My Brother's Blood Machine Part 2

I wrestled with this second section for quite a while. The other night I got some inspiration and decided to scrap the whole thing and try it from a different angle. Originally the second section was to be the argument between Celia and Johnny Early. It sounded too angsty so I said fuck it and came up with this. I didn't spend near as much time on it as the last part, and I'm afraid it shows. Let me know what you think.

I'll probably have something different on here for the next post.

P.S. This was Skyrim's fault

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            Agatha Bleam sat back in her wooden chair and exhaled a fine stream of smoke. Light from a dirty window caught the smoke, and she rather thought she saw God’s face. Instead of the uncomfortable prickling of spiders and beetles crawling across her skin, she felt the goose-pimples of excitement. God was coming to her again. She could feel it.

            She looked across the small dining room table at her two sons. Her two monsters. Her head swam from the Devil’s Crystal, and they looked like angels. God’s angels. Her eyes watered at the beauty of the two sons she had created to serve Him and only Him. Thoughts came, unbidden. Butchie’s face, a nightmare landscape of wrong features. Long-Arm and the horrid namesake on his left side that hung down to the floor. 

She took another drag from her pipe.

            “Butchie, honey. God needs to speak with Momma.” Agatha sighed as her sons became beautiful visions of light again.

           “Yes, Momma.” Butchie said quietly. He stood up and walked to the phonograph, ancient and rare. The Bleam family treasure for a century. Butchie carefully picked up the tiny arm, spinning the machine to life. As he placed the head of the arm on the jet black disk, the lost magic occurred. The room flooded with music. Sad and sweet and beautiful, alien instruments and a man dead for hundreds of thousands of years cried out a song of love and loss in a language forgotten by man. 

            Agatha gasped. Tears slowly streamed down her face. Long-Arm sobbed too, but out of fear. He didn’t understand what was happening, or why his Momma was crying. To Agatha though, he had no face. He was a perfect being of light, joined by another as Butchie retook his seat. 

            The song warped and warbled. Out of the mess, and into Agatha’s crazed mind came words that twisted themselves to suit her fantasy. 

            “Agatha Bleam” One particular verse called

            “Yes, my Lord. Oh yes God I’m here.” She cried

            “Agatha Bleam. You know me. You know my words. You’ve kept my commands. For this, I shall grant you a boon. A gift of which you can treasure until I call you unto me.” 

            “Thank you, my God. Thank you my Lord oh how I love you my Lord!” Agatha sobbed

            “Agatha Bleam. Your son shall become the Angel of Death. He shall be my servant all his days, and you shall be his mother. Rejoice, my dear Agatha.”

            “My Lord… I have two sons. How shall I know the gift?”

            “Agatha, my child. I have yet to decide which son shall become my servant. They cannot hear me yet, as you do. Though I love them both, they must hold a contest. They must free souls of their bodies. Whichever child frees the most souls shall become my servant. Tell them, my daughter. Do not fail me in this. They must construct the Blood Machine to-“

            The record had ended. A light hiss and occasional pop hung in the room. Agatha took a deep breath. Her parlay with God had left her sobered, feeling alone and abandoned. She looked at her two sons. Ugly though they might be, she loved them still. 

            “M…M…Mo-mmah?” Long-Arm managed through sobs. He hated it when she spoke to God. It confused him so. She smiled at him and he began to calm down. 

            “Long-Arm” Could this mutant simpleton be God’s servant? “I’m sorry baby, but I’ve tried to explain.”

            “M-Momma t-talk to God-Jeeses but God-Jeeses not here.” Long-Arm managed. Agatha sighed. She couldn’t make the poor boy understand. 

           “No, Long-Arm.” Butchie said softly, taking Long-Arms stunted vestigial right hand. “God was here, he just talked to Momma. We just can’t understand him like Momma can.” 

            The boy was the picture of patience and love, as he looked into Long-Arm’s comparatively normal face. Could he be the ferocious Angel of Death? She knew she would have to explain to the boys, but hesitated. The Blood Machine? Her poor sons couldn’t possibly know what that may be if she didn’t. But she trusted God, and trusted him to lead her children. 

 

            “Boys… God spoke to me, of you.” Butchie sat up, alert and attentive. “He said that one of you is an Angel. The Angel of Death.”

