The Littlest Necromancer Rides Again

19 08 2015

I read a story once. 

I won’t bore you with the details but let me just say this: There were three brothers who worshipped a filthy god. One was a warrior of impressive skill, one was a powerful wizard, and the third was a beast; a great hulking thing that bore his siblings into battle atop his mighty shoulders. 

Oh and if the big one ate you alive he would pass you out as a twisted demon. 

Details, I know. 

Anyways the necromancer approached me the other day in her usual manner. Her expression was perplexed and her gaze was far off. Building my courage I asked her what she was thinking about.

“If I were a bug I think I’d be a mosquito.” She said.

“Okay. And why would you be a mosquito?” I asked.

She thought on this a little longer before continuing with a very matter of fact tone. “Because they suck blood and its okay. People don’t hate them because they suck their blood, just because they make you itchy.”

“Well, I guess that’s true. The itching is what people focus on.”

“I wouldn’t be like a regular one though.” she continued.

At this point I think most people would be a little surprised that their child didn’t admit to wanting to be more like a regular animal, say a lion or a pony or a unicorn, something you might see on National Geographic you know? I was expecting there to be more to this story and as always, she didn’t let me down. 

“I would be a really big one so that I could suck all the blood!”

Then she put her arms straight out to her sides flapped her hands at the wrist and rushed off making buzzing noises, stopping every few feet to make awful slurping sounds. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she sounded like a bumblebee. At least I think its because I didn’t have the heart to. I may have said it because I was still in a little bit of shock from the exchange I just had. 

In the end it doesn’t really matter. The weird keeps on keeping on around these parts. 





The Plain Beyond

17 08 2015

The summer months are for demons and devils they say. Hot weather and hellish humidity offer stinging previews for the evily inclined. Its hard to disagree, looking back at those days. June was disastrous, July was no better. Hell found its way into every crack and crease of life those first few months. But as they say, it was a sick preamble to the woes to come. 

There wasn’t much left out in the reaches already. War had laid the once bustling orbitals low. The great rings of iron dock and post no longer hugged the planet close at its waist. Now the greatest constructions in the history of that world hung like rusted halos around the necks of long dead angels. The armistice that followed paled in significance to the fallout. Some of that iron plummeted to the surface, smashing cities and townships alike, scarring the earth and killing its people. 

Doomsday became the official religion, cannibalism became kind of vogue, and coveting was the mildest thing you could do to your neighbors’ ass.

The day to day is a real bitch.

As the great doors to the vault swung ponderously outward on their hinges, the event was heralded by the torturous screech of metal that hadn’t been oiled in decades. Light spilled into the cavern beyond bathing a filthy face in gold. 

Shilo stepped beyond the portal doing his best to cover his eyes. At one time he had worn sunglasses on these rare excursions but they had been smashed to pieces on the last trip out. He was much like the rest of his neighbors; thin and frail wearing a dull gray jumpsuit that had belonged to who knows how many people. His hair was the color of dirt and about as clean. His face was smudged with motor oil and sweat, and a sad canvas pack hung from his back. 

Two others joined him. They weren’t much better off. 

Shilo turned to his companions, “Any idea how many?” He tightened the shoulder straps, eyeing the others. They shook their heads, preoccupied with what might be around them. 

Their complex was cut into a single mountain that dominated the surrounding landcapes. The magistrate likened it to a beacon he learned about in a book from a place on the old world; a city built on a hill that attracted people from miles around. He had never seen it. No one had.

It was just a mountain to Shilo. A mountain that hid his home, much like the rest of the complexes spread around the plain. The three began the trek down the low trails that would lead them amongst great boulders, big as houses, before giving way to the rolling fields of grains and tall grass beyond. There were others out there. 

Today they might finally find one. 





Plague House

17 09 2014

Sadly Nurgle continues to shower our household with gifts. Thus I’m going to go off and die in a corner somewhere. Tell my story.





Gender What?

15 09 2014

Strangers can be hard to deal with.
So I had a post half written the other day that I wanted to start the week off with but I decided to let it simmer because there is some important stuff I’m going to talk about.
Wait, I take that back. I’m not actually going to do any of the talking.
See, the family witch posted something in her corner of the internet last month that I keep thinking about. Here in the middle of September, I think it’s time I pass it along. So to kick things off.
Read.

Stuff! Also Things!

I am not a kid-having person.  It has never been on my mental “to-do” list and has actually tended to weird me out to the point of semi-panic attack.  Thankfully, the Green Fox has duplicated and synthesized his DNA and so has fulfilled the Grandparent’s need for something to dote on and also to Carry On the Family Name.  Good for him.

I could seriously write out a huge long treatise on my not reproducing habits, but I will save that and focus on an odd series of events that has happened to friends/acquaintances around my internet world.

Thing the first:  Semi-good acquaintance has a son who has all the “I don’t give a fuck” and then some.  He has a ton of elder sisters and is totally happy playing with their gear and really digs owls.  Apparently, the boys section of the shops do not contain enough groovy owl…

View original post 565 more words





Friday Night Fire Fight

12 09 2014

Well look at that it’s Friday. What say we just make the whole week a fiction week, yeah?

