In mid November, and the day was dreary, grey and cold. The leaves have long since fallen from the trees, and everything is a mucky mixture of crushed leaves and water logged grass clippings in mud. The wind has started to pick up and what was a bland flat lit day is now quickly deteriorating into a murky black dusk. Perfect timing for it to begin to down pour now that we have to pack up all our things, muster the kids into the car, and head home after the impromtu long weekend spent at the cottage preparing for the coming of winter. It has been a bitterly cold, and long weekend spent out of doors, tackling chores that were better suited to the warmer days of late September or even early October. But alas, priorities for all involved were not exactly aligned at that point in the year. So here we are, two tired and mopey children, a cascade of rain hammering down in sheets, and the prospect of a three hour drive home, and then school early in the morning. Our youngest has napped fr the first time in two years today. Not a good sign. But she doesn’t have a temperature and isn’t coughing or sneezing, so onward we press, towards home. Fifteen minutes into the drive, she begins to vomit all down her front, and into her car seat. She manages to do this in near silence. But my wife, whom is driving, notices her rolling forwards in the glare of the rear view mirror. “She’s throwing up!”. She says, nudging my arm. I turn to look into the back seat, and there is the eldest, hands on chin, deeply engrossed in her movie. “Not her, it’s Ashley!”. Twisting to look directly behind me, I can see the dark grime on Ashley’s chin and chest from where she has thrown up her chocolate milk and what looks like a first full of Cheetos. “Oh!” I say. I frantically dig around at the kids feet to find any old containers. Finding an old cookie tin I hold it up to Ashley’s face as she bucks and heaves into a coughing fit followed by a glob of vomit. “No…. no… I don’t want it daddy….!” She screams in between heaves. “It’s ok baby, this will keep you cleaner, I can tip it out once we stop off the highway.” Variations of this follow until we pull off the rural highway, and come to a stop under a street lamp outside of a road side restaurant. Opening the door to assess the level of destruction. It’s not too bad, a bit on her chest, face and hands, and a glob on her leg and a dribble or two on the chest harness of her car seat. In a wave of miasma the smell hits me full in the face. To my dismay I then realize, our Ashley has been out of diapers for more than a year, and we no longer travel with a diaper bag, or wet wipes. Thinking quickly my wife hops out of the drivers seat, while my eldest quivers at the sight and smell of her younger sister’s stomach contents. Rooting through her luggage to hand me an old worn t-shirt. I unstrap Ashley and proceed to wipe her down, face, chest, hands and legs. I pick her up for a look over and shuffle her off to the back of the car for a change of clothes. A few heart beats later we’re strapped back in, she is sound asleep, and we are back on the road. It is still raining heavily, and the night is both dark and cold. The youngest, Ashley, will not be attending school the next day.
Category: micro short stories
Having trouble visualizing the headspace I need
to be in in order to write creatively at the moment. I have a couple of one off short stories rolling about in my head but I can’t seem to get them out on paper. I mean, sure I’ve done a very brief point form outline, but that’s not helping me find the voice of either set of characters. I have had a few spells of just plain day dreaming where I have thought up something fun, but then just couldn’t get it to come to life. Which is irritating to say the least, but at least I am not where I was a few months ago where I had no ideas at all. Here I was thinking that after I had published my book of short stories back in March, that I would wile away my time adding a couple thousand words more in the time I had before me. But besides three of four small posts here I haven’t written anything at all. I will amend my list of outstanding short stories as ideas come to me, and I hope that I will soon be able to work towards fleshing them out properly in my own idiosyncratic style.
Actually here I’ll just tell you what sort of short stories I have in my bag which I want to write out. I do usually tend towards micro short stories of about five hundred words or so, but if it really grabs me, I have been known to add on additional stories in that line of thinking. Sometimes there are multiple peoples perspectives in the same event, or just different people on the same side of a conflict having wholly different experiences. So the next three stories I intend to write revolve around the creation of the first AI in my interconnected space stories series, which revolves around a character named Kelvin, whom you may recall had a whole portion of my book; The Chronicles of Kelvin. I like him, he’s an interesting guy that has done some pretty weird shit. He’s also comfortable alone, much like myself. Now that story line could have one long but sort of abridged last chapter, or could be broken down like I have in my outline into five meaty chunks. But, you know, sometimes my eyes are bigger than my fingers and I can’t possible write interesting, character driven stories with that many chapters right out of the gate. I’ll have to build up to that, if I ever get a head of steam in me. The second story involves a father and his young daughter, where they are playing out of doors, in a forest, and the young girl is regaling her father with stories of mystical whimsy from her imagination, but the father is transcribing them and adding in all the sorts of details young kids leave out of their stories, but then she gets bored and he’s absolutely hooked, and she looses her train of thought in the middle of this fantasy of epic proportions (due to a vivid childhood imagination unencumbered by things like, logic, physics & linear thinking) and the father goes mental trying to tie it all together in the end. Which is a sentiment I understand completely. The third story is more anecdotal about one of many situations brought about by having Crohn’s Disease. It has a comedic bent to it, because how can you not when you are dealing with such a shitty topic. Ha. That’s all for ranting and whining right now. I’m off to get blood work done at the lab, so stay safe, and have a great autumn season.
