- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- I'm into just about everything, provided it's got a good story and likeable characters. I'm a huge fan of fantasy and horror, though. I tend to like things that are a bit more down to earth, oddly. Low fantasy and used future sci-fi best explain my niche.
Trotter faltered at the thought of following these two strangers into a confined corridor. The cramped conditions had the potential to steal away his size advantage should things get dicey. His looming figure haunted the doorway as the girl and the cripple's backs disappeared, swallowed up by the shadows of the hall. He looked over his shoulder to the long, pale digits that twitched impotently upon the slick floor, like cricket legs in mustard.
His hesitation quailed, but a tense tunnel awaited him, and Trotter braced for what might be waiting for him as he rounded the corner into the light.
A kitchen. Just a kitchen.
The only immediate danger here was the flecks of mold that dotted the drop out ceiling tiles. It was like stepping into a monochrome photograph of a once white room; everything was sepia. The smell of mildew was pervasive, but he'd take it over the fetid stench of the chapel.
Trotter ignored the banter of his two fellows, instead trying to listen for the front door. For the return of something most unwelcome. His subconscious mind nagged him that the immediate threat came from within. It was right, of course, and little after he'd acknowledged that did he hear the sound of a pitched voice and a scuffle.
He turned his head in time to see the invalid pull a knife. In an instant his hand shot for his cudgel, but there was little need. The man's already compromised footing gave way, and he was on the ground before the surly drifter could finish fishing out his club.
A heavy boot fell on the skidding knife. The sound of the stomp imparted a sense of finality, a weight beyond any man's poundage.
Things were very still…
The calm lifted as abruptly as it had fallen. In a matter of blinks, Trotter'd picked up the knife and kicked the crutch that much further out of reach. There was a conditioned response at work here. Like a cagey animal, there's a switch that tells you it's time to kill. Kill, at the expulsion of all other concerns. Kill to keep on. This earth, damned by forces unforeseeable, had refined that trigger to a hair's thread in this man. And, were he in his right mind, he'd wager, too, in this pitiful heap he now towered over.
It wouldn't be quick… stabbings never were.
Don't think about it.
Trotter coiled his arm like a spring, a white-knuckle grip on the knife...
His hesitation quailed, but a tense tunnel awaited him, and Trotter braced for what might be waiting for him as he rounded the corner into the light.
A kitchen. Just a kitchen.
The only immediate danger here was the flecks of mold that dotted the drop out ceiling tiles. It was like stepping into a monochrome photograph of a once white room; everything was sepia. The smell of mildew was pervasive, but he'd take it over the fetid stench of the chapel.
Trotter ignored the banter of his two fellows, instead trying to listen for the front door. For the return of something most unwelcome. His subconscious mind nagged him that the immediate threat came from within. It was right, of course, and little after he'd acknowledged that did he hear the sound of a pitched voice and a scuffle.
He turned his head in time to see the invalid pull a knife. In an instant his hand shot for his cudgel, but there was little need. The man's already compromised footing gave way, and he was on the ground before the surly drifter could finish fishing out his club.
A heavy boot fell on the skidding knife. The sound of the stomp imparted a sense of finality, a weight beyond any man's poundage.
Things were very still…
The calm lifted as abruptly as it had fallen. In a matter of blinks, Trotter'd picked up the knife and kicked the crutch that much further out of reach. There was a conditioned response at work here. Like a cagey animal, there's a switch that tells you it's time to kill. Kill, at the expulsion of all other concerns. Kill to keep on. This earth, damned by forces unforeseeable, had refined that trigger to a hair's thread in this man. And, were he in his right mind, he'd wager, too, in this pitiful heap he now towered over.
It wouldn't be quick… stabbings never were.
Don't think about it.
Trotter coiled his arm like a spring, a white-knuckle grip on the knife...