#beaumontwrites

[beaumontwrites]

Aftermath, Chapter One.

patreon supported.

Fruit had become strangely bitter in the aftermath. The ashes had stained into the flesh of the apples that grew in great groves across the Illawarra, and the sulphur in the air permeated the winds across the entire state.

The scent of baking damper slowly overpowered that smell, mingling with the scent of roasting apple - caramelising butter and cane-sugar to sweeten it - and a herbal tea that steeped in a cast-iron pot.

The small camp-site on the edge of a small quickly desertifying town, in a small fenced in car-dealership lot. The rusted wrecks of the cars had already been stripped for useful parts. The heavily boarded up dealership was a safe-house for the Pathfinder patrols that crossed the suburbs. Forward scouts for the resistance against the living and the dead.

Sam leaned her head against her friend’s shoulder. Jess, too busy drinking to stop her. Patrol 36, eight unfortunate souls, sat around a campfire made from scavenge and dreams. It was mostly silent, until someone spoke, a long day had taken most of the joviality from them. A few ‘chem-lights’ - glow-sticks - lit the road beyond the dealership’s thick chain-link fence with bright yellow and orange lights. Nothing was out there yet. But it was probably due for some rain.

The newcomer, a young woman a few years Sam’s junior, sat across from her, hand still clutching their rifle as they drank the thick soldier’s beer. Two meals a day, three litres of water and two bottles of the thing the commissariat was generously calling beer.

Jess: “Got any smokes still on you?”

Sam pulled a tin-box from her breast pocket and took a peek. Still a few left.

Sam: “Three.”

Jess was her second-in-command, her last remaining friend from before the end. Nearly as fucked up as she was. Jess rummaged through their pockets.

Sam: “Here.” She offered a cigarette, “Don’t worry about that shit.”

Jess: “You sure?”

Sam: “Yeah, I gotta quit anyway.”

Jess took the cigarette, those things’ll kill ya. Herbal cigarettes, half the time they were padded with saw-dust because it burned but didn’t fuck up your lungs or the taste quite as much.

Jess lit up, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close. Dinner took a long time, and most of it was just spent in silence staring at the flickering flames. A few sips of soldier’s beer and a bite to eat, then it was time to sleep. Nights out on patrol became bitterly cold, so it was always welcome to have Jess to share them with. The entire Greater Sydney Basin had started to turn into a desert, ashen and grey. The small town where they made camp was too small to retain much heat and she could feel the ache in her bones as she laid in the back of their truck to rest.

Had it only been five years? She had lived in this town once, her school was just down the road from here. Everything that had happened in the aftermath; death, misery, suffering, darkness. Everything from before felt like a dream, another reality. The only thing that reminded her it was real once upon a time was Jess.

It had begun with a cough. A small outbreak of an unknown virus in the heart of Manhattan.  It was entirely innocuous, life went on as everyone simply struggled through another bad flu season. Then people started to die, it spread so quickly that the world was on-fire before anyone had any clue what had happened. It went from a sniffle to a pandemic in a month. Governments went into crisis, the world locked down, quarantined the sick.

Whatever it was presented itself, bleeding membranes and bruising on the more delicate skin of the body.

In a month one percent of the entire world’s population was dead. Nearly eighty million people. And that would have been survivable, if they had stayed dead. In two months, five percent of the population had died. Then they stopped keeping track. It was pointless to quarantine the sick, so they quarantined the healthy.

Every single healthy person they could fine boarded the long-train west. The sick but not yet dead were rounded up and told to die fighting. Ten percent, the population of the world that was resistant enough to the virus that they weren’t killed outright. Half of one percent, those who seemed physically immune. It wasn’t immunity, they were carriers, with no symptoms and no need to fear.

Sam and Jess were two of them, they were torn from their family. They all died in the war as Sam and Jess boarded the long train.

Day Zero, the last day of the war, when the dead had overcome the living. A broadcast echoed out across the world, the final radio signal to reach out and transmit what little the Australian Government knew about the virus. It had broadcast on all frequencies, it cut through all the static, it interrupted broadcasts and it said the same thing for a week.

It is airborne, it is airborne, it is airborne.

There was no escape, simply breathing the air was enough to infect you. And you could tell if you were going to die just by how the bruising spread across your body. If it was only isolated to the eyes and mouth, you had a good chance of surviving.