” You look terrible, what happened to you?”
Shouts the older grey haired man almost immediately after pushing his way through the grimy glass revolving doors, knocking an elderly man’s elbow causing him to fumble his hat, dropping it and then kicking it out into the gutter. Crossing the shabby lobby faux marble floor directly towards the rather bohemian looking man in a mad rush, his hawkish angular features pulled back into a sneer. “Oh, don’t start with me Derek, it’s this whole thing. I’m tired and sore so just leave me alone this one time, ok, huh!” squeaks the meager looking man shambling along with the flow of foot traffic heading to the thick line up for the elevators into the enormous and drab building. Pulling along beside the bedraggled man, Derek leans down over top of him and whispers “Come on little man, tell me, you always have the best stories. I need another doozy to impress the c-suite suits!” It’s a harsh whisper, the kind that carries and reverberates off of the polished concrete and forty year old wooden accents on the wall behind the sconces. Above the bank of elevator doors the massive brass clock ticks away noisily. People stand crammed together in the tight space, shuffling their feet and readjusting ties and hair pins. The heat of other peoples breathe is starting to make the little man sweat. Somebody has eaten day old eggs and sardines. “It was nothing really, nothing much at all!” whimpers the emaciated man. “Not sure why Doris made me sleep on the couch, I didn’t really do anything wrong.” His voice a wet warble little more than a whine. “Sure sure, bud, of course, I know you have a good heart.” “I do, I really do, I just say things some times, they just come out, I just tend to blurt out what I’m thinking.” “I know you do, and it tends to be the gods honest truth doesn’t it bud?” “It does, yes… but I don’t know…” He groans. “Come on bud, the elevators almost here, just gimme the Cole’s notes version.” “Well, after I got home from work, Doris had made me dinner, you see, a burger, well an unbattered chicken burger to be exact, so should have seen it, it was so thick, it was glorious!” He exclaims. “Ok, ok bud, there’s only twenty floors to go before this carriage gets here.” “Oh, ok, yeah, so It’s great you see, I’m tucking into it, and it’s juicy and delicious. Then on my fifth bite I get a real heavy crunch, like, almost crack my tooth kind of crunch right?” “Yeah, ok, crunchy chicken, not so good.” “Yeah, so I says, without thinking mind you, ‘Oh! must of had a bit of beak!’ and Doris without missing a beat, she throws up, all over Avery and Gemma. That’s my boy and my little girl see, they’re attached at the hip with Doris. Then they start to throw up, on themselves, each other and Doris too, you know for good measure. Then the dog wanders into the room because of all the commotion, you know?” “Dogs and commotion! It’s a real thing, I believe you.” “So he starts feasting on it, it is fountaining out of all three of them, all over the walls, the floor, each other’s hair, the carpet, the couch. It was absolutely everywhere.” “Oh, dear god man. why would you say that?” “I don’t know, it just sorta slipped out. Either way, Doris threatened divorce yet again, and they all retired to bed and I spent the first half of the evening cleaning it all up because…” Cutting across him Derek adds in. “Because you had to sleep on the couch, ok got it! Great, thanks bud.” With a loud chime the elevator signals its descent to the main floor lobby, and Derek pushes beyond the little man, and leaves him to wait for the next one. As the door closes Derek points his finger guns at the man and gives him a thumbs up.
