Saturday, January 14, 2012


A dense, suffocating blackness hung over the park. The lights were faint. Dim. As if they did not penetrate the darkness, but were engulfed by it. The wraith-like trees reached from the shadows, reaching out to strangle the fragile, flickering glow. Brecht pulled his heavy coat around him. He moved slowly down the path, towards the centre of the park, where the stygian blackness was at its most malevolent. He stepped slowly and deliberately, completely aware of the horror that skulked in the impenetrable gloom.

Brecht paused. He heard footsteps. They scratched and scuffed against the path with imbalanced rhythm. Brecht slowed his breathing. He exhaled, breathing methodically to relax his body. The slightest twitch, the briefest hesitation, the shortest of pauses would be all it needed. The small, white clouds of vapor expelled from his cracked lips slowly stopped appearing. He stood deathly still, listening as the presence crept closer.

The figure came into view. The shadowy figure was barely visible in the failing light. It awkwardly stepped forward then stopped. It was a woman. She leaned forward, peering down the path. She swayed and stepped to the edge of the path. The dull lamp light swept past her and revealed Brecht standing in the middle of the path, though his face was still partially obscured, it was too late to slink into the shadows.

Brecht leaned forward, trying to assume a casual pace. He lifted his head briefly to catch a glimpse of the woman. She hiccuped and giggled while she pulled at the bottom of her dress. Brecht smiled slightly. The woman fumbled with her handbag, rummaging around, looking for something. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She turned the packet upside down and tapped it onto her free hand. The packed spilled into her hand and onto the ground. She giggled as she grasped one between her fingers and flicked her lighter on. The small yellow flame cast a warm glow across her relaxed features. The flame flickered as it licked the end of the cigarette.
As he passed, Brecht could smell burnt tobacco mixed tinged with vodka. She watched him and smiled softly. Brecht nodded slightly, the warmth of his return smile lost underneath the heavy, dark scarf covering mouth. He continued down the path, listening to the woman muttering to herself as she picked up the scattered cigarettes. He turned his head back slightly to watch her from the corner of his eye. He pulled the collar of his trench coat to his mouth and cleared his throat discreetly as he flicked the communicator on.

He turned his head back forward to focus his full attention back to the path ahead of him.

Joanne picked up her 7th cigarette and stood up. She swayed slightly. She closed her eyes as she inhaled from the cigarette. As she exhaled she looked back up the path. The man was crouching down, frantically grabbing at something on the ground. She started to walk closer to see what he had dropped. She closed her eyes and held her arms to the side to try and steady. As she stepped closer, she could hear him muttering rapidly, his voice was low, gravelly... though another voice seemed to speak with him, as if he were being echoed by a much higher, sharper tone.
Joanne blinked her eyes hard and strained them to focus on the crouching man. He looked different than before. Though he was crouching, his arms moved wildly forward, as if digging into the pathway. As violent as the movements seemed, his body remained balanced perfectly, as if not affected by his rapidly moving limbs.

Brecht’s eyes darted around as the flashing streams of crimson splashed across the path. He had lost control of his body completely. He felt the thick, viscous liquid coursing through the nerves and muscles in his body. He felt the sickening warmth of blood as it spattered and ran across his skin. He could only watch.

Joanne stepped into the light and examined the object that had gained the complete focus of the manic figure. She saw the pleading eyes of the man in the trench coat. Her eyes slowly moved over his supine form. She screamed in absolute terror.

Brecht’s eyes stared intently at the screaming woman. He pleaded for her to run. He tried to scream to her, but could not. The dark figure crouching above him launched itself out of his view. The blood curdling screaming increased in intensity. Brecht twitched. The terrified, sobbing cry for help rang in his ears, and made his stomach churn. The last harrowing shrieks were silenced quickly. Brecht heard her body hit the ground and her last gasps for breath finish in a disgusting gargle.

He wanted to throw up as the blood of its new prey splattered across his face.

He couldn’t.

He tried to close his eyes.

He couldn’t.
I will gladly take the addled dreams of a madman, than wake to another nightmare.

Friday, May 13, 2011


I love to watch the lake at night. I love to feel the resonance of the wind as it howls across the water surface. I love listening to the sounds of the cabin creaking and twisting as the gusting force pushes against the aging timber. Hearing the air whistling ghostly melodies through the cracks in the floorboards and filled the cabin with an inescapable, haunting chill. I watch the willows writhe and contort in the midnight gale, lashing the brackish water with their tendrilous branches. The lake tears violently at boats moored to the pier, as if trying to wrench them from their safehold and drag them down into the crushing darkness. Past the pier, the reflection of the gibbous moon rippled softly, with an eerie serenity, its celestial glow providing little light to the surroundings, but casting a clear, luminous echo upon the pulsing black surface.

