The Long War

Hello! I felt like it was time for a blog update. This time it’s not so much about writing, but something slightly different.

At the weekend I went to my first doubles tournament at Warhammer World. Which was a great experience (despite some awful powergaming by some grumpy bastards from Leeds.) Even though we didn’t win a game, we still had a great time and there were a couple of hilarious games. One including a complete vendetta against my Heldrake, which resulted in a draw. My team-mate Chris played Dark Eldar so I decided to start my Chaos army. Had I know they were desperate allies, which severely hindered us, I would have chosen something else.

As part of the tournament there is an award for the army list. so I decided to write a story for it as follows:

The Long War

By Michael J. Hollows

THE CATHEDRAL BURST into a ball of pyrotechnic fury as stained glass windows exploded from the pressure change. Brother-Sergeant Amatius didn’t see where the shell had come from as he proceeded on foot into the vast nave, his back to the firer. His squad fanned out either side of him, bolters blaring at the unseen enemy. Smoke and the smell of cordite hung in the air. The stained glass fell from the windows, crashing amongst the knocked over pews as screams pierced the gloomy air. They weren’t the screams of glass-cut agony, but screams of delight.

A group of warriors, clad in spiked blue armour, rushed the Space Marines from the aisles. Splinters from their rifles peppered the cathedral and lodged in the wooden seats. The Ultramarines ducked behind what cover they could find, but brother Portius was thrown from his feet by the force of a blow. The splinters stuck out from his armour at jaunty angles and he knocked them away with a sweep of a vambrace before crawling towards a plascrete pillar.

Amatius returned fire with his boltgun and the two nearest eldar disappeared in a cloud of thick, arterial gore. Vertebrae hammered the pews as the aliens were blown apart by the concentrated fire. To his left, Caius discharged his meltagun, liquid fire cooking the last of the onrushing aliens. The Codex Astartes was clear in this situation and he was confident his brothers would clear out the cathedral in an efficient manner.

A grinding of metal on concrete behind him made Amatius turn. An Ultramarines Vindicator was crossing the threshold of the cathedral, entering the nave and adding its thick exhaust fumes to the smokey interior. What was it doing; entering the building with a vehicle was madness. Amatius tried to raise the commander on the vox, but was met with white static. He waved at the vehicle to slow and the vox suddenly flared into a scream of feedback, overloading his auto-senses. Amatius ripped his helmet from his armour throwing it to the floor in disgust, dulling the vox squeal. He looked up, regaining his composure, as another shell flew through the air and detonated sending out a wave of high pressure that squeezed against his skull.

Shrapnel spread across the room and Portius cried out as scalding-hot metal ripped through his leg, severing the bone. Bright blood pooled around the stricken Ultramarine.

Amatius tried to reach his comrade, but was forced back by the sea of eldar warriors. Madness, he thought. What had got into the Vindicator’s commander? This wasn’t the Ultramarines way, they had strict codes and doctrines that prevented this kind of folly.

He dodged another attack and brought his chainsword up in reply. The spinning metal blades made easy work of the eldar warrior and sprayed blood across his deep blue armour.

Amatius looked for Portius, but he was still on the ground as enemy warriors crowded him. He fought back furiously with combat knife and fist, breaking through armour like paper, but they would soon overwhelm him. Malius was the nearest Ultramarine to Portius, pinned behind a pillar to the squad’s right.

‘Malius, break through to Portius and engage a withdrawal, now!’ Amatius shouted, the vox hardly necessary in the acoustics of the cathedral. The Space Marine looked back in the sergeant’s direction, and shook his head slowly from side to side.

What was he doing? Portius needed his support.

Amatius tried to edge closer, but the eldar still blocked his path. He hacked and slashed with his chainsword, pushing the aliens back, but their numbers weren’t thinning. The eldar had lured them into this trap and their only way out was by forming an organised withdrawal past the Vindicator, but first they would need to regroup and cover each other.

He unclipped a grenade from the mag-lock at his waist and primed the fuse. While fending off the aliens with his chainsword, pushing the blade into their faces, blood splattering, he lobbed the grenade in an overarm throw. Amatius hoped it would cause enough damage in the close confines to confuse the enemy.

