Sunday, August 8, 2010


By E.S. Wynn

And now, I play the villain.

Here, atop the hill of my dreams, I watch as the blazes rage, set and dancing with demonic fervor as they spread across reality, lick at the canvas edges of the sky. The things I love never last much longer than a few moments before I cross someone all too keen to burn them down out of petty spite, imagined wrongs.

So now, I play the villain. I rise-ride on an ebon horse with a gauntlet that is all blades and crystalline pain. I reach for my ink-wet weapons, rise, rise and tear an obsidian swathe across the sky. To be a villain is to refuse to be a victim when playing the victim is to be the humble and forgotten hero, stalwart shield of the people facing no enemy from without but unwavering under a tide of backstab hatred-spit. To be a villain is to strike and crush oppressors who move under the lie-guise of light and right with a single, sharp, and unflinching blow. It is the path of the true justice, anger harnessed and rode hard into the heart of the matter of most importance, the course of a sword forced into the wronger’s breast
to the hilt.

And as the role has been wrongly cast for me, I play the villain. I ride, I rise,

And I take no more.

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Anger is a tantalizing muse.


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