Saturday, 19 February 2011

Random airship thing

I haven't wrtten anyhting of note for ages.
So when this randomly popped into my head, I jumped at the chance to get it down.

It's rough, with no actually arc, just a collection of descriptions, but ateast it's original.

Untitled airship passage.

Annabelle liked to watch airships coming in to port.

The elaborate dance weaved by the large cargo dirigibles and smaller transport zeppelins always fascinated her, the sight of them being hauled into rest by the dock anchor machines one that couldn't help by inspire awe in the young girl.

This morning a huge cargo ship, the letters painted in cloudspeak across it's low-slung transportation netting proclaiming it as the Moray, was coming into port. The airship's envelopes creaked and groaned as the gas withing them was slowly released to match the altitude of the dock, huge gusts of it buffeting the metal deck beneath the flying machine.

Deckhands and port staff called to each other over the throaty roar of the airship's engines, the constant throb of the their huge propellors adding to the noise. The Moray's anchor cables were being throw to the port workers, to allow them to begin the process of hauling the airship into position.

Annabelle leaned against the railing of the lighthouse's observation deck, closing her eyes as she breathed in the heady scent of diesel that filled the air, a smile on her lips. Today was going to be a good day, she could feel it.

The gruff voice of Master Burnett brought her back to reality. "Get back to work! That lamp isn't going to clean itself!" he shouted over the roar of the Moray's engines.

Tuesday, 30 November 2010

Original Fantasy Work

I have been told that I should try and get away from the crutch of Black Library and fan fiction, something that I agree with.

Though I enjoy writing fan fiction, I do think that it has become too easy to fall into simply writing safe little stories about Astartes shooting daemons.

It's fun, but I don't think it is testing me enough.

So I have decided to try and develop my own world and background in which to write and play.

Work on all my fan fiction related projects is stopping for a while, as I develop this new original fantasy. It is a shame, as my Fallen Heresy appears to be picking up some new readers, and Vengeance had some recent comments, but I feel that I need to leave the shelter of fan fiction for a while and try something new.

Good luck me!

I won!

Its slightly old news, but my "The Trench" won the competition it was entered in to.

Go me!

Monday, 18 October 2010

Warhammer-Horror Comp Entry - "The Trench"

This is my entry for the above mentioned forum competition at my "home" fan fiction forum, the Black Library Bolthole

Its 1500 word exactly, which is the upper limit of the competition.

I hope you like it!

“Do you even know where the frutt we are, Sarge?”

Finnegan looked round wearily at Texas, not for the first time thinking about punching the guardsman in the face. “Why don’t you shut the frutt up, trooper,” he ordered, before turning to Bell, who was crouched beside him consulting a locator data-slate. “So,” Finnegan asked, “Where are we?”

“I dunno, Sarge,” replied Bell, “According to the map, this trench isn’t even supposed to be here.”

Finnegan sighed then spat into the mud that sucked at his boots. Throne damned command, always supplying bad Intel. “Right then lads, lets find a way outta,” the sergeant ordered before heading off, his men falling in behind as they trudged along the trench.

Finnegan and his squad had managed to get stuck in this throne damned trench, having lost their bearings in the fog of war that had wreathed the battlefield as both sides had launched stinging gas and deafening barrages of artillery. They had been comparatively lucky, with five of them surviving the bombardment and poison gas, only to then be trapped after diving into the cover provided by the dugout.

Scanning the walls of the trench for a ladder or steps by which to exit, Finnegan silently cursed his luck. Out of the frying pan into the frutting dung trough, he mused, keeping an eye out for hiding heretics. If his squad had taken cover in this trench, then so could the enemy.

“Watch out for those frutting..” Finnegan started to say before noticing his men had fallen behind., the sergeant turning around to find the four other men standing a short distance away. Growling irritably, Finnegan strode towards his squad, the men clustered with Hixx at their centre, the guardsman hidden from view by the other troopers.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Finnegan as he approached, his squad nor responding to the barked question. Angrily, he shoved Holden and Bell aside roughly, the two men parting without resistance, allowing Finnegan to see the dreadful act being committed in their midst.

