Dominion: Memories of Steel 

The opening chapter to my current in progress novel.  

CHAPTER ONE 

Her pleas of desperation fell on Brugge’s death ears. It didn’t change what Brugge had to do to end this nightmare. Everyone was dead. They had killed each other. One by one they had fallen to their primal urges. She would too. It was something deeply rooted in all of them. There was no escaping it. It was a reminder that a beast lurked beneath their skin. And equally from his perspective it would be the humane method to end her misery once and for all. 

“You promised,” she screamed between crying and tugging at the ends of his loose blood stained white shirt. He watched her plunge her head into his chest. “Please,” she whispered. “Brugge, for god’s sake. Please!” 

“I’m sorry,” said Brugge cocking the pistol he held in his left hand. 

“No, please, I love you.” 

“Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” said Brugge crouching down to her level. 

He reached out and using his index finger to raise her tear soaked chin up to meet his eye. More than ever he just wanted to hug her and cast aside the gun in his hand. But this had to be done. He had to see this through. 

“Brugge, please,” she said grabbing his arms. “There has to be another way.” 

Brugge shook his head and removed her hands off him. He returned to his feet and stared down at this human wreck. 

“You know exactly what I am, Maria,” said Brugge. 

She wildly shook her. “No, you’re not. You’re a kind and loving man. You kept me alive this long when they turned on us. Brugge what has come over you!” 

 “Nothing, I’m that same man who stands before you now.”

She stood up forcing him to step back a little in surprise. “Please, Brugge, don’t be what they made you.” 

“If only I had that choice,” said Brugge raising the pistol once more. 

#

Brugge’s head slamming off the side of the carriage awoke him from his slumber.  As he rubbed his forehead and took in the bodies stacked and clustered around him he then remembered where he was. On a freight train, hurtling toward a gulag in Unity Territory.

In such a tight space all he could do was press himself close to the carriage wall. The wall’s narrow slits presented only the darkness of the moon and a dismal view of a near endless baron wasteland. Something heavy collided with the carriage from outside. The force alone knocked them all off balance. Putting the screaming and agonized voices to the back of his mind he pushed his face close to the gap and met its orange eyes. The hungry stare forced his step back as the creature began attacking the slit, desperately trying to claw its way in. 

He lost balance again as another force collided with their carriage. Steadying himself once again, a wave of gunfire lit up the slits, the walls buckled inward and blood began dribbling through the ceiling. 

“Hey, you, you saw it right? What the hell is attacking us!” 

Brugge looked back to his fellow prisoner as a second scream pierced the air, likely coming from one of the guards. 

“a Virulent pack, they’ve found us,” said Brugge. 

“Will we be safe?” asked the prisoner

Brugge shrugged as a few of the prisoners around him regained their footing. 

For every moment of cherished silence, it was broken with an inhuman howl and bursts of white light through the slits of their carriage. After a while the silence remained longer than normal. The door to their carriage slid open, inviting a cold howl of wind forcing some of them to huddle close. Brugge remained abrasive to the cold reaching his way to wrap around his body. A blood-stained guard appeared before them holding the grip of his rifle. In single motion he aimed it at them. 

“I should kill you all for this. No man out there is worth a meal for the Virulent. So, which one of you little shits want to be bait?” 

“B-Bait,” whispered the prisoner from before. 

“You there, are you volunteering?” 

The man’s pleading eyes met his but Brugge ignored him and returned his gaze to the slit all the while trying not to focus on the prisoners pushing this man to the exit. 

Bait. He’s not going to be only one sacrificed to the roaming Virulent packs. 

The train guard grabbed the man by the collar and pulled him out of the main carriage and onto the carriage’s steel outer walkway. The large door then slammed shut. 

“Will there be many more of these attacks?” asked one of the other prisoners. 

No one immediately answered too terrified to speak a word. 

“We’re a meal on wheels. What do you think?” asked Brugge much to shrill crying of those around him. 

Just a few more days, Brugge. The gulag can’t be that much worse, can it?

Advertisements

Fate/Unlimited Character Works

(The following is inspired by Archer’s Unlimited Blade Works incantation from the Fate/ Stay Night – Unlimited Blade Works Series because it’s bloody awesome.)