With a crack of releasing pressure the grenade detonated. Body parts and blood flew through the air in deep crimson droplets, decorating the scene in a macabre hue. The remaining eldar hissed and wheeled on the spot, retreating further into the church.

Amatius signalled to his men to regroup on his position, but before they could respond he rushed to where Portius lay. The Space Marine was a ruined mess where he had fallen, breaking a pew in half as it collapsed underneath his weight. The sergeant checked for life signs, but there were none. He sighed and placed the warriors weapon on his chest, before clasping Portius’s lifeless hands around the hilt.

He looked up at his men, but only Caius and Praxis stood by him.

‘Where are the others?’ he asked, before standing to look for himself.

As Amatius gained a view of the cathedral nave, he saw Malius walking away in the direction the eldar fled, his bolter relaxed in his gauntlet down by his side.

‘Malius, what are you doing? Regroup!’ he shouted after his brother.

The Ultramarine didn’t respond, but kept walking as the sound of the Vindicator revving it’s engines drowned out the Sergeant’s protests.

Malius’s armour-mounted speaker elicited a hiss followed by a deep, resonant voice Amatius didn’t recognise.

‘Not Malius.’ He paused in his tracks and looked back, deep green-tinted lenses boring into his sergeant’s skull. ‘I am Alpharius.’ he said as the next wave of eldar warriors pushed past him, like a tide around rocks. Splinter rifles spat their charges once more.

The last sound that Sergeant Amatius of the Ultramarines 6th Company heard was the deep rumble of a shell exploding as the traitorous Vindicator finally lowered its aim.

Continue reading

Advertisements

Taking the Scenic Route

It’s mad that this is my first blog post of 2014, but then the year has started off massively busy. My New Year’s resolution was to write every day, which so far I have managed, even if only a few words, or I have done some editing. This worked out pretty well until I realised that I had a week to paint an army for a tournament in Nottingham next weekend. Life is about challenges right?

That’s kind of what this blog is about. I haven’t done any proper writing in the last few days because I’ve been knee deep in paint. I also felt that I needed to type up the writing we did in class this week as, once again, I didn’t feel like reading it out in class. (Turns out someone wrote a similar story to me, but did it better – such is life!) It’s also, partly, what the title is about; taking the scenic route to finishing my tasks for this week.

This week we had the external examiner, Carol Clewlow (I had to research that spelling!) who is a novelist in her own right, come in and talk to us. At first it seemed as if she would just talk us through the assignment, but that was only a brief introduction. What followed from that was a very interesting workshop about editing and scenes. We discussed the importance of bridging scenes – just getting a character where they need to be without boring the reader – and crucial scenes – where the detail is included – and their differences. Carol also talked about how it was quite often a shame that a scene was used as a bridging scene when it had the potential for some much more.

I just realised I’ve been typing this in silence without music. Sometimes when you get in the flow that just happens, other times I need music to help me concentrate. If you’re a writer, what do you write to? I tend to favour soundtracks as I find I often end up following lyrics if I listen to anything else. They also help me imagine the drama. I think today’s choice is Game of Thrones season 2, though it’s now making me want to watch it.

Carol gave us a bridging scene:

We left home at 6.30. Not long after turning on to the motorway we hit an accident with a long tailback. A wrecked car was still on its roof as we passed. Despite this we managed to reach dover by late afternoon and by evening we were in France.

We discussed that this scene has so much potential for detail which could add to the story. So, Carol gave us a task, turn this scene into a crucial scene. What follows is what I wrote in that task and also a later edit where she asked us to find that one part that needed more. Rather than splitting it in to two of what is essentially the same thing, I give you the finished version (I may also have cheated and added more as I typed it up – oops!):

We left home at 6.30 in a hurry to put everything into the car. The car screeched as the wheels spun off the driveway under the heavy way and we were away. Not long after hitting the motorway we hit an accident with a long tailback. It wasn’t uncommon given the circumstances. Everyone was in a rush to get away and rushing made people careless. A wrecked car was still on its roof as we passed, glass smashed across the carriageway. The poor people were still trapped inside the crumpled mess of the vehicle. The incessant cacophony of beeping horns wasn’t helping and there was no sign of the emergency services. They had enough to do right now. they would have a job getting through this crowd in time. The victims weren’t worth worrying about. No one could help them now, it was every man for himself.