“I’m absolutely amazed that you’ve managed to get away with that…
For so long, I mean, it’s kind of disgusting… the smut that you write.” Barks the stout middle aged man whilst walking around in the garden of the slovenly seated man. He is sat slumped in a deck chair, bent low over his dirty keyboard, the man looks up from his cracked screen and blinks rapidly in the glare of the hot overhead sun. Both to moisten his eyes after staring for a long period of time, and to give himself an excuse to cultivate a scathing rebuttal. “It isn’t smut, fuck you very much, it’s romance. And I do not apologize for my romantic bent having a thoroughly sexual vein running through it. If you pardon my phallic pun of sorts.” Quips the pudgy gentleman from his rustic looking deck chair. “Who the fuck asked you in the first place? As I recall, Benji, I pay you to look after my gardens not to interrupt me when my pages are finally starting to come together!” Leaning back now in his cruddy wicker deck chair, stretching until his spine pops loudly between his shoulder blades the pudgy writer smiles and waves lazily at a mosquito buzzing by his ear. The garden isn’t huge, but it’s quiet and secluded with massive rhododendrons and lilac bushes, surrounded by forsythia and Russian Olive trees. The garden smells divine on this late spring afternoon. A big proponent of hostas and day lilies and all manner of shrubs, the writer is slowly rising from his chair. “What do you care anyway Benji? I didn’t think you even read my stuff.” Standing a few steps away, half buried in the overgrowth of a gargantuan rhododendron Benji quips “I fucking well don’t, but I caught Gary reading one in the tub last night and I could hear his breath catch in his throat. He moans ever so softly to himself when he reads anything racy. So I picked up the book to peruse the chapter he was reading and it was all about throbbing this, and heaving that, with glistening chests and wetness and moisture. Oh god! It’s so hackey, it’s like every tainted soft core porno trope wrapped up in a bow. I couldn’t believe Gary was so turned on by it!” Benji is sweating profusely under the partial cover of the shrub, not only because it’s thirty some odd degrees in the cloudless heat. “Gary reads my stuff? I’m touched. People keep buying it, so I’ll continue to write it. Also, as a side note, my mother wants you to deadhead my roses again this year, she likes to see the bushes in full bloom from her bedroom window.” Both men turn away from the rhododendron to face across the yard to the next house over, where a tiny ancient woman sits smiling and waving from her modest porch overlooking the garden. “Damn straight Benji!, my little Julian wants me to be able to see those roses in bloom! From my bed!” Benji’s face contorts between a smirk and a grimace. “Oh of course my dearie, any thing for you – you shrivelled hag” he mutters under his breath. “Come at me you bitch!” Blurts the elderly woman while waving both arthritic middle fingers around in a figure eight pattern. “You leave my lovely boys alone, you know how much my Gary and Julian mean to me!”
So I wrote a book of interconnected short stories set mostly out in space.
You can of course read most if not all of it for free when you search my archives, or if you are a Kindle/ Kindle Unlimited user you can read it all in one place on your handy device as you please for $.99 USD or $1.24 CDN or £.77 UK pounds. That’s as cheap as I can make it and still make it available in 11 different markets under Amazon.
A bit of media for the terrain build.
I’m not a vlogger or youtuber so my video snippets are few and far between. But here’s a short flyby of my two completed terrain boards with a few minis in tableau on one half. I’ll be back to writing my short story series about The Chronicles of Kelvin soon enough. So fear not, I’m not transitioning to only war gaming, or recipes or short blurbs about nothing much at all. Take care out there folks. And with no further ado, my terrain build in video format.
And because I’m proud of much of it, my book case full of bust sculpts from my home office.