Most people bleed red but mine is black and blue.

They outnumber me, characters and their creators who practically live on Tumblr. We’re all guilty of making them, though; the dreaded Mary Sue. A misshapen mess of self-insertion and overpowered goodness. They all have the same torturous back story with no real appreciation for how the past can become a story by itself. But no, they have to be a loner, bullied or some kind of social outcast. Separately these traits aren’t necessarily bad but put them together and you potentially have a walking, talking cliché. A character without flaws is not a character. It’s a god that needs to be struck down.

Or critiqued in such a way to help balance them out a little more.

Even though the distant between us is small, it feels massive. I hear them charge with their unorthodox weapons and superhuman prowess. A stampede of monstrosity. I choose to remain calm for the sake of my sanity.

I am the Ink of my Pen
Criticism is hard to stomach and that’s not just for fictional writing. If you can’t face criticism then what is the point of making the argument? At some point, it will have to stand on its own two feet. And if it can’t do that then perhaps you should open your mind a little. Closing it off and trapping it in a safe space is no way  to live. No matter how much you want to convince yourself otherwise. Humans are naturally drawn to a challenge, regardless of difficulty. And white men apparently have it on easy. The very definition of FILTHY CASUAL.

The Patriarchy is a Lie. Besides, I set my difficulty to Normal. Life is never easy.

Paper is my body and Imagination is my blood
I have created over a thousand characters

The army of cringe-inducing OCs remains distant in my mind, even though I know they are cutting through me like a knife through butter. Being overpowered usually grants an instant death to any poor sod on the other end. But in some exceptional cases. There’s this nice little thing that protects its wearer from the sword, the bullet, the bite, the axe, the high mana attack that took longer than it should charging up. Plot Armour is everyone’s friend. Unless you’re in the Game of Thrones. In which case tough luck, and avoid all weddings.

Unknown to Death,
Nor known to Life.
Have withstood pain to create many drafts

The drafting process is always difficult since you have to mentally tell yourself not read through what’ve you written previously. Even if there’s that glaring typo mocking you. Ignore it until the final draft. But no, the human mind’s strive to create perfection means we will skim over every last word until it’s just right. No wonder I’ve only just recently felt I can finish my first true novel. Self-doubt is a bitch. But every writer should seek to counter it. Self-critique isn’t bad just don’t let it destroy you in the process.

Yet, those pens will never write anything
So as I pray, unlimited character works.

They are scattered, sliced, and sent back to whatever fanfic spawned them.

Isn’t this a fanfic, though. And your immortality is that not a sign that you are also a Mary Sue.

Fuck off Mr Mad, I prefer the term parody.

Alright, carry on then. But they just keep coming back, stronger every time. A new magical resistance to sharp swords. OC’s are like the Borg but on steroids. They adapt, they assimilate, and then there are the ones who wield the sword of criticism in such a way that they intend to distort your creation. Subjective criticism is purely on an individual. One person’s way of looking at art is not a universal truth. Do not be put off by the mainstream media who peddle article after article on sexism and racism like its all they know. Your audience will appreciate what you do. Even when it seems no one else will –

This is a pretty shit reality marble AND YOU HAVEN’T DESCRIBED HOW IT LOOKS! Oh and did I mention that even you can’t beat half-assed characters.

You just can’t help yourself can you.

I enjoy watching a hopeless optimist overcome insane odds.

The only reason I’m not winning is that all of my current characters have fatal flaws that can be used against them. That and even my post powerful ones can’t overpower something that is literally god.

Ah, death is a cruel mistress.

Just be useful for once.

Here’s a serious plot twist in the next paragraph. Have that one for free.
Sometimes you just have to fight fire with fire. Only another Mary Sue can beat another. And I have one final trump card. Buried beneath draft layers of Project Zero, between the fragments of the Grey Watch series, and some random roleplay ideas that looking back really were quite crap. I reveal to you, a wonderful set of cliches called The Circle of Life. The characters are all labelled with stupid names except Raphael (who literally hasn’t changed in years) they are all more or less ridiculously powerful. And one of them has ungodly regenerative powers. It’s like watching Brazil being beaten 7-1  by Germany. Except my old characters have finally found a reason to be useful. And by useful, I refer to how they mop the floor with these OCs because even for clichés, I did at least try and make them two dimensional. Even if the result was still full of cringe. I mean why the hell did I think of naming the at the time protagonist: the Hider. I was a strange kid.