            “Long-Arm… Angel?” He said, trying to process the information

            “One of us, Momma?” Butchie asked, confusion plain on his terrible face “But… Did he say which of us?”

            “No… He said…” She hesitated again. She hated sending her sons to this knowing no more than she did. Her faith was being tested, she was sure of it. She was sure she would pass. “You two are to have a contest. You must gather souls for Him. You must release the souls from their bodies. God said you must construct a Blood Machine.”

            The brothers Bleam looked at their mother, bewildered. 

            “Blood… Souls… Momma what God mean?” Long-Arm grunted.

            “Blood Machine? Momma, is the soul contained in blood? We just gotta get blood outta bodies then?” Butchie, frail and brilliant. Agatha beamed at him. “Could be. You boys’ll never touch the stuff, but we Seers, we know things. You never shoot the Devil Crystal into blood. You do that and you’re damned for eternity. No, you burn the Crystal and inhale it so it passes from you quickly. That way you ride the Devil into the spirit realm. You can still hop off him when you reach your destination.”

            “The soul… It has to be in the blood then!” Butchie said, ecstatic at the knowledge. Thoughts and ideas for the machine spun in his head. He wondered vaguely if Long-Arm even understood before

            “W-w-we gotta get bl-blood outta people. M-mash ‘em up.” Long-Arm smiled. His huge arm was freakishly strong. His only pet, a bunny he had found, got ‘mashed up’ shortly after he got bored of it. Butchie never told Momma that story. 

            “Of course, love. Of course. Go, my children. Build this Blood Machine. Collect souls for God. Go, my children.”

            The boys stood up and left the house, each going for a hug and kiss from Agatha before departing. She watched them through a window, walking into the woods, searching for parts to build the machine that Butchie was already piecing together in his head. Pride welled inside of her. God was not wrong. 

Uhh...

Writers block outta nowhere. I'll force it out.

I'll probably post something new next. I don't have the next part of MBBM done, since I hate writing dialogue oh so very much.

I'll post again in a day or so.

My Brother's Blood Machine: Introduction

I have some things to explain before I post this first piece.

First off, Coheed and Cambria is arguably the greatest band on the planet. Claudio Sanchez, their lead, has a side project called "The Prize Fighter Inferno" which has out the album "My Brother's Blood Machine."
All of Co&Ca's music tells a massive story. TPFI carries on this proud tradition.
What I have written here is my interpretation of the story that "My Brother's Blood Machine" follows. There will be gore, incest, and rape. It's part of the story. I intend on doing these sections as tastefully as possible. I knew a guy who wrote tasteless smut for fun and expected to be hailed as the next Hemmingway. I didn't like that guy. 
The point I'm trying to make here is this is loosely based off of Claudio Sanchez's intellectual properties, and don't get offended at the content.

Secondly, this is my most recent work, and the work I am most proud of. I'm starting off on a high note. It only goes downhill from here, folks.

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The gavel’s sharp snap cut through the heavy silence of the small courthouse, and the matter was settled. The matter had been settled for weeks, but the small wooden hammer would soon find it official. 

“Sir Arthur McCloud,” Judge Kevin’s tired voice worked its way through the room “you had been found guilty of the following crimes: Murder, assault, flight from the law, and most heinous and the root of your incarceration, the molestation of your daughter, Cecilia. For these crimes you have spent three years imprisoned, wherein you are implicated in the murder of four inmates, and the sodomy of two more. Were I not bound to the service of the king, and were you not a Gunslinger, I would see you in solitary confinement until you went to find the Lord Judge either in death or life. Even cleaner justice’d find you hanged. The war calls you though. In the eyes of the court, Lord God, his servant spirit, and the Man Jesus, I absolve you of all crimes on the stipulation that you find the front line within a fortnight and fight Jonas Cane’s raiders, who encroach on our lands. If you fail to meet this demand your life is forfeit. You are going west, Sir Arthur, may God have more mercy on your soul than you deserve.”