The government was gone, and rather than descending into anarchy, fear brought the remnants of society together. Those that filled the power vacuum had a few ideas about how the world had come to end. As a punishment for the sins of the living; the queers, colours and heathens. Hedonism and addiction, the old world had to be eaten to cleanse it for the righteous.

Fire-brands in the shell of the old Commonwealth, the entire world started to burn.

“By the fires of the grace of the Fallen God, we are cleansed of the impurities of the soul. Be they called as Jehovah, Allah, or by any other name, the Fallen God lights the path to our salvation.”

They took root in the quarantine camps, and immediately began their reign of ‘correction’ and ‘cleansing’.

“It is upon us to correct the sins of those who do not walk in the light of the Fallen God.”

Being a young girl trapped in the confines of a cell, surrounded by monsters, having them know you are with another girl. Seeing the pyres they light, hoping that is your fate over the alternative - yet knowing the real fate for you.

“You are too precious to burn.”

Death is a kindness.

“Through the grace of the Fallen God, we were made. And yet by our hubris we rebelled and slew them. With no guide to take our souls to eternal paradise, instead we shall return to consume our own flesh and drink our own blood until the final body is devoured and nothing remains but the purgatory.”

Sam woke, she had missed her shift. A grumpy Ashley, one of her closer friends, had no issues taking over.

Ash: “Boss needed her sleep, she’s been running herself into the ground.”

Elizabeth: “What’s her deal anyway?”

Sam laid listening to them.

Elizabeth: “Why’s she hate them so much?”

Everyone here hated those pricks, that’s why they rebelled, why they fought two wars instead of one.

Ash: “It’s not my place to tell that story. But there are worse things you can do to someone than killing them.”

Sam got up, there was no point delaying it. It was nearly dawn, just the slightest hint of colour had made it into the sky. She approached the still burning fire and sat down. They noticed her, greeted her with a nod.

Elizabeth: “It’s not really the best I’ve ever made, but...”

Elizabeth was making something from the left over bread and apple. Tea was reboiling.

Elizabeth: “Beats the alternative.”

They offered her the first slice, it was toast. Toast with some kind of crushed apple spread.

She took a bite, it was surprisingly good. Crushed apple paste, a hint of something she couldn’t put her finger on, maybe some butter in there, nice and brown with a bit of a char to the ashen bread.

Sam: “You’re good at this.”

Elizabeth smiled warmly: “Thanks, I taught myself how to cook. I didn’t have much else to trade.”

Ash: “What’d you get for that sort of thing?”

Trade was pretty simple, if you didn’t have a service to offer, you needed a good to barter. The Pathfinders were a good place to scavenge up some stuff, but the Free Colonies of Sydney that the Pathfinders were a part of also gave them rations and a few luxuries for doing their job. Luxuries were basically the only thing worth trading because there was always a shortage.

Elizabeth struck Sam as a pragmatist: “Coffee, smokes, condoms, grog.”

Sam: “So why give that up?”

Elizabeth: “Boredom.”

Ashley drank a morning beer and stoked the flames: “Gotta do something ‘til you die.”

Ashley definitely was a pragmatist, the kind of girl that traded all her smokes for condoms so she could spend some time earning some more smokes.

Sam: “Thanks for letting me sleep in.”

Ash: “No worries, mate,” Ashley took the slice of bread offered to them, “I figured I’d get Jess on my good-side for once.”

Ashley was one of those country-town girls that had been rounded up for the long-train ride. Wouldn’t know it by looking at her though. A grimy, scarred, messy kind of a girl that scrubbed up alright with a bit of steel wool and elbow grease. They were all like that though, Sam supposed. Ugly young women in tattered repurposed clothes designed for a different world, torn and gnawed and cut into a thousand pieces. The only real difference was her hair. Digging through ruins, killing undead, crawling through mud and dirt and marching through rain. Sam had been such a delicate girl in her youth, Jess was the tomboy.

Ash: “This is pretty good, you should do some cooking back at base.”

Sam agreed: “I’ve got nothing to offer, but I know people that’d give an arm and a leg for something decent to eat.”

Plus people hoarded up cigarettes and alcohol just because they liked to feel like they’ve got something to their name. They’d definitely part with a little of their stash for some proper food.

Ash: “If I weren’t on the hook to Jess for fags-uh, sorry.”

Ashley chagrined. Sam shrugged.

Ash: “I already give her smokes.”

Sam was curious, she’d never actually bothered to ask: “What does she trade you anyway?”