Hixx was gnawing at his fingers, chewing through their calloused tips with obvious relish. Pausing for a moment, he looked up at the shocked Finnegan, smiling through the wash of blood that covered his stubbled chin before carrying on with his frightful actions.

“What in Terra’s name…” Finnegan murmured, watching as Hixx began to flail his hands, the deranged guardsman splashing his blood over the trench’s bottom and walls with each wild swing of his arms., gibbering excitedly as he painted the mud with his blood.

Falling to his knees, Hixx raised his right wrist to his blood-rimmed mouth, pausing before looking at his sergeant with wild eyes. “For him,” he said, then bit deep, his teeth meeting with an audible crunch as they tore through ligaments and opened up the artery beneath. With savage shakes of his head, Hixx chewed open his right wrist before spiting a mouthful of flesh and muscle at Finnegan’s boots. “It’s all for him,” he gurgled through a mouthful of bright crimson blood before trying to chew through his other wrist.

Finnegan hurled himself forwards, grabbing hold of Hixx’s forearm to stop him from maiming himself further, amazed at the unbelievable strength Hixx was displaying.

Bell, Holden and Texas stood and watched the struggle, none of them compelled to help, in spite of their sergeant’s predicament. Instead, each found himself compelled by malevolence edicts that tugged at their very souls.

Bell drew his knife and cut through the right breast of his uniform, tearing the thick mud-caked fabric open to expose his chest. Taking hold of his hair-rimmed nipple, the guardsman started to cut, hacking through meat and muscle with orgasmic whimpers spilling from his lips. With a joyous cry, Bell lifted his prize high, weeping tears of elation at the bloody clump of skin and gristle that was pinched between his fingers.

Holden’s face became a riot of change, the muscle and bone beneath his features writhing impossibly as the guardsman crowed in elation at the obscene transformation taking hold of him. Ripping at his flak jacket, Holden exposed his undulating torso. He touched the squirming mass that had once been his upper body, murmuring affectionately as he stroked the mass of screaming faces that pressed through his abdomen like malevolent children bawling for liberation.

Falling to his knees, Texas clamped a hand over his mouth against the vomit that began to rise from his suddenly tortured stomach, the wave of rancid bile burning his lips before spilling between his fingers in sluggish gushes. Clusters of boils and sores began to swell from where the sticky vomit contacted Texas’s skin, the corruption spreading across the guardsman’s flesh at a fearsome pace and turning it to a rancid pulp that hung from protesting bones.

Finnegan and Hixx sprawled onto the floor, the guardsmen grunting as they thrashing about in mud, jockeying for control with wild punches.

Finnegan coming out on top with the roaring Hixx pinned beneath him. “Will you frutting calm down!” the sergeant yelled, “Get a hold of yourself!”

Snarling, Hixx butted Finnegan in the jaw, loosening the sergeant’s teeth with the savage blow.

Yelping in pain, Finnegan punched Hixx hard in the throat, stunning the other man with the strike and granting himself a moment of respite. Panting, he pulled out his combat knife, holding the edge against Hixx’s throat as he warned, “Stop fighting me, Hixx, or I swear-“

Before Finnegan could finish, Hixx cut open his own throat on the other man’s knife, thrashing his head from side to side to slash open his neck down to the bone, laughing insanely up to the moment the blade severed his vocal cords.

Crying out in disgust, Finnegan threw himself off of Hixx, appalled at what had just happened. He turned to the other members of his squad, finding them mad and corrupted, their flesh and minds no longer their own, each one lost to their own private blissful torment.

