Showing posts from May, 2014

Eight Sentences: Zeelia (20)

Dark water swallowed them both, her knife buried deep in the mercenary's fleshy throat. She clutched the thing's collar and forced it down, down into the pool. She took its trench-knife and stabbed it, leaving hers in-place. This one struggled more. Fore-warned, it wasn't surprised, but it was drowning and bleeding and dying just the same. She let go of the collar and reclaimed the first knife just as a wild swing with its tail-mace tore her loose in a billowing cloud of blood. She kicked for the surface. This time she ran. Previous                                                                                          Next (Coming Soon!) 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

Eight Sentences: Zeelia (19)

Lungs nearly bursting, nostrils burning, she broke surface and slipped out of the deceptively deep pool on the opposite side from where she had lain in wait. The trench-knife clipped into place on her hip, freeing her hands. She chose a likely-looking tree, actually some kind of gigantic celery-like fern-thing, and started climbing. Once high enough, and sufficiently covered by the thing's bracts, blades and burrs, she waited while the rain cleared the blood and scum from her armor and hair. Hoping against hope to get lucky at least once more, before the analysts realized that she wasn't going to play by their scrupulously codified and sanitized rules. There--A lone figure half-slid, half-stumbled down the muddy embankment. All the data and analysis in all the worlds can't make someone think when it matters; the Jarpha leaned in to try and see into the scummy pool. The wind felt good as she fell with the rain, her stolen trench-knife poised to strike. Previous        

Eight Sentences: Zeelia (18)

Blades, spades and blunt-force trauma were equated to the three fingers of a Jarpha's hand; the thumb was usually relegated to logistics. Full-service mercenaries, their Administrator-General bragged that they offered a complete range of tactical options suited to a wide range of situations, so long as their missions were limited to mid-scale human-livable environments and were focused on close-quarters, low-impact/no-footprint sorts of operations. These were the troops you sent into jungles, swamps and treacherous terrain where other units would get bogged-down or hacked to pieces by the locals. She knew all of this, having made a study of  Dunstanovich's Posthumously Annotated Regulations and Commendations of Field-Level Commanders (Vol. III)  that she had copied into her secondary, encrypted data-node before leaving Corazune. A prudent investment--what was that? A Jarpha slipped and slid awkwardly down the same slope as she had. It floundered, struck a rock, bounced to th

Eight Sentences: Zeelia (17)

Their aerostat was less than useless in the misty drizzle, so the Jarpha were slogging through the mud, bitching about the weather as they went, like every other unit of infantry has done since the days of rocks and sticks. They didn't waste much time examining the craters and carnage where they'd taken-out some locals. Once it was confirmed that their target wasn't among the bodies they set off in slow pursuit, each one stomping along through the mist, muck and rain pissing down on everything. The Scale-Hounds hissed and frolicked in the rain; their sense of smell all but useless now. Battle-tested cynics, the Jarpha embraced the principles of implacability and inevitability, patience and persistence were their watch-words, the core of the warrior-creed deeply imprinted into their flesh and blood. Like bloody-handed conquistador-archaeologists on a recently appropriated dig site; they followed a grid, methodically plodding along and letting their onboard observation-mod

Eight Sentences: Zeelia (16)

Mist rose from the saturated soil, further obscuring her position. Off in the distance frog-things croaked, bug-things chirruped or chittered. Then suddenly there was only the sound of the blood-warm rain pitter-patting into the fronds and leaves and soggy, boggy ground. They were close; really close. She froze, then caught herself and began to consciously relax her muscles like she had been taught; going rigid presented a more recognizable pattern than staying loose. Jarpha knew what to look for; they were old hands at this sort of thing. Their complacency was something that she might once again be able to turn to her advantage, that and the terrain. With a feral grin on her lips, she closed her eyes and let her senses extend freely into the undergrowth in search of her nearest possible opportunity for mischief. Previous                                                                                          Next An Introduction     An Index     Datadex/Appendix The  Weeke