Despite the crush we still managed to travel the 60 miles from Bromley to Dover by late afternoon. It’s amazing that even in an emergency most Brits wouldn’t drive on the hard shoulder. Its against the rules! But who needed rules now? The port got pretty desperate and fights were breaking out everywhere as we snuck our small car onto the ferry. By evening we were in France, a bit of money changing hands could get you anywhere. The badge didn’t hurt, but showing that around everywhere would raise too many questions. It’s a shame the ferry wasn’t going further, but I didn’t have that much money.

The crossing went relatively calmly, once people were onboard the hysteria had died down.

Driving down the ramp into the yellow ramps lights of Calais, I breathed a sigh of relief and thought about those trapped at home. Poor old Britain. For now though, we were safe.

 

Some of the group decided to completely change the original scene we were given, but I saw this more of an editing exercise. So what you can see here is a typical example of how I might edit. I’ll take a piece I have written and see if I can embellish the sentences that are already there. Sometimes I may need to take out a superfluous word and others I may need to alter the tense slightly, but as the scene we were given was already quite tight I didn’t feel any need to.

My scene could probably be edited further, but then isn’t that true of everything?

On another note, as anyone noticed that no one really talks on Facebook anymore? All that appears on my news feed is people sharing links to videos and various surveys that tell you which character from that poor remake of  that dodgy sci-fi film you are most like. What happened to people typing and having conversations, you know, social networking? Maybe it’s just my Facebook, but I was curious if anyone else had noticed a similar trend?

On that perfectly 1000 word count note, I shall leave you.

Once again, thanks for reading and any suggestions, comments or thoughts are welcome.

 

World Book Night – The Enginarium

Okay so I haven’t posted a blog in a very long time. (I will blog about that soon, trust me!)

 

Today however is World Book Day, a celebration of reading and a day to try and bring the joy of reading to those who haven’t yet fallen in love with it. So what better time than to post a story of my own?

I give you “The Enginarium”, which is a story idea I had a while ago, but one thing or another (a couple of other stories!) has kept me from it. This is the first Warhammer 40,000 story I’ve posted in a while. I think it’s a bit different but I really liked the idea.

 

It’s only a short one, so it won’t take long to read, but I hope you enjoy it. Happy Reading!

N.B. I think the formatting might be a bit odd! (Does anyone know how to justify on here?)

 

The Enginarium

Michael J. Hollows

Bryen was just a man, an ordinary man, but unlike the other ordinary men surrounding him he was a thinker. Every day, as he toiled in his sweltering metal prison, he became lost in thought. No matter how hard he was pushed his mind always drifted back to his thoughts.

He had been labelled a criminal. Though he was not much of a criminal. But that was how he had come to be here, in this hell. He was not as hard as some of the men, built of muscle and scar tissue; professional criminals that now fed the fuel to the great engines. Or as hard as the men that led these criminals to work on the end of harsh metal-barbed leashes.

He had killed, once. That was all it had taken to drag him from his home, from his wife and children. Some of the men led here had killed multiple times, some were worse.

I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but what choice did I have?

The man had entered his hab and attacked his family, desperately looking for something to loot. Bryen had defended himself with the only thing he had available, a knife.

He had no idea that a man could bleed so much. The thought of it brought his reverie to a shuddering halt as he shook his head, his metal collar rattling in the motion. He didn’t like to think of the expression on the intruder’s face as he had stabbed the knife into his gut. Bryan hadn’t meant to kill the man. He wasn’t a murderer.

That day his life had become a living hell, dragged off to join the thousands of indentured workers now toiling in the heat around him. In the great depths of vessels across the wide Imperium, untold billions of workers broke their backs feeding the engines that powered these great space-faring machines. Without them the human race would be confined to their planets and perhaps would never have left the ancient home world, Terra.