“What the frutt?” cried Finnegan, backing away from the raging members of his former squad with faltering steps towards the wall of the trench. He had to get away from the nightmarish beings that had once been his men but were now obscene creatures that gibbered and cavorted before him in the mud. Turning, Finnegan scrambled for a handhold in the side of the dugout, his fingers sinking fruitlessly into the wet surface. Frantically, he dug at the wall of muck, screaming for salvation, as his actions did nothing but pull handfuls of filthy earth from the side of the trench. Suddenly, Finnegan’s questing fingers found something solid, and he pulled hard on the hidden object, hoping to use it as a handhold in his attempt to escape, snarling in annoyance as he felt it shift under his weight. Finnegan slid back into the trench, still clutching his intended climbing support. He looked down at the thing held in his mud-caked grasp.

It was a skull, it’s bleach-white forehead engraved with an eight-pointed star.

“Oh, frutt me,” cursed Finnegan, hurling the skull away before crossing his hands in the sign of the Aquilla on his chest. “Emperor save me, Emperor guard me,” he prayed as he finally realised the danger he was in. This was an enemy trench, abandoned as the loyalist front line had advanced across the battlefield.

As Finnegan began to wail in fear, the walls of the trench heaved, the blood-soaked mud vomiting forth half-rotted corpses clad in torn guardsmen uniforms, the faces of the abominations hidden behind the aged rubber of the gasmasks each wore. The ousted cadavers began to heave themselves from the sucking muck, their gnarled fingers digging furrows in the muddy ground of the trench as the mass of animated dead hauled their decayed forms towards Finnegan.

“Throne save me,” the guardsman whimpered, stumbling backwards away from the horde and raising his lasgun, taking aim at the closest monstrosity, his hands shaking in dread. Before he could fire, hands erupted from the bottom of the trench beneath Finnegan, seizing his legs and tripping him.

Finnegan landed painfully on his back, lasgun flying from his fingers, the weapon falling amongst the rubble lining the trench. Sobbing, he scrabbled amongst the debris, kicking out at the hands tugging on his legs as he searched for his lost lasgun. He felt his blows strike true, but there was no let up in the attack. He was held fast by the steely fingers clutching at his ankles.

“…Sarge…” a guttural voice said above him, “Don’t fight it, Sarge... Don’t fight it.”

Finnegan looked up, recognizing the features of Texas, though the guardsman’s face was but a warped facsimile, his cheeks sunken and pitted with decay, the eyes that writhed within their deep sockets flooded with blood and pus.

“Why don’t you… stay with us… in… the trench, Sarge…”, the thing that had been Texas gargled through a mouth full of stinking bile. “It’s much… safer… in here.”

Finnegan screamed.

Thursday, 7 October 2010


This piece was originally posted on the Black Library forums, and met with some success.

It was my first 40k piece, and I was very nervous about writing it. So I picked a Space Marine Chapter that had little canon and background, so if I made a mistake I wouldnt get jumped on so hard lol. I spent a long time trying to research the whole greek legend of Antaeus, and as such a lot of characters have mythical names and appearances, some of which goes against established canon and behaviour.

This version is the original, and is as such largely unedited and unchecked. There are probably massive errors, both style wise and technical, but I feel that it serves as an example of my development.

There are sections missing, such as the datalog entry that originally opened the piece, due to me being stupid and only writing them straight onto the forum and not saving.

As the forum has now been shut down, it serves me right.

Click here to find the story thread on the Black Library Bolthole, where all the cool kids hang out

Wednesday, 22 September 2010

Hope without Hope - 40K/IG Short

I wrote this piece awhile ago to be added to a little collection of stories titled "Behind The Lines". Its a collection, of three so far, 40K shorts set, literally, behind the lines of the IG war machine. I had the idea about writing stuff with the medics, cooks, clean up crews and munition staff etc, and trying to improve my skills by writing about stuff other the Space Marines and explosions.

This one, Hope without Hope, was actually the first I started writing, but the last to be included, as I found my skills lacking at the time to finish it. I finshed WAGS and The Reality Of War, which Im in the process of reediting, first.