Ash: “Rubber.”

Sam traded them the same thing for their coffee...: “Wait, then how are you always complaining you need more?”

Ashley shrugged: “Sun’s up, I’ll go wake everyone.”

Ashley dashed off before any more questions could be raised. Elizabeth poured herself a cup of tea. Coffee had been in short supply for a while now, whatever the substitute was they’d been having trouble getting more.

Sam: “She’s gonna be pissed when she finds out I’m giving up smoking.”

Elizabeth laughed, Sam chuckled.

Elizabeth: “She can have mine if she wants, I’ve got no use for ‘em.”

Sam: “I’ve still got no clue where they get half this shit from. Logistics is fucking magic to me.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully: “I guess it’s no less impressive than the dead coming back to life.”

Sam: “Guess not.”

Elizabeth: “I bet you’ve seen some shit. You’re a career soldier right?”

As far as occupations go, she was a philosopher. She’d never actually trained to be a soldier, she just refused to die easily.

Sam: “Yeah, guess so.”

Elizabeth: “You’re a black-shield, right?”

Sam nodded. The whole shield thing always kind of bothered her. It was a pseudo-rank thing the Free Colonies did and all it really meant was that you had logged a lot of time out in the field. Every three months you got a different colour, from White which was untrained, Green which was trained but under three months. All the way to Black, which was an entire twelve months spent in the field. Her actual military rank was captain. Ashley who was a red-shield, nine-months, was also a captain and Jess who was second-in-command was a lieutenant but also a black-shield. Elizabeth was a green-shield, and a private. In the end, it meant fuck all, it was just some revolutionary bullshit the high-command was pulling because they were worried about any associations at all with the Commonwealth. They had even considered renaming Sydney but never came up with a good name for it.

Elizabeth: “How many times have you been bitten?”

Sam: “Twelve, maybe as high as fifteen.”

The others started showing up for breakfast. Elizabeth passed around the food and the tea. The eight women of Patrol 36, much more cheery than last night, but all still looking like death.

Jess: “So, where to next Boss?”

They wrapped an arm around her, hugged her to their side as they ate.

Sam: “Well, I’m out of cigarettes, so I say we head back to base.”

She offered Jess her last cigarette. They were getting low on supplies anyway.

[thebeautifulmountain-blog]

My Stuff!

Patreon: beaumontwrites Twitter: @prosaicpoetics Wordpress: beaumontwrites

Patreon to subscribe to support me. Twitter for my eventual microfiction and dumb unprofound shit. Wordpress for purely my writing.

[beaumontwrites]

2017-09-13.

Daily drabbles now on my SFW, writing only blog.

wordpress. (if you need to catch up)

Hand on the hilt, he steps forward into his moment. He draws his sword, the heavy blade weighs down his soul.

Light breaks in through the high windows of the throne-room, memories of soldiers in heavy armour line the hall. His shadow casts towards the throne, the sun shines upon Her. She stands before the throne, a doubtful eye cast down upon him.

Without armour, faceless in a sea of light, skin bare to their barbs. She holds in her hand a spear, propped against the broken floor. The long nimble blade at the tip is nearly as long as his sword. She was always the best of them.

“I’m glad you came, Sister,” she speaks coldly, indifferent to the world, “I missed you.”

His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword. Her bare skin is heavily tattooed, dark blue lines that glow as they surge from her heart to the tips of her fingers and toes. Just like his own, brighter and stronger than his own.

“They still call you the Drake,” she finally broke her stoicism with bemusement, “like some kind of dangerous animal. Even a duck can be trained to guard sheep.”

“You always liked to howl, wolf.”

“I like that, Wolf. Maybe if I betray my Queen I can get make that my name.”

“There is only one way to find out.”

She took a step down, one step, still up upon her perch like a singing canary, “I am still surprised they did not send me first.”

Another step down, spear pointing towards him, “Did our Sisters even give you trouble?”

One more step down, out of the blinding light, he can see her glass-scarred face now, “You always did have a special place for me in your heart. Do you now?”

His heart aches, he turns his eyes down.

“No, I am too disgusting for you to even look at.”

She stands upon the final step, spear aiming directly for his heart - she could end this now if she truly desires it. His arms, heavy, his sword lead at his side. Even from across the hall, with dozens of metres between them, she could simply put him out of his misery.

Glass crushes beneath his feet.

“We burned, we bled, we lost pieces of ourselves because of you.”