The slaver cracked his electro-whip and with a sharp tang of pain brought Bryan back out of his thoughts. Lifting the heavy shovel, he resumed turning fuel in to the great engine. When the fuel landed in the fire the heat cascaded, stinging his skin and adding to the pain. As the slaver moved on down the rank upon rank of indentured workers Bryan mused again on the time when he had first come here.

At first the heat from the incendiary fires had been overwhelming, the pain from the endless toil unbearable. But in time his perception of both had dimmed to become only a stark reminder that he was still alive and in hell. He just wanted it to end like many of the others he had spoken to, in broken snatches of conversation amongst the enginarium. There was no change of shift, the constant toil and pain was their punishment. They had paid their price and worked endlessly in service of the Emperor. The pain was nothing anymore. Bryan just wanted to die.

Again the electro-whip slashed across his back, breaking his thoughts and reminding him that pain could still exist, no matter how dull his senses. Bitterly he thought: if it is the last thing I do, I will watch that bastard slaver die. I will watch his expression as I use his cruelty against him.

The crack of the whip seemed to speed up, becoming a staccato growl. But thankfully the slaver had moved on. The electro-whip was dealing its damage to some other poor fools who had caught the slaver’s withering attention.

Bryan noticed the pitch of the whip had changed with it.

No…not the whip…this is something else.

Small explosions sprayed across the decking, blowing chunks out of the machinery and throwing them about the enginarium. Thankfully, none fell on the precious engine-core, any damage would surely kill them all.

Most of the indentured workers stood where they were, dumfounded. Their spirit so downtrodden and broken that the instinct to flee had been beaten out of them. Bryan, quicker on the uptake than most, dived behind the bulkhead near his workstation.

Death has come for me at last.

His thought had escaped as a whisper through his cracked and broken lips.

The slaver idiotically lumbered closer to the sound of gunfire, trying to locate their attackers. But before he could take more than a few unsteady, broken steps his body jerked spasmodically. Flesh and bone blew off in messy lumps that splattered against the decking, before the corpse fell to the ground with a metallic clang.

Bryan wouldn’t have his vengeance after all as he noticed the grim expression on the slaver’s face, but at least the cruel beast of a man was finally dead.

As the life fell from the slaver’s eyes Bryan noticed his opportunity. Scrabbling on his hands and knees, he used his ebbing strength to reach out and remove the lasgun strapped to the slaver’s back. It was a short thing, designed for use aboard ship and as he raised it the thin stock barely reached his shoulder. The weight and feel of the weapon was unfamiliar to Bryan, he had never held a gun before. But he had sat for hours absent-mindedly watching the local planetary defence troops drill and he was fairly confident he knew how one worked. Throne, that was a long time ago.

As the gunfire swung around again, peppering the metalwork, he dropped behind another bulkhead nearer to the dead slaver. The blood pooled around his feet and soaked the cheap cloth of his jumpsuit, but that was the least of his problems. Death had finally come for him, but he wouldn’t take it lightly. He would die fighting and cover would be his best hope.

The sound of clanking footfalls grew closer as the attackers pressed in to the enginarium. Each footstep sounded calm and steady, gradually taking up space rather than rushing in to overwhelm the workers. Gigantic, dark shadows loomed over the workspace where Bryan crouched. The blackness only broken by the muzzle flare of weapons fire.

As he sat cowering in the crevice of the machinery an armoured giant came out of the shadows. Metal boots clanged on the decking in patient footsteps as the giant warrior moved its weapon around before placing precise shots in to the fleeing workers. Their screams of misery added to the wail of sounds around Bryan, threatening to overwhelm his senses.

He gasped as he caught sight of the warrior. It was a vision of death incarnate. It was an angel of death come forth from the stories he had been told as a child. A Space Marine, the Emperor’s finest warriors and sons. But what was it doing here, it wasn’t what Bryan had imagined in his dreams or nightmares.

Something is wrong.

The stories had told of the Emperor’s sons turning from the light of the Imperium and embracing fouler, crueller gods. But this warrior was the very epitome of the Imperium, proud and tall, decked in yellow with stylised Aquilas showing on all parts of its armour. A black hand closed in a righteous fist on a pure white disc decorated the warriors great shoulder pad.

