I cannot remember the initial catalyst that drove me to put pen to paper, it was too long ago. Now in my thirty-fourth year, I think back to being seven. I spent much of my time writing crude stories about tree eating dragons and electricity wielding super heroes. While growing up, I consumed fiction en masse, feeding my story hungry mind.
Although there is one significant event I do remember. During my mid teens, I discovered a book by Christopher Pike called The Last Vampire. I had never read anything so engaging. The book was part of a series that I powered through, desperate to find out more about the charismatic protagonist. I marveled at Pike's ability to evoke emotion using nothing but words. He is still one of my heroes.
Pike showed me just how powerful storytelling could be. I always loved writing. But after reading his books, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I remember thinking this is the most elegant form of alchemy, fusing ink and paper to create such an impact.
I have created many characters since then. Robots, aliens, various creatures of the night. But I don't know how enthusiastic I would have been if not for that one book by a man named Pike.
Mechanical golems swarmed the courtyard, the creak of rusted hinges heralded their arrival. Behemoth steps crushed the undead, adding the shatter of bone to the macabre chorus of zombie moans. Steel fists speared through bricks and mortar, reducing whole sections of the castle to rubble. Revivified corpses attacked wave after wave, but fell pitifully against tempered iron. When the sun dipped beyond the horizon, the final zombie had already fallen. The victorious, mechanical beasts scorched the fallen with projectile fire, ridding the land of their virulent plague. The gods watched on, regarding the scene with a mild interest. "As I predicted." A youthful deity spoke, her countenance as radiant as her voice. "The machines have won, this world is now rightfully theirs."
I can recall the moment with absolute clarity as if it happened yesterday. The contrasting scents of summer and death hung heavy in the air. After a brutal battle, August, my kinsman and brother-in-arms knelt over the fallen corpse of his adversary. Soft whispers fell from his lips, accompanying the almost serene expression playing upon his features. He was praying, speaking words of veneration over the bloody remains of a villain.
"What are you doing?" I dared to ask, momentarily breaking August's concentration. To this day, I have never forgotten his response.
"Our enemies...." The reply began, his tone of voice showing none of the bloodlust present only moments prior. "....are sacred. For it is they who make us stronger."