I pulled my robe closer around me and started clenching and relaxing my fists. My fingers feel numb. I stretched them out in front of the small lantern. I can feel the dull warmth of the light as the muscles started to expand and shake off the icy chill. My research has become staggered as I delve deeper. Information has become scarce and the biting cold is taking its toll on my addled mind.

Glancing at my reflection in the window reveals to me the physical effects of my studious exile. The soft glow from the candle highlights my skeletal features, giving an inhuman depth to the sunken flesh and jutting bone edges. It had been a long 6 months, but I was stuck. I had pored over countless tomes of knowledge, siphoning the unfathomable truths from the glaring falsehoods. The depth that believers will descend in the quest of such knowledge confounds me. Searching for existence of Elder Gods or creatures from beyond, though futile, is an unexpectedly common condition. Religion, at its core, is merely seeking understanding and reasoning for our existence. It is one of the most primal of thought processes, but the influence of the masses dictates the socially acceptable response.

I flicked through pages of a particularly worn book. It was filled with scrawled images and hand written notes, no more articulate than the wandering blather of a village drunkard. As I shut the novel, I noticed a dark figure standing at the pier. I do not know how long they had been there. The wind whipped the tattered robes around their body. They figure was facing the lake, whether watching or waiting, I could not tell. I blew out the candle, instantly plunging the inside of the cabin into darkness. I stood to the side of window while I watched the man, ensuring my body remained hidden in the shadows. The water beat relentlessly against the pier columns, temporarily shrouding the figure in an aqueous mist. He started to walk down the pier. The waves seemed to crash in a rhythmic, almost methodical pace. He continued till he reached the end of the dock. The wind howled furiously, I felt the cabin pressure shift as the sudden increase in ferocity threatened to break it from its foundations. The air whistled louder through the floorboards, each different gap gave a new hollow, ghostly tone as if it was lending its voice to a malevolent, spectral choir. I kept my eyes focused on the man, my heart raced. The waves were higher and more powerful. Each spray of water seemed to envelop him completely, then wash away, leaving him unscathed.

The sound of wood splintering and metal shrieking snapped me out of my trance and the violent outburst was quickly replaced by the overwhelming, dreadful howling of the wind screamed through the empty frame. I rushed to the front and found the door snapped and flailing on its last hinge. I grabbed the pieces and started to pull them back towards me. I stole a glance toward the pier. The moonlight had left. I could hear the waves crashing and the pier twisting in agony as it strained to retain its structure against the violent onslaught.

I wedged the door closed, bracing the shattered pieces with fireplace pokers as best I could. I rushed back to the window. The waves had started to die down. The intensity of the wind began to lessen. The man was gone, swept away in the maelstrom. Fool. As the wind died, the water calmed. The willows gently stroked the glassy obsidian surface, the slight midnight breeze whistled through the floorboards. The moon’s luminous glow reflected in the lake’s centre. The night fell into a peaceful slumber.

The next morning I woke to the unfamiliar sight of boats patrolling the lake edges. Upon speaking to the somewhat skittish villagers, I learned the man was a Mr Prathroe, the local butcher. Though I did not admit to seeing the event, it was clear I was not the only one aware of his peculiar actions. He was a family man, and left behind his wife and 2 daughters. He was a happy man, one with no real reason or purpose to partake in such a seemingly deliberate sacrifice. Though the lake was a small body of water, by sundown, Prathroe’s body had not been recovered.

However uncommon the circumstances of his disappearance may be, the villagers does not seem to be perturbed, or even bothered by such an aberrant event. Tonight I will return to my studies, though my mind will surely to wander in an attempt to seek meaning from this curious experience.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

The Fox and the Pigeon

Steve chose his pigeon. He bumped past the man, taking his wallet at the point of impact. He raised his hand over his shoulder in apology and continued to walk. He heard his victim's footsteps stop, then break into a run. Steve sighed and shifted his weight to push hard off his right foot. His shoe slipped on the damp cobblestone, sending his body flying forward. He hadn't fallen. Pigeon was holding him upright by the neck of his jacket.