The dark blue across their skin simmered, fire boiling at their scarified flesh. Their dark skin has thick, angry pink lines that cut through the tattoos, the more he stares at her the more he sees it.

“I took her skin, her hands, her face, her leg, her arm, her heart. I know what I did.”

“Then fall on your sword, end this all.”

He looks her in the eyes, one is cloudy and both are seething, “I never said, I regret my actions.”

“Then, Drake, Sister, Traitor. Let’s get this over with.”

A rapids surging forth, her spear struck against his chest, a wave washing over him. His sword hangs by his side as though he had never tried to block. He can feel his heart carved in half. The blood inside him pours free. She stands face to face with him, the shaft of her spear through his chest.

“You... rob me of my justice.”

He stares at her blankly, the world falling apart around him. He smiles at his final thoughts. She screams at him, only wishing she could kill him again, and again.

“I-” his lungs are filling, he can’t speak his final words.

She leans in, desperate to hear him beg for his life. His runes simmer a strange grey, as though he is trying to hold himself together. Then, he grabs her face and in searing agony she collapses to the ground, writhing and thrashing. Her entire body burns, fire consuming her mind.

Her fingers crack, her throat chars as she screams and contorts.

She wakes, her soul heavy, body tender to the air against her skin. Everything hurts, everything is a blind ache.

“It hurts the first few times.”

The voice, it is familiar.

“After about the fifth or sixth time though, you only pass out for a few hours.”

Her stomach growls, her mouth is dry and dusty. She tries to speak, but it hurts even to breath.

“In a few days time, you will feel better than ever.”

He struggles to stand, to look down at her. His body is weak, sore, barely able to breath.

“I guess there is a reason no-one bothers learning healing magic, it is so much kinder to let them die.”

He finally stands, “Until next time Sister.”

[beaumontwrites]

2017-09-26.

Nothing can last forever, not even time. One day that too will fade, and we will be trapped in the inky void after. With no time, does that mean we can be together in the stasis? I truly hope so.

Across the pretty blue seas, a blemish arises. Stricken with a blight, red veins rise up to choke out the life that lingers on the skin. I’ll be with you until the end, as the red overtakes you and you are left barren.

It’ll only last a moment, a fleeting sort of time in the grand scheme of our lives. I am always marvelled at your fecundity, about the way in which you can bring forth life in everything that touches you. You are infectious, in the best possible way.

Unlike me. You sing of my beauty, my desolate lonely face, the silver of my light, the softness of my glow. I do not have your beauty, I do not have your grace. I am a broken little orb hanging in the ink.

And as I watch you be overcome, time and time again, I am glad to be immune to your illness. You grow sicker with every passing blight, and when I embrace you, it infects me but never takes hold. It retreats, beaten by desolation, unable to withstand me.

And so the Moon said to the Earth, “Fear not the illness of your body, it will survive this as it has everything else. And I will be there to help you through it.”

[beaumontwrites]

2017-09-14.

Another.

wordpress for catch-up.

Gaze into the stars, seek clarity of mind. Soft music in the background, leading her home into the dream. Songlines trail across her skin, falsetto trills in her veins. Blood as thick as water, weeping down her body. Blood, sweat and tears.

A hard slog of a day becomes a soft rest by night, humbled beneath the stars of her ancestors. Anxious, the space between her and the woman she dreams about grows. Two days becomes four, then sixes and sevens.

Two days at least.

Space, the ultimate humbler, distance is perspective. Lying on her back, on the tray of her ute, she can see the smallest of distances between the stars. London was about as far away from Sydney. An atom to an ant. Tiny things that must seem so close from so far back, but imperceptible to those involved.

The distance between an ant and an atom, is no different than London was to her.

Sky falling, shooting stars, shoot her. Hit their mark, cut her in half. Skies crush her.

Being alone isn’t too bad, being lonely is the worst experience ever. Reminded that nobody else will be there.

Sigh eternally, try to sleep, too sick with love to move. People tell her that it’ll get easier, that distance is surmountable.

Do they see the distance between Earth and Moon and think to themselves - such a small leap? Decades between two bodies, so close in the scheme of bigger things.

They say, find a way to be happy. Happiness is the sort of thing people serve up without really understanding how it works. There is no binary between suffering and pleasure, only thorns both share.

And without someone to share them with. Distinctions fade.

An atom to an ant.

[beaumontwrites]

18/4/16. Word of the Day: Sound.