Oh and this one is kind of messy.

trailer

********************************************************************************************************************************************

The whining of strained hydraulics weren’t enough to drown out the screams.

“Someone put her out already!” A man in a white coat stained with blood spatter shouted at a half dozen women around the table. Upon its surface the screeching, bloody highlight of the night’s latest casualties writhed, batting away restraints and making the administration of drugs a near impossible prospect.

“Fuck it.” Came a static encrusted voice as another man pushed his way through the women, his massively armored frame making the nurses seem like children. The man hefted a huge pistol over his head and brought it down hard into the face of the screaming patient. At once she was silenced, not having the opportunity to register her orbit shatter before losing consciousness.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” a nurse grabbed at the large man’s arm trying to usher him away. He knocked her back without difficulty, aimed the pistol and fired. A thunderous boom and blinding flash filled the room momentarily before the remaining staff was hit by fresh red mist and chunks of meat as the nurse’s head exploded like a hammered grape.

The medical staff recoiled and backed away from the giant. “Today doctor.” The armored suit spoke before returning to his place on the wall. The team resumed applying restraints and running IV’s to administer a massive cocktail of pain killers and antibiotics. No one dared a glance at their number that now lay dead on the floor.

This was best. This woman wouldn’t have lived long enough to get drugs if that monster of a man hadn’t stepped in. She was tiny, even compared to the medical staff, all normal human beings; her frame was particularly petite. Standing she was less than five feet tall, her young face was scarred with more battle field hours than should ever be visited upon a child.

“She’s set doctor.” Said a nurse.

“Okay, start popping the mods, everything below the neck and above the waist needs to come out.”

The girl’s clothing had been cut away to allow the staff unimpeded access to her most serious injuries. There was so little flesh in parts of her torso that a selection of drills, saws, and welders that wouldn’t typically see the inside of the OR had to be brought in. Only the tiny girl’s breasts and part of her midriff was still flesh, the rest having been given over to mechanical replacements; flashy ones.

“Mods are out, everything left is hardwired.”

“Shit.” The doctor started drilling into her abdomen, above the flesh of her belly, deep into the metal cavity that held her heart. He stumbled when it broke through. That was the hardest part. He removed the drill and snatched a long fiber optic cable from one of the nurses and started snaking it in, staring at a monitor suspended from the ceiling that let him see her insides.

The lights flickered. An explosion rocked the doors into the OR. The two armored behemoths standing watch near the operating table nodded to each other, unslung huge rifles from their backs and made for the door.

The doctor wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, eyes glued to the monitor as it struggled to maintain functionality. The auxiliary generators were already running, if power was interrupted that would be that.

The bloody vision of the girl’s heart loomed into view.

“Holy shit we were right, it was the heart. Quick, get the cells in there before we don’t have juice to run the little bastards anymore.”

A nurse screwed a thin vial into the end of the cable. A metallic, mercury-like liquid sloshed around inside. “Go.” She said, and the doctor plunged the contents into the cable. A moment later the camera feed registered the liquid dispersing into the cavity, coating the girl’s insides with quicksilver.

The OR shook as another explosion threw pieces of ceiling and floor tiles around the room, knocking the doctor down. Another of the nurses fell dead beside him, a disgusting amount of shrapnel lodged into her face, throat, and chest.

Gunfire pulled his attention to the OR entry doors were one of their monstrous guards was blazing away at an unseen foe beyond. The other of the pair lay motionless on the ground. One of his pauldrons had been blown away, little arcs of energy flicked between the door and his helmet visor where a long metal rod had forced it’s way through.

“Charles what do we do?” Another of the nurses screamed to him from around the other side of the table.

“What?” his attention was pulled back and forth between the door and the nurse. He didn’t know what to do; this wasn’t something he was trained for. He was scared. He was breathing far too quick to think clearly.

There was a loud gritty scream ending in a sharp gargle.

He saw the remaining guard impaled by an impossibly long sword.

The giant’s torso was separated from his legs with a single flick of the man-sized blade.

Another explosion rocked the building, the horrifying sound of twisting metal and collapsing structure screamed from the floors above them. Then there was light, hot, and bright, and a thunderous clap of another detonation.

And sleep came rushing in.





Wednesday Fictioning Day

10 09 2014

Hey there. Its Wednesday. I have decided once again to assault you with another random bit of short fictioning.

I know ‘fictioning’ isn’t a word. I’m a professional though so it’s okay. 

Trust me.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

It was only when he began to slow unintentionally from exhaustion that he realized part of the problem was that he was rushing against a crowd trying very hard to get away from wherever he was headed. Seeing it as the best way to lose the crazed old Prefect he pushed on eventually exiting the rush of bodies into an open hall that ended in two massive iron doors. Across the center of each warnings flashed in a recessed strip that bathed the immediate area in pale orange light. Below the caution symbols were the words ‘pressure doors’.

What the hell?