Please to Enjoy

Irene sat and stared at pict-screen, looking at though not seeing the soap opera being displayed on the holo-monitor, her weary eyes unfocused and blank.

As the actor and actress on screen professed their love for each other, their words artificial and unrealistic, the tired woman watching the scripted pantomime thought how her world was so unlike the happy and ideal images currently flickering before her eyes.

Her existence did not consist of poolside parties and lingering kisses on sun kissed beaches beneath the triple moons of some distant planet.

Long agonising waits filled Irene’s life, as she spent each day unsure if the next knock on the habs door was Jinn returning or a clerk with a data-slate waiting to tell her that her husband wasn’t coming home.

A gentle fluttering in Irene’s belly made the woman jump, the movement reminding her of the times between the heartache.

Irene stroked her fledgling pregnancy bump, quietly shushing the young foetus currently playing kickball in her womb.

She remembered the exact night she had gotten her pregnant, happy memory making her smile.

Jinn had returned from a lengthy op, covered in mud and with his left arm coated in a bulky anti-bac sheath, having recently been administered to by the regiment’s hospital compound.

He had swept Irene up in his arms and carried her to the kitchen table, pushing plates and cutlery hurriedly aside before laying his giggling wife on the surface.

They had made love amongst the debris of that nights meal, Irene not giving a second thought to the matter as Jinn had kissed her face and breasts, telling her over and over again how much he loved her, his sweet engill, unconsciously slipping in to their planet’s native tongue as passion had over taken him.

Irene had clutched her husband against her heaving bosom, breathlessly whispering in his ear as the warmth of satisfaction had flooded through her.

Always come back to me, my sweet elskuleg

Even as Irene had sighed the words against Jinn’s neck, in her heart she had known it would be a promise he could never keep.

Each new day in the service of the Guard brought with it another conflict, and the very real chance that Jinn would fall while defending the Imperium from it’s enemies.

Cupping the gentle swell of her belly, Irene thought once more about the harsh galaxy her infant would be born to, hoping against hope that she could provide some protection against the bitter night.

There was a knock on the hab's entrance, a single firm thump that made Irene start.

She rose from the sagging chair, her heart racing as she made her way to the locked door, praying to the emperor that it would be Jinn standing there, not an aide with a data-slate in hand.

Such is my lot, she thought. Such is the life of a trooper’s wife.

Saturday, 18 September 2010

If I knew you were comin' incomplete piece

The inspiration for this piece, depending if you know me in real life, may already be known to you. For those who don't...

I was sat at home, watching telly, when an advert for GREGGS, a pastry/sandwich shop chain, came on. The jingle for the advert "If I knew you were comin'" started a spark in my brain. It went *POP* woman wandering round a texas chainsaw style house with that music playing *POP*

I instantly started work, finding the track and playing it constantly as I tried to develop the piece.

After about a couple months, being unable to get further then the piece contained in this post, I put it to one side, a little disappointed about my lack of progress.

I realise now that I may have been trying to force it a little too much, trying to develop the idea faster then it wanted to be, or I was capable of developing it.

For that end Iam posting what I have, a segment of an unfinished story, so hopefully I will get jump started at some point and also, hopefully, so you reading it will also enjoy it.

It is one of my first non-fanfic pieces, and for that Iam proud of it. So, Please To Enjoy...

If I knew you were comin'
(Original Fiction Piece)

The screen door creaked on its hinges, opening slightly as Nikita placed the muzzle of her shotgun against it. The action released a stiff gust of fetid air from within the house, almost causing the young woman to gag as she slid the barrel of her weapon into the gap now present between the door and the frame.

Holding back the urge, Nikita pushed the door slowly, each groan made by its aged wood making her flinch as she used the long barrel of her shotgun to open the thin door. She kept the weapon pointed it to the gloom, wanting to keep the shotgun between her and whatever lurked in the derelict shadows within the farmhouse.

