Aramis' Workshop

  • A Bard’s Folktale
    • Roaming Cadenza
      • Chapter One
      • Chapter Two
      • Playlist
    • Dustland Requiem
      • Chapter One
      • Chapter Two
      • Playlist
  • Tales of Emarosa
    • Sea of Dragonfire
    • The Willow in the Wood
    • Feathers and Thorns
    • Those Who Remained
  • Short Stories
    • A Lesson from Elly
    • Okami, the Grey Wolf
    • Broken Angels
    • The Vices and Virtues of Sera Ryan
    • Sam
    • Killing Dragons
    • Snowfall
    • Sand Castles
  • Poetry
  • About Aramis

Dejalo (Nuestra Cosa)

Saturday, April 30th (2016) @ 13:40 EDT

“The Beast with the Four Dirty Paws”

Little but the scent of the hunt fell from his sickly sweet breath.
Cold air wafted through his fangs like refugees slipping the gates.
Yet in the snow he with his dirty paws lie, because what else is a sated wolf-pup to do?

He dreamt the tales of wolf kind, of his coming greatness and glory, as he did so many days before.
At times, perhaps, he’d been something else.
Maybe this wolf life wasn’t his first.
But those thoughts passed with an ebon blanket tucking away the dusk sky.

He stalked through the Thickets by moonlight, following the scent of larger game.
Whether he was brave or dumb, the red-eyed pup would not be swayed.
By an old lake rested a weary traveler that would a make a fine meal.

From around the bend the wolf-pup came, creeping with due diligence.
The sleeping fool’s apathy insulted the wolf’s cunning, but a meal is a meal all the same.
The pup lunged, and received a stern bop in-kind as the sleeper dropped a stick unto the pup’s skull.
The ground welcomed the wolf’s body with great force, shattering his teeth on impact as the fool stood above.

And so the pair’s eyes met.
The pup snarled as best he could, while the glint of the hunt shone in the wanderer’s gaze–the large man holding a steely knife.
The deathblow loomed.

The hunter’s knife swooped above the pup’s head, presenting a keen opportunity.
The wolf struck, pinning his foe to the ground and gnawing away at the weapon hand with broken teeth.
The hunter broke free, and in bloodlust the rivals stood wanting.
Until the man drew from his satchel a fresh kill, and tossed some for the pup to devour.

Before long the two sat, sated, though no more at ease than cutthroats could ever be.
Yet the sway of the traveler tugged at the pup’s insides, as though the wolf had been hunting brethren.
As the wanderer stood to leave, the pup bore the remnants of his teeth to little affect.

The traveler watched, and waited, as the pup stared him down.
The pup waited, and watched, as the traveler returned the gesture.
Each took a step toward, and a step away, circling one another.
As the game waned, the two cautiously wandered on together, no more content than an infant at birth.

By the time they’d drifted from the Thickets, the pair had become less like enemies and more like old thieves, exploiting their schemes amongst the other by moonlight.
No the matter the victor, the two continued on together.
Beasts amidst beasts can never have friends, yet all creatures know respect.

The red wolf’s first litter dwelt in the wanderer’s earliest den.
And the wanderer’s first daughter knew her guardian beast well.
When the time that always comes finally came, there were no tears to see.
For no feeling could do justice to losing half of the once and future king.

Tags: emarosa, okami, short story, writing
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Never Gonna Live If You’re Too Scared to Die

Saturday, April 9th (2016) @ 19:34 EDT

Got the first round of edits back for Emarosa.
May hold off on posting more for a bit as it needs some lovin’.

In the interim, a new short story, Okami, the Grey Wolf, is posted.

Tags: emarosa, okami, short story, the grey wolf, writing
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I Know How to Scream My Own Name

Friday, December 25th (2015) @ 06:00 EST

Happy Summer-like Christmas and other assorted holidays!
New Emarosa (chapter 8) posted, and short story added entitled Broken Angels.
All the best.

“Broken Angels”

The crusty old man, no more wise than bitter, took his seat at an empty evening diner on the edge of town. Whether he’d been there before was of no great consequence (for he himself could not recall); the place held a distinct, I shouldn’t be here but what the hell, feeling. It was the sort of place you’d end up when you’ve reached the end of your road. The 20s, or maybe 30s something waitress, appeared equal parts amused and amazed at the crusty man’s furious, bushy eyebrows as he seated himself at the counter.

“What can I get’cha?” she asked.
“Coffee. Black,” he grunted.

He stared out the window as he waited, the sun riding the mountain ridges chasing the dusk. His disposition faded with the daylight. Before long ceramic clinked from the counter, his coffee mug steaming before him.

“What brings ya out ‘ere?” the waitress asked.
“Dunno,” he murmured, burning his chapped lips at the sip.
“Yeah, we get that a lot.” She leaned on the counter opposite of him, receiving no great notice.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be here…” the crusty codger wondered aloud.

The man kept his gaze on the window, watching watercolors spill across the skyline as the mountains finally defeated the day. Tiny specks grew more daring by the minute, sprinkling across the empyrean, heralding Luna to begin her ascent. The waitress grinned a halfhearted grin, watching the weary traveler with interest.

“I dun’ think anyone s’pose ta’ be here. We jes’ are.” The waitress remarked.
“It isn’t that. It’s different. I really think I’m not meant to be anywhere…” He insisted, his million-yard stare unable to pierce his cooling coffee.
“It’s always diff’ernt luv. But here ya’ are,” she smirked, her eyes aglow in the hum of the illuminating fluorescent sign now lighting the window.

The old coot with crusty brows snorted. He rose from his stool, digging through obviously empty pockets. His face turned flush the longer his fingers scrambled about his trousers, his furious brows softening into something closer to sullen. Perhaps even pathetic.

The waitress simply smiled, and came around the counter. With her hands on her hips, her face shifted into a I’ve told you so many times before scowl that you’d find only on an old friend that knew even your dumbest secrets. The man lowered his head in shame. The waitress came up behind the old codger, wrapping her arms around him as she leaned her chin over his shoulder. Clearly taken aback, the man did his best to look to her.

“No worries luv,” she spoke as, with a single finger, she gently nudged his face toward a Help Wanted sign collecting dust in the window. “If ya’ got nowhere ta’ be anyway, may as well be ‘ere,” she gave him a loving kiss on the cheek as she took his coffee back to fetch a refill. When she returned, she found bushy brow’s cheeks glistening. He sighed. Looking up to her through moist eyes, he stammered as he tried to get the words out.

“I’m sorry. Honestly, I’ve got nothing left. I just–” the waitress placed her finger on his burnt, chapped lips.
“Hush luv. We all go ta’ places like that sooner or later. But we don’t have ta’ do it alone.”

She took a seat next to the old man, pouring a cup for herself as the scars decorating her wrists became apparent. She turned to him, listening to stories of days past he could scarcely remember, of foolish dreams in which he might still believe.

After some time, she shared her own stories of life, work, and the things most people don’t discuss, turning cups of coffee into a lingering kindness. Whether they recalled each other’s names in the morning no could really say, but one thing’s for sure: though neither were well-met to make it through the day, they’d carried one another through another otherwise endless night.

Tags: emarosa sea of dragonfire, short story, writing
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