Archive for the Bastion Category


Posted in Bastion on October 29, 2008 by jeereg

Despite the catchers at every window a few always manage to sneak in, and tonight a dream slips by the curtains and finds Shook fitful.

He’s in a wide, low place, ringed by windows; his stomach lurches with the distance.  Light tubes glow a brackish pink in the ceiling.  False walls make half-boxes, housing glowing glass.

“Listen,” says Jergesen, his boss.  Something dark steams in the ceramic bowl in his hand.  “I’m going to need those reports on my desk by five.  You think you can handle that?”

Shook goes for his weapon, but all he finds are pens.



Posted in Bastion on September 7, 2008 by jeereg

After the battle, Shook drops his weapon and flops to the ground.  He stares blankly at the shattered wall ahead.  There are parts everywhere, bits and pieces of things and people.  Somewhere nearby, someone is moaning awfully, wetly.

Cloister is hunched over near the breach, praying, a piercing declaration.  Through the numbness, Shook feels a stab of hot, white anger, and almost, almost walks over and strangles the son of a bitch.  Instead he starts to cry dry, slow tears.

The wind hisses through the trees, and the sky eddies back and forth, and the grass dances and whisper-laughs.


Posted in Bastion on May 27, 2008 by jeereg

Shook shoved his hands in his pockets and strode towards the mess, huddled into his jacket against the alternating heat and cold. He walked through patches of dusk and morning and moonless night that skittered across the courtyard.

Rupture and Yank were sharing a cigarette just outside the door. “You don’t want to go in there,” said Yank, twirling the smoke in his long fingers. “Cloister’s holding court. Preaching about our lost purpose.”

“What’s for dinner?” asked Shook.

Rupture shrugged. “Usual. Bits of morale, hope, whatever they can parse out of the heartbox.”

Shook sighed. “I hate this fucking siege.”


Posted in Bastion on May 13, 2008 by jeereg

Shook stood on the western battlements, leaned over the edge, smoked a cigarette. The sky bruised into twilight, what Scatter called the gloaming. No one listened to Scatter. He was an idiot.

Outside the walls, the forests eddied and quivered, independent of the wind. Dark blue clouds stretched down tendrils, brushed the tops of trees and the grass, but didn’t touch the fortress. There were whispers.

“Anything going?” came a voice from the courtyard. Rupture, probably.

Shook sighed and flicked his smoke over the edge. A cloud snatched it before it touched the ground.

“Nothing new. They’re still out there.”