This week I'll be doing leapfrogging - picking a word, then continuing that word to form new words.

Sound - Wave. Wave - Form. Form - Able. Able - Body. Body - Image.

The Sound fills with waves, crashing against the shoreline. Waveforms undulating their distress against the rocks and beaches beneath the lighthouse whose form rises up from the weary peninsular. It casts its able light against the craggy beaches and wards away ships. Able-bodied but not indestructible the whalers sail in from the deep sea’s black-body swallowing up vessels that venture beyond the horizon of the land. The image of the sinking ships still haunts the light-house as it must watch them sucked under.

[beaumontwrites]

Exercise of the Day - Friday, 15th April, 2016.

This week’s exercises were word pools by sound, but warp fucked me up. Anyway... Find me on wordpress or support me on patreon.

Word of the Day - Warp. Water. Wear. Watch. Waist. Witch. Ore. War. Waif. Corpse.

Water witch waste not this war, corpses don’t speak quite so well. Wells swell with warping waters, turbid ores rise. Forge for me a song to chase away your blues, but instead litter it with insecurity. Forge for me bars so you can imprison yourself. So waifish my water witch is, fighting over scraps and melodies even when I provide everything. The warping leaves this man muddy and wet, corpses do not have passions. Sing away your blues, dance away your pains - clutch to your waist and hold in your entrails, they will spill out eventually. Corpses don’t need pity, do they my waifish water witch? Water wears, it grates, it washes away. So watch as the warp waters waste away, consumed by man and land - don’t waste this war Waif, corpses do not speak quite so well.

[beaumontwrites]

Exercise of the Day - Thursday, 14th April, 2016.

This week’s exercises are word pools by sound. Find me on wordpress or support me on patreon.

Word of the Day - Fear. Feel. Fierce. Fickle. Fix. Fine. Hear. Tear. Teal. Real.

I fear that I am feeling fine. No longer do the fickle fears prickling at my mind seem so real. I saw you, Teal - eyes of blue and malice. I never hear you shed a tear, though I fear you suffer in silence. What kind of violence would I need to rouse you of this fixture, to be fierce doesn’t fit our picture of misery and contempt shared through a mutual fear of being alone. I fear that I am feeling in love, no longer able to break the fickle tickle of my heart whenever you are near.

[beaumontwrites]

Exercise of the Day - Wednesday, 13th April, 2016.

This week’s exercise of choice is word pools by sound. Find me on wordpress or support me on patreon.

Word of the Day - Scene. Seen. Saw. Sore. Sow. Sewn. Sign. Sigh. Sip. Sin.

The scene begins with the sowing of a smile, she slips over to me at the bar and softly whispers. “If drinking is a sin, then sip it slowly.” Sin is a sore point for me, but I see what she has sewn - the signs before me. I smile back, already able to hear her seductive sighs. “I suck at self control.” Slender fingers slide across my spine, “There is no chagrin in surrendering to sin.” Sin is a sore point for me, but I have seen what happens next. The sowing of a seed, I saw the dark of her eyes and agreed. “If drinking is a sin, then sip it slowly.”

[beaumontwrites]

Exercise of the Day - Tuesday, 12th April, 2016.

This week’s exercise of choice is word pools by sound. Find me on wordpress or support me on patreon.

Word of the Day - Shoe. Show, Should, Shroud, Shudder, Shock. Shove, Shame, Shake, Shatter.

You put your red shoes on and sit naked on the bed. There is no shame in the show you put on - stuck between the sheets. A vengeful god does not look down at you and shudder, if they do why do we care? Red shoes and a little mascara running down your cheeks. There was no shove to your shake, be free in knowing that the shames all in your head. Feel good about the way you shudder, the way you show me you had a good time. Red shoes and a little lipstick smeared across your lips. The world doesn’t shatter the moment you show a little skin, stuck between the sheets is ecstasy - why is it a shock that we are so good - you should never be ashamed of your shoes.

[beaumontwrites]

Monday, 11th of April, 2016.

Word of the Day - Mercurial. Mercy, Ephemeral, Emergent, Murder, Mercenary, Cured, Queued, Real, Merchant.

