Garrisonjames

"Constancy in love is a good thing; but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy in every kind of effort." Bleak House, by Charles Dickens Luc hacked-up more blood-flecked phlegm into a scrap of old burlap. It reeked of sour potatoes. He wished he still had some potatoes. Instead he was shivering his ass off in the cold. Waiting. Always waiting. Jorzi slogged through dismal gray mud. Her boots were ruined. Her feet raw, wet and bleeding. She hated this dreary, filthy place. Always raining. Always rotting. She muttered a quick prayer; her fifth this morning. She did not want to become infected. Like the others. Like her mother. Like her brother. Tig jumped down from the rafters. Six rats in his catch-sack. They'd eat well tonight. Jorzi climbed up the rickety ladder. She didn't entirely trust the mold-splotched thing, but it seemed to hold her weight. For the most part. Not that she weighed much. Not any more. Tig clambered through the jag

My computer is in the shop. I'll be back as soon as I am able.

Warm green light washed past her. Pungent moss and decaying wood scented the air ahead. An opening. A way out. But was it the one she was looking for? There wasn't time to be choosy. She could hear the scalehounds' talons clicking on the stones behind her. She jumped. Previous                                                                                        Next An Introduction       An Index       Datadex/Appendix The  Weekend Writing Warriors site  sponsors a round of 8-sentence excerpts every weekend.  Zeelia (1)  was my first 8-sentence except and has become a regular weekly feature here at my blog. There is a new Linky-list at  Weekend Writing Warriors  for everyone participating in the blog-hop each weekend. Be sure to check out some of the other writers!

Surikka crawled through the jagged hole in the sagging wall. She checked the trip-wire on her slam-spikes. The trap was still armed. Cautiously, delicately, she slid under the false wire, meant to fool anyone looking for a trap, and then stood up. Reached over her head. The old ladder was still there. Tug. It seemed secure. She grabbed hold and pulled herself up. One rung at a time. Careful not to let her legs flail about. That would trigger another trap. A Forager could never be too paranoid. Most died horribly because they weren't paranoid enough. Surikka was methodical, which was not quite as good as being full-out paranoid, but it had worked so far. She was still alive. Several of her former class-mates weren't. It was a harsh lesson. She intended to graduate alive and intact. Her few friends called her ambitious. Everyone else called her a stuck-up bitch. She wasn't even sure what that was supposed to mean. Jealousy? Insecurity? Racism? Probably. It wasn't h

This is my recent experiment with artistic blur, inspired by the recent article on artistic blur as part of the  Exploring with a Camera series over at the Kat Eye Studio blog . Now that I have the image, I'll write-up an encounter table and post it over at the Hereticwerks blog. I'll be doing a few more of these.

Tears blurred everything, making the darkness doubly treacherous. Sweat almost cost her the sabre; her grip was growing weaker. Blood caked her hair, a soggy crust tugged each time she moved. Exhaustion was overtaking her faster than the scalehounds tracking her scent. Her hands shook too much to check on the gun. She forced herself to keep moving. It couldn't be too much farther, and if it was, then it would do her no good. It would all be over before it could really begin. Next An Introduction       An Index       Datadex/Appendix The Weekend Writing Warriors site sponsors a round of 8-sentence excerpts every weekend. This is my first one. I plan on making this a regular feature, if only to help build-up some more momentum with the writing. There is a Linky-list for everyone participating in the blog-hop this weekend . Check out some of the other writers!

Vorthrid cursed Ajjmae and his ill-fated schemes for the hundredth time since waking-up in a scorched field to the ungentle wailing of a Black Smoke alarm. He hadn't known what it was at first. He supposed it was just some random siren. Then the Wall Guard disabused him of that notion. They lost two of their patrol to the Black Smoke on their way to the North East Guard House. The stuff oozed and bubbled up out of the muck and mud as they crossed through what used to be a garden of some sort. No one had noticed the tiny first wisps, not until after the flame-thrower team finished burning the Red Weeds down to the ground. Then they noticed. There was too much smoke. They ran. Vorthrid stumbled on a root. One of the Wall Guard grabbed him. Prevented him from falling. Shoved him forward. He glanced back. Saw the Black Smoke billow up like a geyser to take his benefactor. The screams ended, eventually. Technicians in wet-suits sprayed them all down with hoses as they entered the Gua