Weekend Writing Warriors 17/4/2016

This is my entry for Weekend Writing Warriors. 
If anyone hasn't come across WeWriWa before, you need to go here to see all the extraordinary talent on display.
My snippet this week is again from Impcatcher. Tal Djandiss, the eponymous impcatcher of the title, is still in a dark cellar. Flame have erupted from the skin of the rogue imp he is struggling with.

 

Don't ever believe any fool who tells you imps are cute little critters. Virtually all are vicious, sadistic and psychopathic, and they get a great deal of pleasure out of hurting us humans. If they can kill one of us, so much the better. This one had every intent of achieving that aim. I've read assertions that an imp has to claim a mortal life to rise to a higher status, or to become a fully-fledged demon. I've no idea if it's true, but I didn't intend to let this wretch use my mortal essence to get higher up some infernal greasy pole.

Flames blossomed under me, licking around my leather jacket. The brightness scorched at my eyes after the previous gloom, spreading shadows cavorting like mad dancers all around the cellar. 

As always, comments welcome!

Weekend Writing Warriors - 10th April 2016

This is my entry for Weekend Writing Warriors. 
If anyone hasn't come across WeWriWa before, you need to go here to see all the extraordinary talent on display.

My snippet this week is again from Impcatcher. Tal Djandiss, the eponymous impcatcher of the title, is still in a pitch black cellar. The rogue imp he was hunting has just bitten him - Tal is fighting back...

I swung my heavy, squirming burden down onto its back against the stone floor with a solid thud, hoping to knock the fight out of it before it thought to start throwing fire around. 

So far, it had been playing games, amusing itself with the idiot human. Now that said idiot had proved to be reasonably capable, it might well use some of the more dangerous abilities in its arsenal. It twisted and shrieked, but in anger, not dismay. Not to my surprise, it snarled something else, and its skin began to smoke. Small flames began to lick from its skin – the grey slab walls around us flickered red from the glow, wet moss reflecting the light in wide patches on the ancient stone. 

I hauled the imp off the deck and slammed it down again with all my strength. A quozac is not an easy customer - most have an evil sense of humour and a good line in incendiaries. This one was obviously no exception.

As always, comments welcome!

The final SFFS

This is the last ever SFFS - it's been home for a group of writers for nearly five years, and I've been proud to be a member of this august company for much of that period. The details of the others participating are here, providing an impressive selection of extracts from a variety of stories. I've formed some strong friendships as a result of being part of the group, and even though SFFS has reached its natural ending, those friendships will go forward. I hope to stay in touch with all of you.

I particularly want to express my thanks to Laurel C Kriegler who has been the creator of SFFS and primarily responsible for the group - thank you for putting up with our madness over the years! Here is a bottle of champagne for everyone - unfortunately only virtual!



My final snippet is the ending of Sorrel Swordless, a short story in which our brave heroine found herself confronting a large, hungry and dangerous horror. Again I'm grateful to Laurel for allowing me to break the usual sentence count so that I can conclude the tale! In the previous snippet, here, the creature struck out as Sorrel scrambled out of the lake onto her 'plane...

The glass side windows of the Swan shattered. The ruzdrool shrieked again, its high-pitched whistle sounding more like a steam train than a living creature. Dark blue ichor was dripping from deep gashes in the tentacles. It struck at the Swan again, driving its spines into the glass. I stared at it blankly, before realising what it was attacking. It had seen its reflection in the large sheets of glass, and had believed it faced the most deadly of all opponents – its own kind. A third assault broke the glass over the top of the cockpit, and then the giant ruzdrool tottered back on its stilt-legs, backing away, two of the tentacles severed. Ichor was pouring from the ruined flesh, and the ruzdrool clearly decided retreat was the better part of valour. It picked its way up the slope, past the bushes where Kelhene was still lurking, and moments later was out of sight.

By then I had scrambled over the top of the fuselage, evaded the broken glass, and swung down and into the cockpit. I had the coronet on my head a moment later, but my potential target had vanished.

The cockpit hatch opened again, and Kelhene scrambled inside.

'You all right, Sorrel?' At my affirmative, she sank into her seat with relief. 'Can we fly with this much damage?' she asked anxiously.

I nodded. 'it didn't smash the front windscreens' I said with relief. 'So long as I keep our speed down, we may get a bit winded, but we can fly.'

'What happened?' she asked. 'Why did it attack the 'plane?'

I grinned. 'For once, something actually listened to me – it picked on someone its own size.'

As always, comments welcome...  and on that note, I bid SFFS farewell, with grateful thanks to everyone who has been a part of it over the years!

Weekend Writing Warriors - 3rd April 2016

This is my entry for Weekend Writing Warriors. 
If anyone hasn't come across WeWriWar before, you need to go here to see all the extraordinary talent on display.
My snippet this week is again from Impcatcher, and comes from a few lines beyond where we were last week. Tal Djandiss, the eponymous impcatcher of the title, is still in a pitch black cellar, where he has managed to grab hold of the rogue imp he was hunting.

   

The imp was not greatly troubled at being caught. It turned, chortling, and sank its teeth into my arm. Quozacs have more ivories in their mouths than any creature has any right to have. Not that they are unique amongst imps in that respect. The teeth carved through the thick leather of my jacket, and I felt them clamp into my flesh. The pain was appalling, like a dozen snakes biting at once, and I cried out in anger and agony. I twisted desperately, and the back of the brute's head slammed into the pillar near me. For a moment, the impact drove its teeth deeper into my bicep, but it howled in pain in response, mouth opening wide, releasing my arm.

I wasn't going to give it a second chance.

 As always, comments welcome!

SFFS 2/4/2016 Sorrel Swordless part 9

This is my snippet this week for SFFSat. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone else is still posting here, but I'm going to carry on doggedly simply to complete the story I'm posting. If there is anyone else on this weekend, their details are here.

This is part 9 of a complete short story (in snippets) set in Sorrel's world. For those who have already read the Sorrel novels (and if you haven't, you should - they're good books!) this is set after the end of Sorrel in Silver - but you don't need to have read the novels for it to make sense, and it doesn't contain too many spoilers for the main trilogy. Part 8 is here, in case you missed it last week. A giant horror has crept up on our hapless heroine. She is swimming in the lake, trying to stay out of its reach, and has swum over to her moored seaplane.

Thirty seconds were enough to get me onto the top of the lower wing, clinging onto the engine cowling. Big Violet strode closer on its stilt-like legs. Kelhene was still lurking well back. The main fuselage was between me and the monster. I could get onto the top of the fuselage. Unfortunately, unlike my old amphibious aeroplane, the Swan didn't have any hatches on top. Very remiss of the designers. If I got out of this alive and got back to the surface I would have words with them.

The monstrosity had moved further up the bank, so that it was almost alongside the Swan. The fat violet snake-body was swaying back and forward, tentacles swirling and writhing, the two eye-stalks twisting and peering downwards. I watched it, puzzled as to what it was thinking or feeling (assuming it did either).

It struck lightning-fast. Four tentacles slammed forward as it shrieked a battle-cry.

Next week we find out if Sorrel survives the creature's actions! As always, comments are welcome.