As the barrel of the boltgun lowered and came in to angle with Bryan’s face, he knew he had been duped. His years of toil in the enginarium had been a lie, this was no ship of the Imperium.

I am the enemy.

The slowly dawning thought only added to his torment. He had unwittingly served the forces of the arch-enemy and their cruel masters. It was a crueller punishment than he had ever imagined.

All my pain and suffering has been for naught.

That was the last thought that rushed through the synapses of Bryan’s brain as the mass-reactive shell dismembered his body, leaving his bloody, headless corpse forgotten in the crevice of the enginarium.

Fallen Angel

I was recently having a chat with a friend of mine. We talked about a gaming group we have set up and how we were going to integrate some role-playing elements in to it. He told me of a character he had come up with for a game of Deathwatch; a black shield from an unknown chapter that had no recollection of his past. The day after I wrote a few notes about this character and came up with this little background story for him. I hope you like.

Continue reading

The Swordsman

Two blogs today? Oh goody! And this one actually has a story in it! Hurrah! No more endless ramblings of the insane. Well actually there are some quite insane parts in it…nevermind eh!

This is a story that I came up with and sent off to the Black Library in the first of their submission windows that I was truly aware of. It includes a certain well known character that they wanted a story for, only I decided to tell the story from the perspective of the other side. Lets see if you can guess who that character is? (answers on a stamped addressed postcard…or a comment, your choice). As you’ve probably guessed, I didn’t hear anything back from them regarding this story. I didn’t expect to, it was a good plot, in my honest opinion, but rather than writing 1000 words of flowing sample text I naively wrote several short samples of the scenes which I was going to include which amounted to approximately 1000 words. However I still like the plot and it’s something that I would like to work on and refine and maybe one day have published, if I get lucky.

I’ve included the Summary I sent to them to start off with so you get a basic feel for the story. I would include the synopsis I wrote, but I don’t want to give too much away. The following is the sample text I sent them, along with some better, more recent additions. Let me know what you think and if you can guess who that famous character is!

Without further ado, The Swordsman:

Summary

 

The Swordsman is a lieutenant in the venerated Albun Hussars Imperial Guard regiment. He considers himself the finest Swordsman in the guard, but constantly reprimanded and mocked for his selfish attitude and disregard for his orders he still has something to prove. On the world of Comorran he will face his greatest challenge yet. In the network of trenches The Swordsman will battle against the forces of Chaos, the Emperor’s Children Renegade Space Marines and their greatest champion. Will this be his making or his downfall?

Sample Text

 

He loathed the way the others talked about him, he was no child, he was a veteran of many battles with the Albun guard. He could decide which was the best course of action, when to stand back and wait for the enemy to come and when to make sure they paid for their heresy.

He drew his power sword, a family heirloom, and began to sharpen it as he always did in these moments of anger. It helped to calm and settle him for the oncoming battle. Letting them get inside his mind was foolish and would probably end up getting him killed. He just had to concentrate of what he did best. He would prove all his doubters wrong sooner or later.

A wailing siren brought him out of his inner turmoil and as soon as he registered what it meant he began collecting his armour jacket and weapons. He would need them for what was about to come. The siren was a warning to all members of the Albun Hussars, that an attack was imminent. They would all need to man their stations and await the inevitable death and destruction any attack presaged.

His small platoon command squadron was waiting for him as he arrived at their designated trench board.

 

The enemy were now pouring in to the trench system in numbers. Those tasked with holding the end trenches failing in their given duty. There was nothing he could do except keep firing and The Swordsman added to the weight of fire with the snap of his own laspistol. He kept firing, change clip, fire again at wave after wave of horrific face masks all of a different grotesque image. Some of the icons even making him head sick and forcing him to look away.

Something would have to be done and quickly in order to stymie the tide. The enemy could not be allowed to gain a foothold in the trench system or they were all dead.

