The following stories/poems are a collection of pieces based on “The Warrior” character I am developing, one of the last defenders of the Apocalypse. No defined plans at the moment, but a holding place for ideas.


The lighting had made its indentation amidst the clearing.

They said there will be a sign.
A mark upon the ground.
This will be the spot where
He will return.

“The Book” said, “By his mark, you will know him!”

The Warrior stood off in the distance.
He saw its fall and the mighty power it possessed.
He felt its heat and destruction, all in a tremendous flash of light.
As the smoke raised skyward, where heaven had once been rumored to exist, the Warrior secured his belt and unsheathed his weapon.

The lighting had made its indentation amidst the clearing. Everything was charred and smoldering. The impact point was very defined. A cross. The mark was in the shape of a cross.

That was the sign. He would appear soon wielding the wrath of Him who had sent Him, and nothing more. The battle had commenced.

The Warrior knew.

Armageddon was at hand. Hell be damned.





image courtesy of Digital Blasphemy

The Warrior knew.

Armageddon was at hand. Hell be damned.

He had seen the mark of Man left behind when He had descended, for this battle needed its Supreme Commander. Hell would be damned for sure. But not without a fight.

The agents of evil had infiltrated the gates, posing and passing as obedient servants of He who is to come again. The temptation is strong for those who are not prepared. Thankfully, Michael’s sword cut swiftly to separate the rebels from the Defenders.

The Warrior had been a Defender. He still was actually, But his “assignment” had been changed. He was to wait for the Coming and the Downfall. The mark of Man had affirmed the Arrival of Him. Now, the Warrior awaited the descent.

He remained vigilant; a sentinel charged to protect all that was Holy. His eyes were trained on the horizon. Tranquility took residence briefly, but he knew it was a matter of…

A thunderous rumble reverberated in the distant sky. A cacophony of screams and explosions; cackles and war cries. The sky became inflamed with the brightness of a million stars released from hope, each star a fallen soul discharged from the multitudes to avenge their infiltration. Plummeting to earth, scorching all that surrounded their impact to stand erect and strong; a combatant in the name of Darkness. The Warrior unsheathed his weapon; it’s glistening a signal to all.

The battle had begun.

The Warrior knew better this time.

Heaven and Hell be damned.



“What do your know of this…rapture?”

And I, “The Warrior” spoke.

“Quentin said there was this place…a way station. Do you know of it?”

The old codger wiped his hands in his haggard beard, a thoughtful swipe. He stared at me for a brief eternity, wondering if my question was an interrogation.

“Well, you know Quentin,” the Keeper began, “said a lot of wild things. Said we was goin’ to hell. Always drummin’ up some noise about this here rapture.”

“What do you know of this…rapture? Do you believe?” I continued.

“Don’t know what I believe. Ever since the Creed was declared, I ain’t been sure of nothin’.”

“But what is this place then? All these chairs.
Quentin spoke of this too. That this was…” I was interrupted by the old man, completing my thought.

“…this was where the angels came? Quentin was censured by the committee. Shouldn’t have been speakin’ his mind like that, I’ll tell you!”

“Why do you just sit here old man? What is your purpose?”, I asked, making the first query of interrogation.

“I am just minding my mind” he replied. “You sought me out, Intellectual! “

“I am no Intellectual, old man! I am a Defender!” The man knew of “The Warrior”. I was in it for the duration!

He saw it. Through my wrapping and gilding, the Keeper saw it. The Intellectuals were the first to depart. Quentin was an Intellectual. Our ilk posed a threat. The geezer knew.

“Did I miss it?” I asked of the rapture.

The Keeper’s grin was ominous. His laugh hideous. I simply grasped his cloak to establish control. His neck snapped with the slightest of pressure.

Quentin always spoke the rapture; of us going to hell. I propped the limp shell of a man into one of the chairs, and prayed we weren’t desolate. For I was not sure if we were too late for the exit to heaven, or bound here to this hell.

Either way, I was screwed.



We stood on the cusp of victory,
and I, The Warrior, with the last charge in hand
had come to fulfill my destiny
as the last and only man to stand.

A soldier of a fashion, a rebellious cohort
of an ideal, and I feel every pang of pain
suffered by our legions, I could not abort
and allow such losses to be in vain.

Light and dark. Good vs. evil. Neither
mattered in this battle. There was only right.
And now, even that felt wrong. Either
I march off triumphantly or continue the fight.

Once, dreams of glory filled me, a hero
self-proclaimed and named after a fallen star
which appear on the day of my birth. A zero
destined for greatness. I could’ve gone far.

But as I look out on the devastation
I sense that this smoldering heap of despair
could have fared better if we had let our nations
flourish. Now only I, Wao Kinatjo am there

to defend this ‘prize’. A sad sight for eyes
that had once envisioned remarkable things,
but now seeing through this broken resolve to despise
the remnants of the empirical Order that still clings

to their own desolation. One man stands there as well
each of us in our living hell, each with a choice
to make. To take the next step and end with tales to tell,
or to both die in a flourish, and silence each others voice.

One hell of a decision; not much of a choice!