That time I was on the Radio…

Got a wonderful experience last night! Through an invitation from some good friends, I was able to go on a local Radio show here in NOLA!

The Week in Geek, hosted by Dave Ducorbier and Brian Held, were wonderful hosts and I owe them a debt of gratitude I can never repay for giving me this chance to talk about my book.

If you’d like to listen, the podcast copy of the show can be found here

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Eric Syrdal’s Pantheon Now Available in Both Paperback and Kindle Editions!

Pantheon is finally out in Hard Copy form. This is your chance to hold my heart in your hands. 🙂

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Eric Syrdal’s epic novel told in free verse, Pantheon, is now available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle additions.  Weaving together mythology, science fiction, fantasy, and the deepest of human emotions, Pantheon is an enthralling and impactful read.

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Hinting at Shadows ~ October Sale

Lemon Shark

Universal Link

It’s October, my bloggy friends! 🎃 👻

Colorful leaves, crisp air, cotton sweaters, kick-ass boots, apple cider, pumpkin spice, Halloween… You get the idea.

I love October. It’s a beautiful time of year and I’m celebrating with a sale. For all you Halloween fiends, this is a perfect time to enjoy some bite-sized morsels of delicious darkness.

Hinting at Shadows, my first collection of flash, will be just $0.99 / £0.99 for the entire month of October.

Here’s what some people are saying about Hinting at Shadows (I’m deliriously happy & grateful):

I just finished Hinting at Shadows and had to rave a little about this book of short fiction. Every story is a pearl. The writing is exquisite and full of pathos with a focus on the poignancy of the human condition.”

“beautifully and richly crafted. Brentyn has a skill with the written word that just…

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Emissary…

How now dark emissary?
Why dost thou come to light upon
my window sill
at this late hour?

Dost thou bring a remembrance
of My Lady?
Perhaps an ebony quill from thy
breast?
Upon which she has whispered
the names she has given me
since I first came to be in Her service?

Shall I dip it into this crimson ink
and write of the days long past?

How now avian mortician?
Thou wilt understand I am of yet
no feast for you or thine kin?
I see by the puzzled cock of your feathered head
that your ears, hidden behind their dusky cowl
do not hear that which should be within my chest.

I tell thee
Thou art not mistaken
There is no rumble of thunder there
When I came to this place
My own heart I plucked out
and divided it into many pieces
For trusting not in my own will
to protect so fragile a charge
I felt it better to shatter it
and place the pieces as far from my clumsy hands
as I might

Ever Since
I had hands to crawl upon
I gave it away
shard by shard
placed into the warm embrace
of hands that were willing to see it safe

and each time I offered it
I closed the hand that took it
and pushing their fist against their own breast
I asked the soul to look after it
as if it were their own

How now dusky Vicar?
It is true
I have heard the throaty bark
of thy sermon
beyond this very window
in the waning hours of the evening
when the mist lies heavy upon the meadow

And I will heed your good word
as I am a faithful parishioner
of the old blood
And thou hast heard many
a final confession
thou hast heard many final words
and pleas
with thy black head bowed in contemplation
until such time as thou art unable
to contain thy ravenous hunger
then like the executioner
you climb down from the gallows
to gather your payment
to sup upon the bounty
before you

Being thou a beast
thou dost know what it is
to be mortal

To be mortal is to be in pain

So winged messenger
take these words back to Our Queen
for only your wings
can breach the veil

Tell Her
Though I am cast from Her kingdom
and I am trapped within this realm
I serve Her still

That wherever I roam
one knee is always bent to Her

That whenever I pen Her name
it sets the paper aflame

That whenever I speak
She is forthright in my mind

Until such time I shall walk again
With Her
Under the White Birch trees

Tell Her
The first words upon my lips at dawn
and the last words upon my lips at dusk
will always be

Vivat Regina

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Oblation… Lois E. Linkens and Eric Syrdal

We walk towards a
promised land,
soaked in milk and softest
sand.

hard trudge
of cracked feet, muddled in
the mire
roadside ditches
dirge laden as they walk.

chapped and broken
mouths cry out
for a taste of sweet water
to imbibe the knowledge of
man’s long
dance with death.

and I, from my mount
stand tall against the ruined
sky
a king carried above the
filthy ash that
floats

upon the fetid wind from
the west
in the last days of the sun.

Our feet are hot, the path is
still.
We bend towards the
future’s will.

Your eyes are caved and bleak.
The road is long
when the trudge follows
only cloud dreams,
pink and blue and pale
but stupid drops in a
cracked palm.

Die – leave the children,
they can whisper
to the sky and gather
stones,
suck salt fingers with
dry pink tongues like
maple.

They do not know to need;
they forget the red skies
and smoke.

Each broken step is
precious blood,
Our father’s deaths were
writ for good.

Like barnacles
clinging to the hull of a ship
Just beneath the topaz
surface
or in the oily brine dark
they know only to clutch
to the scraps of life
anything to stay buoyant

Each broken step is
precious blood,
Our father’s deaths were
writ for good.

