About
Bladen Breitreiter
Bladen is a scientist by day, rock star by night, writer in between, and someone who enjoys running only in dreams. A graduate in atmospheric sciences, they chase fire and tell the future for a day job.
In addition to their work with their novels and graphic novels, Bladen has written and recorded several varieties of sonic entertainment, including an accompanying soundtrack to each of the written worlds.
Southwest Gothic:
Harvesting Angel of the Plains
H e walked along the desolate roadside of Highway 67 between Marfa and Fort Stockton just before Old Alpine Highway. The Davis Mountains stood defiantly to the west making the distance between towns impossible to measure. His bare feet bled as he walked in the unforgiving sun, leaving pieces of blood and skin molten into the tar. Blood dripped from his mouth and got caught in the crevices of his sun-damaged skin.
Cars flew by ignoring the man in his dark ragged clothes and the wind from their passing gave him relief.
He turned north and followed Old Highway 1053 until he reached the mostly abandoned Imperial, Texas. The US Census claimed three hundred people lived in the small town outside of Fort Stockton, but no one was there to be seen. Unlike most old Texas ghost towns, no signs decorated the exterior of any of the buildings. It was as if the town wasn’t a memory of itself, but rather a blueprint for a city of people who never showed up.
A small, white A-frame building stood adjacent to an old adobe storefront with a near two-story facade. He entered through the glass door and approached the counter, blood smearing across the tile floor with every step.
“I’ve come from the Chisos,” he said in a raspy voice to the clerk. Dust fell from his hair and clothes onto the counter. “Tell me, have you seen the Ghost Torch?”
An older gentleman of about forty-five years with greying hair and an increasing waistline sat behind the counter. His name tag was pinned to his faded postal shirt and declared his name with Bob in generic label-maker text. He glanced up. “I’m sorry?” His expression became unsettled upon meeting the stranger’s raggedy countenance.
Suddenly, a deep bell tone rang out in the shop. Bob’s face looked around in shock. It was two o’clock on a Tuesday, he realized. And even though the bell’s volume made it sound far away, he was sure it definitely came from within the shop. “Um, no, sir,” he said backing up.
“I’ve carried it from Casa Grande Peak. It’s a very long way from here.”
The bell rang again.
Bob felt something wet on both his ears. He reached up to touch it and came back with blood on his fingertips, only to find blood beginning to ooze from beneath his nails. It began to run from his eyes and nose, and he began to panic, fruitlessly trying to wipe the blood from his cheeks. The color began to drain from the shop and the air grew dense. With a gasp, Bob began to run to the back of the shop. The bell tolled again, and the lights instantly went out. Bob fell to the ground and backed himself up against the wall. He clutched around at the wall, the floor . . . anything he recognized and knew. No light entered from the windows. Everything was dark except for the man, who was now on his side of the counter. Two perfect white flames glowed in his hands. The bell tolled and this time, it was deafening.
“What are you?” he begged, crimson tears streaming down his face.
“We have come to rid the world of false prophets and prepare it for the Reaping.
Tell me...what is it you believe?”
The novel debut coming soon.
Order
Luxury Eviction
Ethereal soundscapes combine with haunting lyrics and expansive instrumentation in Luxury Eviction’s sophomore record. In addition to exploring the intricacies of the melancholy, it serves as a documentary to the artist’s vocal journey during their pursuit of self truth.
Available exclusively on Bandcamp (lossless), iTunes, GooglePlay, and Amazon.