He glanced around the trenches taking in the individual battles that were taking place and looking for the best place to add his forces to. Furthest to his right the fighting was heaviest and amongst the guardsmen desperately fighting for their lives by clash of bayonet and blade was a group of black armoured traitor marines. The lieutenant quickly made up his mind. This would be the best place to strike. The traitor guard would be looking to their superhuman allies for leadership and confidence. If his platoon could hurt them in some way then perhaps they could change the tide of the battle.

With a quick barked order to those around him, The Swordsman led his platoon along the trench. Periodically, stragglers from the main enemy force would be encountered along the trench and the men of the Albun guard would dispatch these with a quick salvo from their lasguns or a bayonet thrust.

As The Swordsmen gained ground on the traitor marines he drew his sword from the scabbard at his waist with a sharp scrape of metal on metal and levelled it at the figure he assumed was their leader. As the champion of the black clad warriors saw this act of defiance he licked the burnt lips of his ritually scarred face and grinned in acceptance.

 

The traitor was a swordsman in his own right. The forms he made, precise and practiced with years of experience. A thrust here, a feint, a backwards step there. Keeping the opponent occupied and allowing them a confidence while staying completely in control. Almost as if it were a game. Every movement fluid and accurate with an ease born of confidence. Such supreme confidence it permeated his very being. The figure in black was grinning, each kill becoming quicker and quicker.

 

Human swordsmen met superhuman champion in a clash of blades. Sparks flew as the two powerful fields encompassing these ancient weapons tried to occupy the same space. The traitor marine was immensely powerful and The Swordsman struggled as blow after blow landed on his own power sword, feinting from side to side and trying to return a blow against the champion. The leering scarred face would not stop laughing in an effort to put him off and it was all he could do to concentrate on the battle at hand. Each blow he blocked with his power sword sucked more energy from his reserves and he already knew he was flagging. The duel had only been taking place for a few moments but it already felt like a lifetime to the lieutenant. He would have to do something quick in order to change his luck, or this superhuman monster would take his life and lead these forces in to the heart of Imperial lines.

He fainted to the side again in an effort to avoid a killing blow and launched one last desperate attack at the chaos champion. Amazingly the lunge connected in the waist of his enemy cutting through the armour with ease and splashing a spray of bright red blood over his weapon and body armour.  The disfigured face of his enemy still laughed and it was almost as if the heretic was enjoying the pain and bloodshed.

With this sudden boost of confidence and in disgust The Swordsman lunged again, splitting armour and carving the torso of the traitorous marine in two.

The face was no longer laughing.

 

Juran hated sentry duty, it was cold, wet and miserable and what was worse, he had to sit still and keep watch, any shift of movement might alert the enemy and get him killed. This only added to the Emperor forsaken discomfort of this wet and muddy planet. He would rather be in the trench waiting to go over the top than be sat here waiting for the next poor soul to take over sentry duty. At least then he could move his aching, atrophying muscles.

There, a faint glimmer of…what…a piece of enemy armour, weaponry? No, it was just his mind playing tricks on him, eager for something to pierce the unending boredom of keeping watch over the enemy’s lines.

A tinkling of armour and a crunch in the dirt drew his attention behind him with a start.

‘Oh, it’s only you, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that? I could have shot you.’

The figure said nothing and so Juran returned to his duty, looking out over no-mans land to spot any potential movement of the enemy.

He assumed his comrade had moved on, perhaps to the latrine to relieve himself until a shuffling sound behind him roused him again. There was only time to shift a little in his seat before a cold cramping sensation in his gut stopped him in his tracks. Looking down he could the tip of a sword glinting in the moonlight emerging from the middle of his stomach. Juran barely had time to utter a grunt of pain before the laughing figure behind him slit his throat and the last of his life bled in to the muddy ground.

 Loren was the night shift orderly. He preferred this shift as it was calmer, easier. The quiet hours of the night gave him all the time he needed to think, to ponder while he went about the steady routine of his work.

The wounded soldiers rested peacefully in the medical cots behind him, accompanied by the soft sound of snoring. Occasionally the grunted sounds of discomfort from injuries broke the peacefulness of the room. Despite being protected from the desperate cold outside the infirmary, there was a definite chill in the ear tonight.

