by greywulf
25/02/2011 in Warhammer 40K
“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.”
by Ironfist
20/02/2011 in Writing Guides
The great beauty of the English language is that it allows the expression of a concept in almost infinite different ways. Rarely is something outright incorrect, provided it adheres to the basic rules of grammar – even if you set the scene most rigorously, a dozen writers will probably express a statement in a dozen different ways. So it is that every author has an individual style, often unique enough to identify him in a sentence or two.
It is important to remember this when undertaking a study of subjective punctuation marks, because there may well be three or four different ways of writing each example which entirely circumvent the point. While we might customarily separate statements with full stops, different authors might choose to use commas, semicolons, conjunctions (‘joining words’, like “and” or “but”) or even fragment with more full stops depending on the effect they are trying to achieve.
At the end of the day though, it helps to know the “rules”, if only so you understand what it is that you are breaking!
by Ironfist
20/02/2011 in Writing Guides
The dash is often used in place of other exclamation marks (especially semicolons) by lazy authors who cannot be bothered to master the English language. However, it does have several legitimate uses which fill otherwise empty niches. Brackets are uncommon in fiction, but nonetheless are a tool to be mastered, particularly if you ever intend to write non-fiction!
by Ironfist
20/02/2011 in Writing Guides
The exclamation mark and question mark are both crucial punctuations without which our language would be vastly inferior. Although fairly simple in premise, it is surprising what people come up with when left to their own devices…
by Ironfist
20/02/2011 in Original
I sprint for the far side of the square, ducking behind the shattered remains of a vehicle. The sounds of pursuit are growing ever closer.
Not long now.
Of course, the final outcome is not in doubt. My mask cracked in the first moments of the assault, an unlucky ricochet. Since then I’ve been breathing a thin mix of scrubbed air and the soup of radioisotopes that comprises what’s left of the natural atmosphere in this part of the world. With the best medical care, I might survive a week – not that I’m going to have the chance.
I snap my rifle up, blinking to clear the sweat from my eyes. Across the square, something tall and unmistakably alien glitters softly. Three shots, the rifle banging painfully into my shoulder, draw a long squeal of agony. As soon as it falls, though, two more appear from the alleyway beyond. Damn it all to hell!
Something buzzes past my left shoulder and buries itself in the wall with a dull whump. Muscles shrieking, I throw myself aside and a heartbeat later the air is split by silent purple light. Chunks of masonry flail me.
Time to go. Firing blindly over the car, I lunge for the smooth-edged hole that has been carved in the building behind. Projectiles whine through the air, but high, and the cool shadows fold around me.
The clock in my mask marks 03:45 – less than half an hour since first contact. The noise of background fire is intermittent now, and fear rises like gorge in my throat. So quick. So complete our fall.
They came in-system on just three ships, so fast that the early warning sentinels barely had time to signal before they were blown out of space. Our fleet elements were way out of position, but apparently one heavy picket made contact at extreme range, half her crew crushed to death by the brutal g she was pulling. Chance in a million railgun strike must have compromised the re-entry integrity of one of the alien ships, because it broke off the descent. The rest of the picket’s crew joined their comrades a heartbeat later.
Once in atmosphere, our orbital defences couldn’t target them. Conventional weapons were too light to wound the hull of a deep space warship; hence the nukes – right over our own centre of population, a last act of mad desperation.
I don’t think they expected that. Only one of their ships emerged from the nuclear furnace, but it was one too many – and large enough to carry an entire army. Which, as it turns out, I think it must have.
We had seven hours between the perimeter sentinel signal and landfall. Mobilisation takes days, but the closest men to city armoury were kitted out on the double and sent to join the standing garrison in the defence of key points. I was still in the armoury when our nukes went off, so I was one of the lucky ones – at least I had a mask to start with.
The main door of this building leads back to the square, so I hit the stairs two at a time, legs screaming. I can’t remember how many rounds are left in the mag, damn it, but there’s no time to check. Another flight and I should be hitting the roof.
The hatch is locked but snaps open under a determined assault from my boot. Noises on the stairs below lend my actions frantic urgency, nameless alien fear rising like gorge in my throat.
The city, or what’s left of it, is a stunning sight. To the east and west fires rage in the pale dawn light, punctuated by gouts of harsh light where some kind of conflict is still being played out. To the north there’s little left – the dark bulk of the alien ship rises like a mountain over the remains of the assembly building, strange shapes flickering at the base of the slender ramps leading to its hidden interior.
To the south the city is relatively untouched – so far. Hopefully the secondary armouries are still active, and reinforcements will be gathered before our communications infrastructure is compromised. I run to one side, then the other, and stop.
There is no way off the roof – not even for a desperate leap of faith.
No escape.
After a moment’s hesitation I pull off the cracked mask and toss it aside. The air is strangely sharp and I can taste the tang of blood with every rasping breath.
I shoulder the rifle and take aim at the hatch. Only five rounds left, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s my last mag.
by Drakdylon
18/02/2011 in Original
My name is Jonathan Heckart. They call me Reaper. I am number one.
I have always ordered my steaks cooked a nice medium-rare. I’ve done it that way since the day I was old enough to eat red meat. That’s the way my father ate his steaks. And it’s the way my father’s father ate his steaks. All down through history, Heckart men have ordered their steaks medium-rare. Read the rest of this entry →
by Nemesys
15/02/2011 in Warhammer Fantasy
This is the third story in the Ravendark Saga – click here for the second one.
We fly north.
The Realm of Chaos passes beneath me in a blur as I am borne north on angel’s wings, Rai’elle’s arms tight around me, holding me closer than I ever thought she would again. I can sense something in her… is it love? Fear? Envy? Some delicious mix of the three? Whatever it is, its taste delights me.
My eyes leave her for a few moments and watch the Blessed Realm flying by in a dark rush of beating wings. At first it could pass for the northern steppes, the only difference being the telltale red sky, but as we pass on the vegetation becomes more and more animated, the ground darkens, the mountains become impossibly vast… the landscape becomes more and more unreal.
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