissive mother lead to many sleepless nights, some of which were spent in the emergency room.  Andy’s parents did not support his musical interests and did not approve of the crowd to which he had attached himself.

Shortly after his sixteenth birthday, Andy ran away with several friends and headed toward New York City.  For several months he and his friends struggled with their music and finding odd jobs to put food on the table.  Andy began to experiment with drugs and found himself in the employ of some rather seedy individuals in the neighborhood.  Sharp of mind and quick of tongue, Andy managed to survive in this world of darkness.  Moving up through the ranks his choice of drugs became heroin, fueling his inner musician better than any other high. Continue reading

For long moments you stand quietly, swaying gently from side to side as the cool breeze races over the top of the protective battlement brushing against your thighs.  The perspiration on your neck and forehead dries to a crispy film.  Eyes closed with an intake of breath, a shiver shoots up your spine as you finally succeed in wrapping your mind around the latest turn of events that have come crashing into your life.

Sporadic gunfire is head in the distance followed by a sharp series of shrieks.  Human?  Hard to tell at this distance.

This snap back to reality brings with it the realization that you have been standing here for quite some time entertaining the notion of jumping off of the roof.  Some primal force, some deep seeded fear has coaxed you into climbing the shadowy heights of this temporary sanctuary.  The thoughts rush back to your mind with simplistic ease.  One simple motion, one quick leap, would carry all the suffering, all the anguish, sixty feet to the pavement below, to the bliss of darkness.

After what seems a psychological eternity, a subtle shift in the sulfuric wind and this image of blackness stimulates the haunting memories which burn so vividly in your mind’s eye.  The bitter taste in your mouth thickens, and your teeth gnash.  One hand rises to your brow, absently rubbing the discolored wound which still registers tender to the touch.  ‘Christ!  Has it been such a short time?!’ your mind races.  With a mocking sting, your memory shows you that once pristine panoramic vista… Continue reading

What would heroism be without villainy to serve as foil?  The signature characters in City of Villains resonated with me more than their do-gooding counterparts.  Ghost Widow especially, but I have a soft spot for the strong female lead.  So no surprise there.  Heroes break the laws of physics.  Villains just break laws.  The primal appeal of walking the dark side is often reflected in the evil-doers I chose to play.

Widow Palm

With this open handed striking technique, the masters of Widow Palm are able to convey such concussive force, that they can liquefy internal organs with a single impact.  Primarily an art directed against a single target, the art was largely taught to the practitioners of Ninjitsu and those who specialized in assassination.

Origins of the art have been lost to the combination of secrecy and the passage of time, though the naming of the technique is said to be rooted in the number of husbands that were dispatched by the ruthless fighting style.

Speed Load

“Wanna see that again?” the thin figure chuckled menacingly. Continue reading

Liam “Tray” Traymoore aka Operative Grimm

Memory’s a funny thing.  Slippery and veiled one minute, crystal and haunting the next.

I have perfect recollection of my hands on the detonator just before the explosion shredded them into extinction.  Seventeen months ago that was.  This morning, I couldn’t remember what coffee was called.  Chopper I called it.  “Give me a cup of mother crackin’ CHOPPER!”  I screamed at the Sullustan behind the counter for the fourth time.  It didn’t elicit any improved recollection from the misfiring brain cells or a better response from the paling java jockey.

Memory.  It dances a tango of its own free will when you experience a detonite explosion at ground zero and survive. Continue reading

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

A snorting chuckle followed from Cyric’s throat.  Head lolling back and forth, he shook with the indignity of his current imprisonment.  Thinking his rage had vanished some unknown number of days earlier, Cyric was pleasantly surprised to sense the return of the reddest of his emotions.  The rage blossomed in him anew, reborn through simple utterance of his now fruitless cause.

The feminine enigma above him leaned a few inches closer, nostrils flaring as she inhaled and released the breath with a delicious hum.  The purring vibration in her gullet gathered the humid moisture collected between her breasts and caused a single drop to roll down her rich flesh.  The crystalline liquid fell from her inverted form and splashed on Cyric’s cheek and chin.  He recoiled from the searing touch of the droplet with a shocked, feral grunt, as though acid had been dripped onto his already feverish skin.  The pain which was invoked shattered the illusion of her insubstantiality.

“What are you?” Cyric whispered through clenched teeth.

“I am your deliverer,” the woman replied smoothly, with no hint of sympathy. Continue reading

Jesus Ramirez cupped the aged circular thermometer in his hand with a clawed fervor that bespoke of a feral rage slowly subsiding.  Tiny cuts along the lengths of his knobby fingers gave a rich red hue to the brushed silver of the thermometer’s worn case.  Droplets rained unnoticed from the underside of his hand as he continued to stare, disbelieving the gauge within the chunk of metal.  The glass face of the temperature meter had cracked in two places, long slivers symbolizing the fragile existence of the balance within the now defunct technology.

Moments before, the tiny red pointer had been clearly visible through the unmarred glass cover, dancing wickedly within the wedge of red numbers along the calibrated length of the thermometer.  That was before First Corpsman Maintenance Class Ramirez had shrieked in disbelieving rage and snapped the archaic dial clean off, tearing it from its decades old housing with a wrenching twist, ripping loose the thin colored wiring and splintering the glassy surface.    Continue reading

Cyric was sure that his arm was only moments away from popping out of the swollen socket of his shoulder.  The muscles had long been numb from the constant strain of so much weight pulling on the tissue.  The tendons and ligaments had stretched to unnatural limits, and he wasn’t sure whether any of the damage being done was going to be permanent.

Not that it mattered.

He looked up at his blood encrusted wrist, flexing the hand and fingers against the manacle that was firmly shackled there.  No pain reached his brain, but the sensation of mangled flesh pulling and scraping along the metal bands was enough to ignite the anger within him anew.  The chain which stretched upward away from his hand was thickly constructed and continually mocked him with those tiny squeaks of laughter. Continue reading