The dust settles, everyone disappears and since it’s probably the end, and expending that much energy to create a reality marble should have really killed me. It’s probably best if I go to sleep. Right here. In the middle of fricken nowhere. FANTASTIC.

What a sh – 

The End

or is it the beginning of a book series and several movie follow ups followed by the nail biting two part film which ramps up the suspense to levels never before seen in film or television. 

The Return of Life

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “No Cliffhangers.”

Write a post about the topic of your choice, in whatever style you want, but make sure to end it with “…and all was well with the world.”

No Cliffhangers

In the end, atomic fire had savaged our world. We thought it was left bare, after our destructive nature brought darkness, disease, and despair to the Earth. A civilisation all but extinguished, it’s dying embers, nothing more than memories of a past life.

As we emerged from our sanctuary underground, we believed nothing would survive the nuclear apocalypse. We were wrong. The Earth hadn’t just survived our wrath, in its wake, life had found a way.

For beneath the cracks and wounds upon the Earth. A sea of green burst forth. We were stunned, as nature stood before us in defiance. Even in our absence. All was well with the world.

It’s Dread Children

There were but seven in all 
Children of the shapeless, forgotten form.

The doom bringer, life eater
the fate sealer, scorned of heart
Who dance in its living dark.

The Poor fellow’s bitter
the Beast, bearing maw
Fools to this dark war.

The Killer, bears scars 
The Doctor, dreams perfection

The Prisoner, lost deliverance.

But
All are destined to fall, 
By my gracious sword.

~Solomon

Forgotten

We served a cause,
That we hoped would bring peace.

We waged their war,
And watched the suffering, and, thousands dying forever more,

Falling in their Thousands,
Men, women, and children,
Innocents caught in the sight,
Of the machine gun barrel.

As our blood,
And theirs spilled,
On ancient sands.

They fled West,
Seeking refuge from the oncoming storm.

We came to an already war torn land
And left it red with the dead.

As for me,
I returned home,
No welcome, no help,
Left to linger on empty streets,
Forgotten.
A starved victim of their war,
Cast aside,
And damned to die,
Forgotten ever more.

Synapse and Dreamland

Synapses

Spark,
Pupils dilate, vision blurs,
And shadows dance,
Slipping.
Mind fragments, a puzzle of my own derision,
Never to be solved,
Bleeding.
Other thoughts, other minds,
A bombardment of ideas, senses, losses, hope and pain,
Concealed in the subconscious lie,
Power.
Infinite, pure and corrupt, flourishing in my soul,
So much power coursing through my veins,
Pouring through every aspect of my life,
Lost.
Forever, no memories of my own,
My own is theirs,
Theirs are my own,
Who am I and why must I experience their lives?
Freedom
I crave it but
Shock.
Snaps me back, tugs the string and it begins,
Again.

Dreamland

Thoughts are broken in a river,
Bright light above my head,
Burning my mind,

The sweeping light in the darkness the rotary blades whir,
Surfaces cold to touch, my hands ice
And everything I touch is consumed
I dart from the alley avoiding the sweeping light,
My heart beats fast,
Voices near,
Surrounded
Surrender. 

A needle so sharp,
A constant drumming in my ear with,
Numbness messing my senses,
I sleep.

Red coat blowing in the breeze,
Causally moving forward with every step.
A snake in my hand, loaded with death,
To kill those who cower in fear,
The abrupt roar shattering the silence,
I was betrayed once before,
Now you will be no more.

To awake,
Chasing shadows,
Synapses strain and spark,
Such pain in a paralysed body,
So raw, my mind deceives me and wanders,
Once more.

Insanity in the darkness,
Drip, drip, drip,
Blood all around me,
Snap the neck and another dies,
I see you now,
The cause of my crisis,
Your shadows gather,
And we dance as hunters.

New memories,
All bleeding together,
I assimilate the past and my own sense of self
Is lost,
I am one,
But many,
I want to sleep,
But once more,
I am breached.