Steve spun around, throwing his left arm over the man's extended arm. Using his momentum, he swung his right arm into the ribs of his captor. He felt a satisfying crunch as his punch hit home. The man's body twisted in pain. Still controlling Pigeon’s left arm, Steve threw another punch at his exposed side. Pigeon roared in pain as his ribs fractured. Steve sneered as he shoved the man away.

Pigeon’s breathing came in short, pained bursts. Steve snickered. He stood just outside arm’s reach of his victim, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Steve threw a punch to his Pigeon’s rib. The man threw his arms out to cover the injury. Grinning, Steve jabbed to Pigeon’s unprotected face. He bounced again. He threw another body punch, only to sting his victim again. Pigeon’s eyes started to tear up as the throbbing sensation in his face increased. Steve faked again, Pigeon threw a half-hearted block. He feigned a jab, causing Pigeon to quickly lift both arms to block. Steve hissed a laugh. He swung his right hand in a vicious hooking punch to the man’s unguarded ribs. Steve took delight in Pigeon’s agonised scream as he doubled over in pain.

Steve stretched his arms high. He heard Pigeon snort air from his nose. Steve saw a dark blur speeding towards him as Pigeon's backhand strike slammed into his jaw. He felt his head twist sharply, his body went numb. His vision blurred as he staggered backward. Pigeon stood up straight and started walking towards him. Steve desperately fought the urge to close his eyes. Through his distorted perception he could see the outline of Pigeon getting closer. A blinding light flashed in Steve’s eyes. It faded, only to be replaced by a crimson haze. The red tinged alley slowly twisted and warped around him. He fell to the ground, unable to maintain equilibrium.

Steve felt himself being pulled to his feet, his body limp and lifeless. He felt the air rush past him. Pain stabbed through his mind as the back of his skull cracked against the wall. His body slumped to the ground, leaving a slick blood trail down the brickwork. Pigeon lifted his front leg, curling back his boot to expose the heel.

He drove his boot into Steve's face, crushing his skull against the wall behind him.

Pigeon wiped his boots on the dead man's pants.

Pigeon looked around. He picked up his wallet and left the alley.

Fight 1

Leija shifted her weight in an attempt to get more comfortable. The campfire crackled on the ground below. She had positioned the bedroll a reasonable distance from the fire. She heard a familiar noise. A footstep, dragging through the dirt. This could be it.

Leija closed her eyes to remove the fire's dull glow affecting her sight. She opened them and scanned the surrounding bushes. A dark figure was moving in the bushes, keeping low. Leija reached for the throwing axe in her belt. The intruder had entered the clearing. Inexperienced mercenary. Scavenged leather armour and a crude, notched blade. He moved closer to the bed. Leija drew her arm back, ready to throw. The mercenary paused.

'He's noticed...', Leija thought. She lowered her arm, waiting for the mercenary's next movement. He looked back over his shoulder and raised his hand. Leija looked to the bushes. A second figure stood upright, acknowledging the signal. Leija smiled.


The mercenary lifted his sword and pointed the blade down at the the blanket. Leija took aim at the second mercenary and threw the hatchet. As soon as the axe had left her hand, Leija dropped from the tree, drawing a small curved knife. The first mercenary plunged his blade down into his target. His partner screamed. The mercenary stopped.


Leija moved quickly and quietly, getting behind her victim.

She crouched and sliced across the back of his right knee. The man cried out as his leg buckled forward. Leija smirked as she sidestepped the collapsing man. She slid her blade across his neck, then rammed it up, underneath his jaw as he fell. She moved quickly out of the light. The mercenary's eyes grew wide in shock, his mouth filling with blood as he tried to scream. Farren bellowed and crashed into the clearing, the hatchet still lodged in his left shoulder.

'Kritz!! What the fuck is happening?' Leija moved quickly behind him, she pulled a thin, straight knife from her belt. Kritz gurgled weakly.

'Where is she!?'

Kritz pointed. Farren turned around. Leija smiled and kissed the air. He wrenched the hatchet from his limp, left arm and charged forward, swinging wildly. Leija moved towards his left side, forcing him to attack clumsily across his own body. She thrust her heel into the inside of his left knee, snapping the joint. He crumbled.