Loren pulled the thick fur-lined collar of his coat up around his neck to keep the cold out, it didn’t normally affect him this badly but tonight was unusual.  He had a notion of movement behind him. He dismissed it readily, probably just one of the wounded soldiers rolling in their sleep, dreaming.

 

Existence is Futile?

Two blogs in as many days?! I know, I was just saying the same thing to myself. I don’t quite believe it either.

This is all part of my plan to, on my days off, get up as early as my body will allow, make a big cup of coffee (white, one sugar please) and spend at least an hour writing. So once again today I have been leafing through my notebook and typing stuff up. I like to do it this way as to me it gets at least one edit before it has even been typed up. From what I write in the notepad which can often be rushed, illegible and sometimes a bit basic, I can take that and refine it in to something better via a keyboard. Although there is some stuff in that notepad that I ain’t lettin’ no one see! Nuhuh!

So as of now, I almost have 2000 words for the ‘Project Xenos’ story, some of which I posted on here a short while ago (you can search for it under that title). And that is before I have even begun to flesh out the story. I aim for that to be my first proper short story rather than just a 1000 word short. I know for a fact I still have some parts for it later in my notepad, so you will see more from that story soon I hope.

Today’s story allows me to get a little arty-farty and philosophical, which is something I don’t tend to do. That is unless I have been plied with alcohol (make mine a red wine, scotch or cider please, ta!). This is where the title comes from. You can work so hard to achieve, get so absorbed in that work that you can forget the little things in life, then one day, one small act or one mistake can destroy it all. I don’t know where I am going to use this little scene but I really like what it portrayed. I’m sure it will come in handy somewhere.

Also, for those of you getting your A Level results today (though you are probably to busy to read this crap!); don’t worry if you don’t get what you expected. Sure it’s a great feeling to achieve and get brilliant results and it can open doors. But A levels are not the be all and end all of your life. I only managed to achieve one A level in Physics (thanks to having ME and my Chemistry teacher thinking it was better for me to dedicate my time to Biology that I was failing miserably rather than Chemistry where I was ahead of the rest of the class – see, I’m still making excuses!), I still got a degree, now I am a college/university lecturer, teaching sound engineering to degree students. So in short, you can achieve whatever you want to achieve if you put your mind to it, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t. You have the power to shape your own destiny, even if the fates can be exceptionally cruel at times.

 

Anyway, I digress, enough of that. Here is today’s story (Once again thanks for reading and I truly value any feedback):

 

Hector Lumus was a scribe, he was an exceptional scribe, the most efficient and well respected in the sector. Many other adepts came to him for the quality of his work. So much so that he was always busy with one thing or another. Many scrolls and slates were stacked in ordered piles on his workstation waiting to be started.

So busy that he did not notice the creeping, dark shape behind him.

The kill stroke was so quick that he did not even register his own death until he lay on the ground, his own blood pooling around him, the once neat ordered piles of dataslates now strewn about.

He stared up at the face of his killer, wondering briefly what he had done to deserve this pain, he had always worked hard. That grizzled evil face was the last thing he would ever see as the light faded from his eyes.

Burning Death

Hello readers.

 

It has been a while since I have posted anything! I’ve been busy attempting to have a holiday, flat-hunting and many other distractions that have meant I haven’t put pen to paper in a while. But as ever ideas have been rolling around my head asking, begging, to be written down.

I recently started work on an Imperial Fist army as part of a tale of gamers style system. These stoic yellow armoured bastards have inspired me to write a story about them, especially as they never really seem to be covered much in the Black Library catalogue. There was one story entitled ‘Sons Of Dorn’, but that didn’t seem to get anywhere and the author has since, seemingly, disappeared. So I wanted to build a character for them in the 41st millenium and see what I could do. What follows is a started point for the story that I adapted from another idea I had scribbled down. It seemed to fit how I wanted the story to start. The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that there is no mention of Imperial Fists in the text, they will come, I assure you. If you send a distress signal desperately foretelling the end times of your world, they will come.

 

So without further ramblings, here you go…once again I hope you enjoy and welcome any feedback. (Does anyone else find that the right shift is a complete and utter bitch? Or is it just my flailing digits?)

Continue reading