With the echos of the scream still bouncing off the protective shielding…
The man falls heavily to his knees. The harsh bitter cold of the metal floor is bone chilling, and it seeps through the rough canvas coveralls at the point where his knees touch the ground. The thick icy grasp of the medical bay floor hits him quickly. With puffs of breath raggedly exhaled into the cold chamber the man is stricken with waves of fear. Bursts of crystallized breath plum out of his mouth with his dogged panted breathing. Outside of view beyond the protective barrier, ensconced in utter blackness, the rest of the medical bay appears to have deteriorated considerably. Heard amongst the rattle of his breathing are the insistent chimes of his wrist biometrics unit churning out error codes and warning notifications. Slowly rising to his feet, with a frail wobble to his steps, as though he hasn’t stood up in weeks or months the man stumbles towards the pale blue glow of the protective shielding he is standing within. The static fuzz ignites off of his finger tips, radiating through his palms and up above his elbows. The skin on his hands shimmers and pulses under the low voltage passing through it. Turning to sit with his back resting against the security shielding the man limply slides back down to sit upon the freezing cold floor. Feeling he harsh bite of the frosty metal against his rump. The static pulse of the shielding is accompanied by the shrill urgent chiming of the wrist biometrics notifications throwing up error codes and streams of data too small for the man to read. Looking down at the shimmering, rippling skin on his hands, his focus pulled away from the odd undulation of his flesh from the static from the security shield, he stares blankly at the wrist biometric unit. This is brand new he thinks soundlessly. “Yes… Yes it is”. Answers the empty darkness. Jumping to his feet, turning around, bare feet pattering the ground, the numbness now reaching his hips, the man screams again. A blood curdling, epic scream of madness. “Don’t be alarmed, we are you, that is to say, you are us. We are one. Do you understand?” speaks the disembodied voice, as clear as day, as though it were stood mere centimeters from his ear. Jumping with fright at each punctuated word, turning both this way and that, the man is frantic. Scattering bits of dust and debris, he searches the small med pod bay looking for the source of the voice. “No need to look for us, we are you, you are us, we are one. Together. Do you understand us. We know you speak a variant of the English language. Not American, nor British by Canadian English… yes?” speaks the voice in a slow drawl. Nod if you can hear us, do you understand the words you are hearing – Oh no. Here we go! Brace for impact… protect the head, protect the head! , make sure the tongue doesn’t slide back down the throat!”. The man crumples into a heap and promptly passes out. “Well, this is no good. We have to clear these notifications and sort out our access if we’re ever going to do anything useful with this vessel. We know, we know. Yes, I am aware of that. It does pose considerable challenges. No I am not currently aware of anything or anyone else quite like us, we… me.” The voices which can be heard sound muffled as though they were coming from another room down a shared hallway. Certain words are distinct but much of it flows together and is incomprehensible. Slowly everything fades to black, again.
**Another new installment of the interconnected space serial from 2020: The Chronicles of Kelvin.
In the stark white brilliance of the medical pods internal lighting…
My vision fades from inky blackness to a dazzling white hot fire. Through the fuzz of far too dilated eyes in sudden brightness I can just make out my greyed, and cracked skeletal hand pressed upon the domed glass. The sensation of a deep cold burning the palm of my hand slowly crawls it’s way into my thoughts. Jerking my weak and flimsy hand back off the glass while tearing off the finger pads with the motion. The tear of the skin is audible like a seam popping on cheaply made pants. In the stifling silence I realize that I am alive, barely, and I do not know why. Left upon the surface of the glass are five perfect finger prints which start to flake off the frozen glass before my eyes.
The once plush and padded all white interior on which I am splayed is now all grey and faded to a crusty brown, spattered with spots of orange, yellow and mustard coloured stains. As I wriggle around in search of the internal release latch, dust plumes fill the air making me cough violently. The claustrophobic tightness of the painfully cold harness, the dazzlingly bright white lights, and choking clouds of dust add to my confusion and panic. The interior of the med pod is freezing cold, so cold I can see whisps of breathe and a crystalline pattern on the domed glass matching the outline of my hand print, now contrasted greatly by the dust particles cascading off my dissolving finger pads. The radiant glare of the lights is awfully blinding. My eyes feel as though they are on fire, as though I haven’t blinked in weeks. My throat is parched and feels cracked. My tongue thick and numb inside my mouth. My breath rattles thickly in my chest. I can feel my ribs creaking beneath my coveralls. An audible rumble of my intestines disrupts the silence, punctuated only by the ragged short breaths I’m taking. Peering through the frosted glass looking outside the medical pod I catch sight of something that is down beside and below me, decayed and worn is an oddly familiar Edubot of an orange colour. It is in a terrible state of disrepair. The tank like