Slowly, placing her feet gently, Nikita stepped inside, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness as her nose fought against the stench of mould and rot in the air. As she waited, a woman’s voice singing, punctuated by the crackle and pop of an old record player’s speakers, began to reach her ears from deep within the house. It was a song she had heard before, one her gran had played while cooking in the kitchen when Nikita had been a little girl.

If I knew you were comin’ I’d’ve baked a cake, baked a cake, baked a cake
If I knew you were comin’ I’d’ve baked a cake
Howdya do, howdya do, howdya do

The sound of Grace Fields’ beautiful voice was disturbing when combined with the filth and grime that Nikita’s eyes were now able to pick out within the hallway. She could see stacks of boxes filling the space ahead, blocking any chance of her quietly advancing. Glancing to her left, Nikita noticed a door ajar, offering a possible way around the clutter. She slipped inside.

The kitchen was dimly lit, the newspaper duct-taped over the rooms windows all but plunging it into shadows. Only the thin pricks of sunlight poking through gaps in the layer of yellowed paper offered any brightness, though the respite from the gloom was itself was bitter sweet.

Every available countertop was littered with evidence of vile butchery; each one pilled with bloodied knifes and gore-clogged hacksaws, the severed body parts and mangled flesh scattered amongst the tools providing ample nourishment for the flies and maggots swarming upon the blood-splattered work surfaces.

The only clean area was the antique table upon which a gramophone was sat, the voice of Gracie Field’s feeding through the old speaker balanced beside it.

The rancid stench of spoiled meat caught in the back of Nikita’s throat, the stink brutal in its intensity. She bit against her bicep, unwilling to lower her shotgun in order to clamp a hand against the bile that suddenly rose in answer to the disgusting stink. Bitter vomit flooded the woman’s mouth, and she choked against it, forcing herself to swallow to clear her throat.

Blinking tears of effort, Nikita froze as her eyes catching a slight movement at the far side of the darkened kitchen.

A misshapen figure was hunched over with his naked back to her, the corded muscles beneath the sickly skin twisting and flexing as the deformed creature worked on some hidden task on the kitchen table in front of him.

Nikita stepped past the labouring record player, taking care not to bump against the sagging table supporting the heavy piece of equipment. She kept her eyes on the toiling monster, watching carefully for any reaction as she approached with her shotgun squarely aimed at his broad back.

As she neared the malformed man she caught sight of the product of his unpleasant labours, the depraved scene freezing Nikita in dread.

A body of a young woman lay ruined upon the filth-encrusted table. Crimson muscle was exposed to the air; the quick slicing of the boning knife held in the man’s gnarled fingers had skilfully stripped back the supple skin of the young woman. His vile actions had revealed the wet pink of skinned flesh, and even the bleached white of naked bones where he had sliced too deep in places. For the all the mutilation Nikita was still able to make out the woman’s identity.

Nikita braced her shotgun against her shoulder, aiming for the back of the butcher’s grey-haired head, tears beginning to well in her eyes at the thought of her beloved Lucy’s suffering.

The scratch of needle being lifted from the record player made Nikita start, even before a croak-edged voice asked behind her, “Have you come for supper, deary?”

Nikita spun at the voice, instinctively firing her shotgun at the stooped old woman behind her, catching the woman high in the chest.

The woman was punched from her feet, the force of the shotgun blast slamming her into the kitchen wall. She collapsed to the dirty tiles, spitting blood as she screamed, “Gregor! Help mother!”

Nikita pulled the trigger of her shotgun, bracing herself against the impending kick of the weapon’s recoil. The jolt never came, a dull click instead signalling an empty chamber. Desperately, Nikita pumped a fresh round into the weapon, cursing her stupidity as she prepared to fire again.

The creature took advantage of the pause, thrusting aside Nikita’s shotgun and grabbing for her neck with his bloody hands.