AzraelLordoftheNight

It begins with a keystroke. Click. Then the world around me dissolves, like so much sand, falling apart… Before my eyes, planets and stars. A blistering burst of canon fire flashes. A battle. Exploding ships and stations. Explosions ripping metal, ending lives, in silence. Blink… A city. Oasis in a dessert. Bullets fly. Blood gushes. Rocket hits building. Rumble falls, bounces off a tank. Tank fires. Car destroyed. Pain. Blink… Men screaming. Clad in armor; full plate, chainmail. Blues killing Reds. Reds killing Blues. Swords sing. Shield crash. Axes fall. Men die. The ground churned to mud. The dying trampled and drowned.

The Eighth Day On the first day, God created the night. On the second day, he made things hot and cold. On the third day, he made victory and defeat. On the fourth day, he made pain. On the fifth day, he made death. On the sixth day, he made man and said "Good luck." And on the seventh day, he rested.

Crew of the Victory There she was imperious in her stillness. She hung there, floating in space like a sleeping titan. We entered through a thousand hatches and airlocks, bringing with us a thousand histories, and a thousand friends, and a thousand foes. We brought memories and stories of friends and family left far behind. Now we are one, the forgotten, anonymous enigma that exists in and runs the bowels beast. The low growl of the N-space engine echoes in the superstructure. She lurches forward, startling the world with her son life. Worlds shrink back as her shadow graces their surface. All the while we go unnoticed toiling to keep the

A young woman named Sharron loved making art, and practiced doodleing all day long to become the very best in all her town. But one day, she was completely stumped. She looked around her room, full of art pieces featuring mystical eagles, sci-fi landscapes of a futuristic Philadelphia, and a portrait of Ian McShane that looked so real, you could start a conversation with it. But nothing inspired her. Had she really created everything there was to create? Depressed, she looked out her window, and made a wish on a nearby hut for inspiration to return to her. The next morning, she sprung out of bed, and used her skill in doodleing to create the

The scholar sits beyond his desk. Reaching forward he places his box Of tools and tricks And deeds done well, Upon the farthest edge. Rom said sheath he draws his weapon to end all wars. And unto his battle field it is set. Where its tip lands The land weeps red. His weapon declares the end of all things Its black writ calling for blood. Now he sheaths his mighty pen And brings said sheath from the farthest edge, To walk among the dead. Whom his weapon of ink and blood, Hath claimed upon this day.

To Live as Death Gods die and mortals fall As I rend flesh and soul Bleed, bleed, all call for blood. The thrashing, The rending, The pain and the screams, Tortures of the flesh. Gods die and mortals fall As I rend flesh and soul The thrashing at noght Under my sheets, In bed. The rending of my hair from my head As I howl at the night, Crazed, Mad. The pain and the screams Curdling and terrible, Ring the same Death, Death I am Called.

Dance How shall we dance, Us frivolous men. Shall we dance as our nature, Wild and free. Or shall we be is they want us, Pensive and be gloomed. Reading into every word, Seeing into every fault, Crimes against us. Is that how we shall dance, Dull and slow, Endlessly looking For a knife in our back Guided slyly, By the friend who dances before us. Is this how we shall dance? How shall we be?