There is a mercy to the mercurial nature of life. The mercenary way we live queued for precious moments, hoping the next event or product will cure the monotone. Real moments seem so few and far between out here, where dreams are murdered by the cold of reality. Happiness isn’t a commodity bought or sold by a merchant, it is a philosophy - emergent from a sea of darkness, finding beauty in the bleak and abstract world we live in. Just because life is short, finite and bloody does not mean there is no beauty, no hope, no happiness to be found. That is the mercy of life’s mercurial nature - it is erratic and therefore there is always the chance lead will turn to gold.

Find me on wordpress or support me on patreon.

[beaumontwrites]

A Weeks Worth of Exercise

Every day I do a word exercise - for this week I picked a random word and came up with nine related words (related by reference) then made a flash fiction based on the pool of words I came up with.

Enjoy.

Monday 4th of April, 2016.

Sleep Dream Nightmare Wake Funeral Wedding Love Hate War Death

Today I sleep, dream of darker places and nightmares until I wake, to my funeral - a wedding to a woman I love and together we will endure the hate and barbs of families and friends. A war against our beginnings that only ends with our collective death.

Tuesday 5th of April, 2016.

Gold Wealth Luxury Coffee Cigarettes Smoke Aroma Perfume Woman Lover

Her eyes are gold - amber rings belying a wealth that lies beneath the skin. She gifts me the luxury of knowing her intimately with just a smile. In the morning I wake and she offers me coffee in bed before retreating to the hotel balcony with her cigarettes. Smoke rises from her lips, the wind blows it into the room where its aroma mingles with her floral perfume. I should be ashamed, I am a woman and she is my lover.

Wednesday 6th of April, 2016.

Leaf Green Inexperienced Virginal Sex Love Safety Warmth Happiness Hope

The leaves are no longer green as the summer starts to end. My inexperienced hands grapple with branches and boughs. Our first summer together is virginal, the coming winter fills my mind with thoughts of sex and love and warmth but for now I take your love as we climb the tree and sit together looking over the valley. Your arms wrap around my shoulders, there is safety even on the precipice of falling. The summer breeze is warmth and happiness, your embrace is hope in the face of the coming winter’s snow.

Thursday 7th of April, 2016.

Opera Night Starlight Sun Photosynthesis Synthetic Chemical Substance Soul Love.

An Opera - deep into the night beneath the starlight trickled down by distant suns. The stars do not provide photosynthesis, so only synthetic life can live in their gaze. Chemical smells fill the air, like dew condensing their nostrils, as they coat themselves in longevity substances and dress up their souls to rove out in search of love.

Friday 8th of April, 2016.

hydrophobic duck waterfowl pond floating swimming diving abyss forsaken lost 

Is a hydrophobic duck still a waterfowl? I am in the pond, floating across the surface. Watching me swimming about. Diving in, deep down into the abyss below, the duck searches through roots and brack seeking out forsaken snacks, before it too is lost drowning in the darkness. Perhaps it was smart, to fear the water.

[beaumontwrites]

March, 2016 - Recap.

I mean, I feel dirty for doing this - but I don’t know if I need to write out two separate things so here we go.

Hey Guys! It's a week into April so lets do a recap of what happened in March.

March 23: I posted up the draft of my novel's first chapter. - if you missed it read it here.

March, 27: I posted up something short, a bit of shallow flash fiction. - if you missed it read it here.

April, 2: I posted up the draft of my novel's second chapter. - if you missed it read it here.

So now it's April. I'm working on more chapters of my novel, and I'm doing a daily flash fiction as a morning exercise so I'll post those up for everyone. It'll be a bit of fun - I use a word association thing.

Additionally, I'm working on some shorts, they'll be action based so if you like Sci-fi kinds of battle then stick around.

[beaumontwrites]

Novel Draft #2!

The draft of the second chapter of my novel is up for Patrons over at my Patreon! You can find it here. If you’re not already a patron then please consider joining me. Quality writing! Quality Stories! But that’s just me saying, judge for yourself - read the excerpt below the break.

Chapter Two.

The garrison keep’s hall was an expansive room with a high ceiling and tiled floors. Much of it was taken up by three long columns of wooden tables and benches where soldiers sat to eat. Bellethine’s marines had ventured in as well under her orders, cooked food would be a treat after months of hard breads, cheeses and dried meats. The kitchen was more than happy to share, as with most garrisons there was an overabundance of food. Bellethine sat between Elai and Aeyana, the nine soldiers under Elai’s commander sitting around them at the table. The kitchen was serving the typical soldier’s fare but with local flair; grape juice, spiced fish and rice with a serving of bread, butter and cheese.