track treads have worn through completely and peeled off the guide wheels. It appears to have crept over to the side of the med pod to manually interface with the pods override functions. It’s lone protruding finger pressed firmly against the med pod reset button. But why? What possible reason would the ships medical bay have for cutting off life support. All I can see within the medical bay is the small pale blue illuminated circle encased in our atmospheric protection dome. A shimmering curtain of pure energy. The ship must truly be in trouble for this last ditch security feature to have deployed. By the state of the looming darkness beyond, the ship has been derelict for quite some time. Finding and triggering the latch to release the pods internal restraints with a loud click. Reaching up to push the fabric harness to the med pod out of my way I can see the ghastly grey pallor of my skin beginning to fade, and a bluish tinted pink replace it. As I watch there is a certain plumpness that seems to fill out my emaciated hands and arms. A flush of warmth rushing to my extremities, filling my chest and clearing my head. A sudden chirp from the biometrics on my wristband has started to chime with notifications. An error code I don’t recognize is flashing double time on the small OLED screen on my wrist, I must plug in to the med bays internal computer to figure out what is going on. I have never seen such a code before. The interface on my wrist biometrics is brand new, and not a model that I’ve ever seen. Everything is so strange. Colours and sounds are off kilter, at once too sharp and yet fuzzy. My balance is shot even as I am laying down. My limbs feel foreign to me. I begin to panic while I can’t find my equilibrium. My heart is thumping savagely in my chest. As I thrash about inside the med pod I finally pull the main release latch and the outer dome sweeps out into the open room. A faint tinge of machine oil and stringent cleaners can be tasted on the stale air. Mixed with ozone burning off the protective energy shield. A massive cloud of dust bursts forth with the air pressure change. Trying to calm myself I swing my legs around to try and step out of the raised pod. The once soft padding crumbling under my shifting weight. The cloth comes apart like parchment paper. There is a significant lag between thinking about putting my feet down on the step just outside the pod and my limbs actually doing it. The sensation is uncomfortable, like trying to pilot my own body from seven feet in the air above my head. Trying to swallow my rising panic I have to reach out and put my weight down on the Edubot as I clamber out of the medical pod. The sole of my foot sticks to the ice cold metal step, and the pain of the icy burn races up my leg. Peeling my foot slowly off the step, skin sticking to the surface, the pain makes me focus. Looking around at the pale blue shimmering safety curtain of energy surrounding the pod my attention is called back to the insistent chime of my wrist biometric monitor. “What is going on?” I croak into the silence of the illuminated med bay. My voice, not quite my own, or how I remember it, reverberates off the powerful safety shielding. Looking beyond the sizzling ghostly curtain of the atmospheric safety dome I catch my first glimpse of my reflection. I am not myself. The surface of my skin is visibly crawling. I scream.
**A continuation of the interconnected space serial from 2020: The Chronicles of Kelvin. – Follow along over the next few weeks (hopefully) for the remaining installments of the story.
The bug has hit…
Storyboarding out the next five additions to my interconnected space short stories. It has been more than six months since I have contributed to the series, besides a one off short I released yesterday, which ultimately seemed to dislodge some cobwebs and allow me, mentally, to align my thoughts and make a coherent story emerge out of my head. But don’t worry, my themes of isolation, confusion, future technology are all going to be well represented. I looked over my notes which kept on getting longer and longer and realized that instead of one ridiculous seven thousand word dump of text, I could break it down into smaller and more manageable pieces and explore each new chapter of the story with aplomb. I had tried several times over the last half of 2020 to plot out some new work and the dastardly covid fugue, or pandemic fatigue was making that near impossible. I don’t know how long this kick in the pants will last but I feel better all ready.
I’m guessing this new literary kick started because I now have three pounds of clay on my desk with a new armature built, and designs for several wood working projects for my wife and children ready to start. We’re into a new lockdown with nowhere to go, so I guess this is how I will try to remain sane with the whole family home 24/7 , and the coldest stretch of the year upon our doorstep keeping us indoors for much of the day. Isolation was far simpler when you could just go swimming in the sunshine to while away a few hours each and everyday. Not so much fun when it gets down to minus twenty degrees with the windchill. Anyway, not that I have an enormous readership, or that there are more than a handful who have read all of the interconnected series from cover to cover, but I’ll be back at it soon enough. I hope you’ll join the returning cast and crew of The Company: A Series of Interconnected Short Stories.
Don’t get discouraged if I pepper in some non-fiction(ish) one off stories in amongst the serialized stuff. Some times my kids do funny or relatable stuff that makes for humorous micro short stories. Wheels up!
