The Areson Stories

Tribute to Stan Lee A Great Storyteller May your stories never die. We all long to be remembered. We all want to be the hero standing in the sunlight cape flighting in the breeze, beloved by all. We all want to be the one people remember. We all, at least as authors, want to be remembered beyond ourselves. We want the worlds we make to be loved and remembered long after we are gone. Now, humanity has lost one of the greats. He will be remembered. He was a hero standing the sunlight ushering in a new age of storytelling traditions. He was beloved by all of us. He will be remembered. His characters, nay, the children of his mind will be remembered. His worlds will be loved and remembered, long after this generation and the next and the one after that have faded to dust. “Faith is my sword. Truth my shield. Knowledge my armor.” Dr. Strange. “It’s not enough to be against something. You have to be for something better.” Tony Stark. “You have my respect. I hope the

I'm Writing A Play! Dear Blog Readers;            So, for anyone who reads my blog reguarly, my writing lately has been a little spiratic. Don't worry though, I still have plenty of stories to tell. In the whole, three seconds of spare time I have in my life righ now I'm startting a new progect. I'm turning my story Raven, it's already on the blog, into a play. I don't know if I'll be able to get it produced or not but I'm trying something new anyway. Wish me luck! ...And also while you're at it you might want to wish for my sanity to stay in tact, that'd be nice... Oh well.  Sinceraly, E. M. Areson

Library of Inspi ration By E. M. Areson Photo By Christophe Maertens When she saw the old farmhouse sitting next to the cornfield of ripe corn, on an early February morning she knew she’d found the place she was looking for. It was cold and the wind seemed to make it twenty degrees colder. The farmhouse was crisp white with a bright red roof and trim. It seemed to have several doors and all of them were painted a different color. The yard too, what little of it wasn’t part of the corn field, had green grass. Light came from many of the windows and a sign painted on the front read, in big letters, MAZE MOTEL, ROOMS ALWAYS AVAILABLE. She walked towards the blue door she guessed was the front door. It was closest to the road and looked friendlier than the other doors. She cupped her hands together and blew into them. Her jacket seemed to thin for this weather, and once again she wondered what she was doing. She tried to think of what the weather had been like when she’d left