From her service in the western Empire for two decades, Bellethine had grown used to the taste of fish, citrus and coffee, but here in the central Empire they preferred spice over citrus and juice over coffee. She was however yet to find any city that did not serve bread and cheese - even if it differed - which she was sure did not exist.

The Empire was a nebulous concept, the state Bellethine served was the Republic of Svear but the Empire was different entirely. It was a term used to collect together the settled lands and allied tribes that lived in an ever extending sphere of influence the Svearic Republic created for itself. Those who lived in the often ill-defined borders of the Empire were offered a similar set of benefits; defence, trade agreements and investment from the Core. The Core, being the Svearic Homelands themselves, were enthusiastic to build - having learned a great deal from the histories stored in the Svearic Vault.

The women around her were from the Core, excluding Aeyana who was instead from Ys. It was common practice as the naval forces and the air fleet required higher levels of education, the academies of the Core were open to all women and many men whilst the provincial academies had to focus on women and often not even all of them. The land forces were more typically from the provinces. Aeyana was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and had been given many years of education in alchemy and engineering.

The tastes and scents of the spiced fish and sweet juice should have conjured up memories of her childhood spent on the Isle of Versa. Perhaps of its crystal clear waters or the soft green grasses and bright white marble cliffs. It had become a fabled place lost to time and memory, evoked not by memories of food she ate as a child but by the weight of her sword, Domina, as she held it aloft. She wondered if perhaps that was how Aeyana felt about her home, lost when she was young

[beaumontwrites]

I wonder...

I kind of wonder who’d win in a fight. The stormtroopers from Star Wars, the stormtroopers from Warhammer 40,000 or the stormtroopers from the First World War.

If we remove the issues of weaponry and armour being superior I think it’d be the German Empire’s Stormtroopers that come out on top. We’re talking hardened veterans who managed to use tactics and strategy to overcome some of the most hostile conditions Infantry have ever faced in warfare. Their individual skill would carry them.

However, the more interesting fight is between the Empire’s Stormtroopers and the Imperium’s Stormtroopers. Both are strategically overwhelming if deployed en masse - the Imperium loses somewhere in the range of a trillion men a day, all of them battle hardened and trained to high standards with the very finest being inducted into the ranks of the Stormtroopers. They’re hardcore.

However, the Empire’s Stormtroopers are the basic infantry and there is implied to be a lot of them. The clones that initially filled the ranks were veterans of the Clone Wars - and clone troopers themselves were hardcore, they completely outclassed the Trade Federation’s droids. In addition, the Empire recruited large numbers of non-cloned recruits. Plus they backed them heavily with armoured units and aerial support. The Empire’s Stormtroopers would be the PLA to the Imperium’s Green Berets.

I can’t help but think of a strange alternate dimension Battle of Ia Drang. The Imperium Stormtroopers would move in, small units of highly trained and heavily equipped units with minimal support. The Empire’s Stormtroopers would surround them, barraging them with artillery and airstrikes before assaulting them with large units of infantry.

Who would win that? I wonder if a few AT-AT lasers can dig out some of the Imperium’s finest.

[beaumontwrites]

Flash #1.

Extremely short, piece showcasing a future actor in my in progress novel. They may change, but I thought I’d jot something short and rough down while I had the chance. I was considering giving them shotguns.

The Reapers of the Veil.

She drew her sword and uttered in a rasping voice, a personal prayer to the gods.

“From behind the veil we reap.”

The soldiers to her side, formed up in neat ranks of black armour - green banners fluttering behind their backs, swords drawn.

Hunched like cowards behind their shields, the enemy of white and red waited. Pearl shatters far more easily than jade, but they pretend to be stalwart.

She raised her sword high over her head and roared at the height of her lungs, “DEATH TAKES!”

They are the Reapers of the Veil, and in death they find sustenance. Her soul rushes forth, ten thousand at its back - the spectral army moving forth faster than any man or any horse could sprint, the white and red start to hesitate.

A flash of swords carve through wood and steel and bone as the two armies meet - a blink, a passage of a moment and the Reapers stand where their spectral dopplegangers had stood.

A spear pierces her side, there is no pain nor blood as she cuts down its bearer and plucks it like a splinter from where it tangled in her ribcage. It is less a battle than a slaughter, less a fight than a bloodbath. Those lucky enough to live long enough to surrender are cut down all the same.

Even in death, you serve. That is what the Naak demand of you.