“What’s the matter Ted, you don’t look so hot…
Is it the turbulence or the magnitude of what we’re about to do that has you looking all green and grey around the edges?” Barks the Sargeant at the rear of the rickety personnel carrier. A haphazardly made drop ship amounting to little more than a transport container with a heat shield and a few hours of life support bolted into the roof. The interior is colourless, except for the rust and burn marks from previous drops. Timidly the young trooper responds “Is it, is… is it always like this?” He stammers his way through the question as the drop ship rocks violently in the brutal atmospheric turbulence. Small bits of rust and debris fling about the interior as the planets gravity well starts to take hold. With a terrible lurch and a muffled cut-off shriek, the sargeant, who is sat opposite the meek trooper at the rear of the vessel, leans forward with a vicious grin and snarls “Every mother fucking time my son! , isn’t that right boys and girls?” From all around the cramped vessel chants of “Urrah!” Can be heard. For several heart beats they repeat it in unison, with the echoes reverberating off the rusty & bare tin walls. Leaning back against the walls the sargeant bellows “Any second now boys and girls, the ship will kick on its reversing thrusters, we’ll then have to hit the ground running!” With a violent jolt, and the screaming of the jets, soldiers are rammed back into their spartan seats, a cold hard chunk of reinforced pipe with spare bits of rubber zip tied to it. Not much better than just having to squat or stand for the duration of their orbital drop. Given the speed at which they descend, the seats provide almost no safety whatsoever. But these troops aren’t careening through space in a mad dive for the surface for their own safety or for anyone else’s for that matter. They have one goal in mind and it isn’t for the faint of heart. The bland and timid trooper begins to shake violently, and vomits all down his front. The other troopers seated around him, afix their bayonets, testing the triangular serrated blades against their thumbs, and tighten down their helmet chin straps with a quick and knowing grin. Everyone pukes on their first run. There are no simulations here, no dry runs afforded to new converts. Not when you’re the rebellious underdog in this intergalactic battle for the soul of humanity. You either exalt in the mayhem and bloodshed and live to fight another day, or you end up as a pieces of the body count. Whimpering softly to himself, the coarse chunks of his breakfast clinging to his make shift tactical vest, the trooper looks to be in no condition to have to savagely murder his way to the rendezvous point several kilometers away, north of the drop zone through densely populated urban living quarters. These aren’t soldiers that the troopers are looking to massacre, they’re just ordinary folks who happen to live under The Company’s occupation. But they failed to heed the call to rise up, and are now just another line item and tally for the profit loss section of The Company’s ledger. It is all very cold and calculating, if it were not, you might just go mad. Peering over the heads of the seated troopers the sargeant calls out his trusted few with his all too familiar refrain “$1000 Credits to anyone who can prove they killed more than their assigned 300 women & children!”.
On a quiet summer day, as the wisps of soft clouds swirled in the sky, a company family fun day at the park is underway. Thousands of families have gathered for picnics and games at the expense of The Company. The rising sounds of laughter and sport drift lazily on the summers breeze. In the small gaps between bursts of laughter the rustling of brilliant blue leaves can just be heard, punctuated by the odd lilting bird calls native to this foreign world. With little warning the wisps of smoke suddenly materialize into hundreds of clunky metallic drop ships littering the sky. With the echoes of laughter still in the air, tens of thousands of miss matched black clad troops storm out of their drop ships and grind their way through the gathered masses. In a flourish of blades, knives, swords, guns and a hail of bullets the shock troopers gain purchase on this world and settle in for the fight of their lives. None of the inhabitants are armed, no one is prepared. There was no warning, no issuing of a declaration of war, no established protocol being followed. In the fetid wake of the troops are naught but the final screams of pain and horror as bits of bodies are left strewn about the town. Within the blink of an eye, the black mass of shock troops have ripped through the inhabitants and fled across field and wood and town to their rendezvous. All but one. A tallish, bland and timid new soldier, who isn’t wearing a helmet and is covered in vomit. He simply stands numbly, hands at his sides, pupils madly dilated, dizzy in the mid day sun. Head baking in the glare of the hot sunlight as he stands utterly still in the ghastly aftermath. With a violent lurch he crumples to the ground to retch, spilling bile and the last vestiges of his breakfast on the blood soaked ground. All ready the noise from the flies and carrion birds is settling in, soon it will be deafening. Falling face first, tears soaking his eyes, laying prone upon the ground he reaches out his hands to curl his fingers about the sticky hot entrails littering the park, the young timid trooper gasps in horror and passes out.
In the distance the sounds of rocket thrusters boom. The sudden raucous explosions and the wafting smell of fumes causes the timid man to stir. There, not five kilometers to the north of him are streams of jet blast as the rescue ships depart the planet. In less than fifteen minutes, they had entered the atmosphere undetected, mutilated vast swathes of a town’s population and fled for their next attack. All non combatants, no military or intelligence objectives taken, just shear violence and unadulterated terror. Then vanish back to the stars never to be seen again.
Greatwall Studios Graphic Design 
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