Sir Arthur McCloud was in his Sunday best. His nicest jeans, brand new boots, dyed black shirt. The oldest thing he wore was his empty gun belt. His father’s father’s father’s father’s gun belt, and now his. His sharp face broke into a wonderfully charming smile. His deep blue eyes lit up. A ruse for the court, he had known his freedom nearing a month. Inside this room everyone knew his crimes. Everyone knew his guilt. The dumbest sons of bitches (and their pretty daughters, too) still held him innocent. Outside these walls he knew a pretty face like his could find much more gullible and useful company. He counted on it.

“I thankee, honorable judge.” Arthur tipped him the smallest of salutes and drawled “I trust a marshal of the law’ll be here to… Guide me by the hand? Hell, I’ll shoot anyone pointed east if’n you’d like. I just need my irons back.”

“The bailiff will take you to the armory. A marshal will be here in five days. Return upon that day or you will be hunted down and executed. Dismissed” Another crack jarred the room with its finality. 

“I’m a changed man, honor. See you in five days” Arthur gave Kevin the smallest wink as he turned on his heel and marched out the door with the bailiff. His family called. Martha, the boys… Cecilia. The thought of her made his member start at throbbing. The bailiff knocked him out of his reverie, unshackling his cuffs. The man told Arthur to follow to the armory. The sheer insolence of the small town lawman telling a veteran Gunslinger what to do grated at Arthur, but he never showed it. Had he not made plans to escape the war he would’ve strangled the bailiff right then and there. 

Instead he smiled at the man and followed his steps. Outside, two buildings over, through a door, down some stairs to the cold cellar and a massive metal door. The bailiff brought out his keys and undid the padlock. Arthur’s hands itched with the knowledge and anticipation. The bailiff, pulled open the door with a hiss, as cold air rushed into the tiny cellar. Arthur strode past him and walked into the freezing, barely lit room. He brushed past chains hanging from the ceiling, to the small ornate table waiting for him. His pistols, waiting for him. 

Arthur picked them up and tested the weight. They were extensions of his body, like long lost hands. He knew them. He was them. With a practiced motion the cylinders swung out and spun, and just as quick were back in place. They were empty. He felt a slight annoyance at that. Those twelve rounds were meant for twelve certain men.

“I believe I turned them in with twelve rounds of ammunition. Serendipitous number, you think bailiff? T’was twelve lawmen what brought me in in the first place. Them what survived, that is.” Arthur knew he was only partially illuminated. He could smell the bailiff sweat more. He could hear the man’s breathing pick up. The man simply pushed a box of personal effects into Arthur’s hands and told him to get out of the armory. The man was iron, Arthur noted. Under different circumstances, he might’ve liked him. 

Arthur stepped back into the glare and heat of the early afternoon, his personal effects (knives, mostly) tucked away and hidden on his person. A stagecoach rolled past him on the ancient asphalt, cracked and filled with this town’s version of crude concrete. He walked down the sidewalk, more crude concrete for the businesses that could afford it, and wooden planks for the ones that couldn’t. A sign swung over the business that Arthur was looking for. “Ammo Fer Cheap! Jest Like Citypressed!"

Ten minutes later he left the business with fifty rounds of shitty ammo for his pistols. His price was a smile and bare steel. The shopkeep didn’t dare argue with a Gunslinger. His pistols were loaded, heavy on his hips. He felt like a man again. He turned his way towards a coach station. He could wile a ride back to Dellsprings, he knew. On the way there, however, someone stood in the street. 

“Sir Arthur McCloud.” The man in the street called. The sun behind him, the man’s face was hidden, but Arthur knew the silhouette of a man with a rifle. 

  

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I welcome any and all feedback. Including formatting. I copied and pasted this out of word, and I noticed that Blogger has ass posing as a text formatting program. There will likely be issues.

Hello, world...

Hi.

I'm new to this.

You can read my "about me" thing over to the right there. I'm gonna use this for some creative writing. I'm not trying to sell anything or get published or anything. That said, everything I post up here is my own writing. If you wanna use it for something just let me know. I'm a reasonable guy. I'll probably say yes.

Not that I assume my writing is good enough that anyone will want to use it. Part of why I started this was so that people would give me honest feedback. Now I'll also have a reason to write with some regularity.

Like I mentioned, I have a ton of hobbies. I've had three years of professional singing training, and I dabble in the guitar. Everything I draw looks like hell though, so that's about as creative as I get. I may throw some things relating to all this up as well. We'll see.