Leija crouched, so they were face to face. She winked at him. Farren spat and raised the hatchet again. Leija grabbed his wrist with one hand and placed the other on top of his arm. She looked back to his face. He had closed his eyes tight. She waited. He slowly opened his eyes, confused. Leija sat, still smiling. He exhaled, relieved, then looked up at his arm. Leija slid her hand down his arm, using it as a guide. She slammed her knife into the side of his neck. Farren twitched. Leija pulled the knife forward, in a savage, tearing motion, cutting his throat. He dropped forward.

Leija stood up and walked back to the bedroll. She pulled Kritz' sword from the bed, the blade dripping onto the ground. She pulled back the blanket and checked her supplies. The water skin had been pierced. Leija sighed and sat down, facing the fire.


Thursday, November 18, 2010


The stench was almost overwhelming. He looked at the cadaver with cold, calculating eyes. He analysed the body, taking in all details with a practiced eye. Distorted limbs had been twisted to sickening angles. Gaping holes had been torn into flesh. Sinew and muscle had been divided into viscous crimson strands. He noticed the minimal blood staining the victim's clothing, contradicting the obvious amount of havoc wrought to have inflicted such horrific injuries. He slowly stepped around the operating table, his shoes clicking and creaking on the mezzanine floor. He paused.

He looked carefully into the eyes of the carcass. The pupils had been depleted of colour. Where the body itself held a feeling of life, the eyes gave the feeling of absence. The hollow, vacant gaze pierced his resolve and invaded his mind like a serpent's long, slender tendrils writhing and constricting around their prey. He placed 2 fingers on the side of the corpse's throat...


He exhaled quietly and walked to his workbench. He skimmed over the information given from the delivering officers. Name, Birthplace, Rank, Family, none of it was of any relevance. Putting a human face to the most inhuman of tasks would not be beneficial to the cause. He looked back to the still figure, the lifeless eyes still staring at the fluorescent lighting overhead. The lights hummed quietly, the only noise audible in the operating room at this hour. He moved to the sink. The splash of the water on the metal basin cut through the unnerving silence. He dried his hands and started to put on a pair of gloves. He turned back to face the table. He stared at the body as he adjusted the latex that had bunched around his knuckles. He picked up a tray where he kept his medical instruments. He took them to the operating table and placed the tray down with the softest of touches. He pulled his dictaphone from his coat's breast pocket and slowly pushed down the record button.

Body temperature, 35 degrees Celsius and falling.

Numerous tears in the left brachium. Strands of muscle separated, fibrous in texture and appearance. Muscle filaments coated in thick, transparent substance acting as cauterizing agent.

9 punctures found on the subjects left shoulder, in oval formation with 4 inch vertical diameter, centered precisely on the articulatio humeri. Abrasions spaced 0.5 inches apart. Lower 5 punctures with a 0.5 inch shift left. Puncture sample measuring 2.3 inches deep, 0.15 inches radius, tapering to a point, suggesting piercing canines, though this wound is synonymous with all others. Interlocking horizontal distance and wound depth suggest protruding jaws. Cauterizing substance found to line each puncture wound.

Further lacerations found on corpse's jugular. Slight bruising surrounds each abrasion, signs of increase in force in attack. Wound radius 0.35 inches and do not appear to have the perfect symmetry of the humeri abrasions. Closer inspection reveals bruised dermal areas contain slight lacerations and dermal trauma. Puncture depth 2.6 inches. Trachea crushed, severe puncture wounds. Cause of death, crushed windpipe.

He pushed the stop button on his recording device. The buttons clicked back into their original position. He exhaled slowly and placed the dictaphone down onto the table. He removed his gloves with a snap and grabbed the tray carrying his instruments. He emptied the tray into the decontamination bin and slid the tray along the bench towards the sink. He leaned against the bench and turned to face to the operating table once more. He walked back to the table and picked up the dictaphone.

He slowly pushed down the record button. The button clicked as it locked into position.

What is most concerning is the increase in sadistic, machiavellian intelligence. Rather than habitual adequacy, wounds sustained by test subjects indicate a deliberate, prolonged suffering. Further augmentation not recommended.

Monday, October 18, 2010


I'm starting to feel myself slip into creative mediocrity. I find so little rewarding and I don't have the drive or motivation to accomplish even the most minor of tasks. I feel completely burnt out and though I'm surrounded by books, music and I have more than enough outlets for creative energy, I just don't want to.

Returning to a punishing martial art seems to be the only thing I can focus on for an extended period of time. I'm surrounded by notepads, brand new books, instruments and anything else I need for a creative outlet, but the will and inspiration to do anything at all is gone. Everything bores me and nothing can thrill me.

Almost everything.