I will,
take the earthen bowl
raise it to the deaf gods of
a cracked heaven

They queue at my altar
clutch and raise the hem
of my vicar’s robe
to leave blood kisses
and bits of carrion feathers
upon the mangy threads

I will, minister the
salt potion
tip the dusty rim against
their teeth
Let is pass through their
wispy curtain
of bone husks

Broken, clinking and
tangled
marionettes in the grip
of Oblivion

We ache for salt,
we burn for bread.
But good men are by
hardship led.

Lyrical tithe
their hearts do speak
blindly their sullen eyes will
seek

A wooden grail
lying in the road
to grease their lips whilst
speak their ode

But the chipped rim
of their sacred cup
will only serve to shut them
up

For a bauble held
in desperate hands
can make so much
gold from dust and sand

We ache for salt,
we burn for bread.
But good men are by
hardship led.

And while I could
direct them safe
my purpose remains to
abrade and chafe

United by thirst
they’re of no use to me
I need them at odds,
abandoned and weak

We walk towards
a promised land,
Soaked in milk and softest
sand.

We’ve not enough tears to
wet the land
and bring the grass, anew

We’ve only the memories
of a time before this
when all our dreams came
true.

A deadened bruise of sky
will wake
upon the morrow’s echoed
dawn.
Put on your dark, your
blackest things –
the sweet old earth will mourn.

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Sonata: Excerpt from Eric Syrdal’s Pantheon

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

She has seen evidence
of the beast
everywhere around her
Through the streets
of the city
it leaves its evidence
on the grey landscape

Scorch marks on the concrete
broken scales on the playgrounds
teeth shattered and discarded
in the gutter
shades of green and brown
but often clear like ice

She hears its wings
scraping on the sides
of their tenement
at night
While everyone but she
is sleeping

She’s heard its low growl
The heavy air of its presence
in the hallway
right outside her door

Pure of heart…

Her blood formed a natural
resistance to the beast

When the pressure of
the outside world bowed in
on her
The air would thicken enough
that she could hear its voice
speaking to her in rich whispers

But her life was solid and
secure behind the ramparts
she had spent the dearest
years of her existence building

And so…

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Praise for Pantheon by Eric Syrdal

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

“Pantheon” is a thrilling philosophical journey exploring the depth and meaning for one passing through a metaphorical world of inner demons and dragons, goddesses of the soul, of warrior and poet. A journey that crosses boundaries of time, space, and perception.  I am captured by the intimate revelations of this intuitive and sympathetic protagonist battling the dark ages of his subconscious moving instinctively forward into innerscape, relying upon and exalting the virtue goddesses that guide and deliver him from barbarity and trial by ordeal both physical and spiritually as he transports from one state of being to another, from one point of time to another”

Holly Rene Hunter
House of Heart

“The poetry is densely colourful, rich in imagery and sensuality, boldly imaginative and deeply sensitive to the human condition, while being written with clarity and emotional pull. I found myself sitting for three hours, empty coffee cups scattered around me…

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Indie Blu(e) Welcomes Eric Syrdal

So excited to be part of Indie Blu(e)!!!

INDIE BLU(E)

Eric Syrdal is a poet/author.  He’s an avid gamer and Sci-Fi enthusiast. He enjoys reading science fiction and fantasy literature and spends a great deal of his writing time focused in those genres.  He is a romantic, at heart. His work usually contains elements of the supernatural and fantastic along with potent female voices and archetypes.

He is from New Orleans, Louisiana, where he lives with wife and two children.  You can read more Eric’s writing at My Sword and ShieldWhisper and The Roar and can follow him on his Facebook Author Page


PUBLISHED WORKS

COMING FALL 2018 FROM SUDDEN DENOUEMENT PUBLISHING

Pantheon

“Pantheon” is a thrilling philosophical journey exploring the depth and meaning for one passing through a metaphorical world of inner demons and dragons, goddesses of the soul, of warrior and poet. A journey that crosses boundaries of time, space, and perception.  I am captured by the intimate…

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Mythology

Candice, My Shieldmaiden Sword Sister. So amazing!

TheFeatheredSleep

17596021_2252716351619657_8057323364139663360_nHear the Gregorian chant

Inuit, Viking, Sami

Circles of the globe

Pagan artifacts beneath snow

Vanquish now your uncertain fealty

If there is no forever how do we choose?

Crucifix or corn maiden

Behind lapsing trees

Long live the king, does up his fly, pissing on future

Embroidered metal

Outstretched blade

Burning the gods

In new Zealand the stone is green

Gaia grows weary and soon

What we called ours will be gone

Defiling sacred places we

Strive to be more than mortal

Shine a torch into the skies

Send a ship packed with explosives

Blow a flute, mountains will open

With wonder, open-mouthed children pass through

I gave up my child

To be a child with you

And you damned me

But you damned yourself too

Mythology can be real

If you start with truth

And a deadly outcome

For fools who dabble

defyingly blinded they will

Answer to…

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GOODREADS GIVEAWAY: COMPOSITION OF A WOMAN

Go Dog Go Café

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If you live in the United States, you can enter for a chance to win a free signed copy of Barista Christine’s first poetry book, Composition of a Woman, on Goodreads.

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