“Governor!” came a tired scream from behind him. Albert had caught up. “That’s it.” He continued. The old man was in rough shape, the loss of blood finally seeming to have begun to affect him. The lower half of his robes were entirely red now, the tips dripping a red trail behind him.

“You don’t have to, it doesn’t need to be like this.” Said Joss.

“Give me the damn data card!” the Prefect screamed. He was frothing at the mouth, crimson bubbles popping at the corners of his mouth. 

As he continued to stumble his way onward, Joss finally noticed that the doors were not exactly the same. A pin prick of light caught his eye along the exterior of the blast door to his left. A scratching sound followed along with it.

Albert slowed to a stop, eyes fixed on the same door. Apparently he had noticed it too. Without warning another set of thick steel doors slammed shut further down the hall separating the two men from the large open area they had fallen into. An automated voice chimed a warning over a speaker system in the hall.

“Explosive decompression imminent.” It reported.

The two looked at one another, the fight suddenly drained from the old man. He dropped the knife. It clattered beside him on the ground.

The blast door exploded forward, halting as the sudden change of pressure pushed it back the other way. It caught on something and tipped flat against the floor before being sucked out into another large area, littered with broken glass. Joss lost his feet and he and Albert tumbled out together. On the other side , a ship with cargo ramp open hovered, an odd collection of men in respirators and maintenance suits crowding the ramp.

Joss could feel the oxygen rush from around him, his breath threatening to do the same. As he and Albert were blown out of the hall, the crowd gathered at the mouth of the ship jumped and grabbed to catch him.

A heavy gloved hand wrapped around Joss’ arm and he was pulled down onto the ramp which he could feel start to incline beneath him. The sound of rushing air blasted past him and the last thing he could hear before slipping into a black state of forced sleep was a familiar voice screaming over a crackly speaker.

“Hench! Get us the fuck out of here!”





TOTALLY RANDOM FICTION

8 09 2014

Hey it’s Monday!

Have a random story snippet!

*************************************************************

The tune started like so many others. It was drunk and melancholy, drifting through back alleys and dark places, wrong turns, and dead ends. Notes, creeping like a serpent searching for a meal, hung on the coat tails and cloak hoods of any poor soul they could find. It was a heavy and oppressive music, a wonder that it could float at all from the twisted, hateful pipes that hung from the top of the old lighthouse, deep in the bay. Every night it would yawn over the harbor enrapturing sailors and drunkards and anyone else that would listen.

“It calls to me.” The meek would say.

“Rubbish.” The drunk would declare.

Repent, repent!” The pious would scream.

Garabaldi kicked a can off the edge of the pier, a sharp metallic sound echoing a short way out over the water before being drowned out by the dirge from across the harbor. The waves crashed against the old stone dock so high as to breach the top, soaking his black trousers and boots with salty splashes. He ran his hand down his shoulder wiping away an ever-present slick of water from his leather jacket. It was long and embroidered on the back was an iron nail on a field of red, the symbol of justice in what passed for a place like Bergen’s Bay.

Across his back was an old rifle, fitted for an army of an age long gone. At his side was a pistol of an entirely different era and a machete made from salvage metal. A wide brimmed hat, brown and beaten kept the rain off his face. He thumbed the machete handle, watching the light house torch spin about illuminating dark clouds in the sky. It was mesmerizing when paired with the droning of the pipes.

“And what brings the Bay’s youngest law man down to the pier?” the voice was deep and crackly; a smothered tone that hinted at ages of smoke. “I don’t imagine you’re just down for a visit, eh Garabaldi?”

“It’s too early. The house ain’t piped up at this hour in forty years. We got any traffic so far Bob?” the raspy sounding man cracked his knuckles and started to button his jacket. It was long and grey and torn; a family heirloom that once meant a whole hell of a lot more.

Things take on whole new meanings in Bergen’s Bay, usually empty ones.

“Actually no, nothing in the harbor near as I can tell.” He said, pulling a fat moleskin notebook from an inside pocket. He thumbed through the pages and said, “Looks like this may be the first time in a long time. According to the old records, hey look at that – forty years.”

Garabaldi plucked a cigar from a little belt pouch and lit it.

“What’s it mean?”

“Don’t know, Bob.” Garabaldi said. “You better see if you can call over to the light house. See if Bo knows something.”

“Me? Why do I have to call?” Bob choked.

“You’re the only one with a phone that works, now call him you damn fool.”

Before either could move the pipes stopped. Calm settled over the water in the bay. Only the lapping of water against the old pier could be heard. Not even the usual sobbing that accompanied the night was heard, no sign that the usual thugs and no good cancerous people of Bergen’s Bay were out.

But it was not to last and no sooner had Garabaldi resumed prodding the old bay master than the pipes let out another unexpected blast of sound. The noise wasn’t the usual droning, it was deep and angry and violent. The dock shuttered beneath them, the vibrations rumbled deep in their chests, numbing their bodies. The stone began to splinter and crack, the furthest reaches of the pier crumbling to dust, spilling into the water.

Deep in the harbor, beneath the surface, something stirred.