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  • The Inked Girl

    Bree is a tinkerer and wannabe cog-weaver. For that, she needs ink.

    “That’ll do for one sitting, Bree,” Jaqo said. He reclined in the plush, high-backed armchair, then went about routinely cleaning his inkjector.

    Breezelocks, or Bree, as her friends called her, skipped over to the mirror. One of the few vanity items she owned, it was a cracked and smudged thing. Mattered little to her now, of course. She twisted this way and that, brushing away her black, unruly dreads, to admire the latest bit of Jaqo’s precise needlework. Was excited about the addition to the collection.

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  • Heroes

    Han Solo, a Hero to Many

    I’m not much of a movie-goer. Lately my cinema sorties have been too few and usually far between. Used to be a time when it was different. I’d often go out with my brother, checking out the latest flick everyone was talking about (or inversely those which people hadn’t yet started talking about). We were picky back then, refusing to go see just any movie. I’m still like that, I reckon, only worse.

    So, last Friday we did what everyone else is doing and went to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Now, this will not be a review of the film (it was very good), nor will it contain any spoilers. I’ll tell you why I liked it. Probably not for the same reasons you did. This will be a think piece on heroes. And how they are all one day destined to ride off into the sunset.

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  • A Couple o’ Coppers and a Lute

    A few coppers.

    Reckon can’t do much worse than waking up in the morning with naught but two coppers in a pocket and a lute to yer name. The coin is good enough to buy a small apple, at best. Sure won’t buy respite from me stomach for too long.

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  • Backlogs

    My Steam backlog

    I am a creature of habit. For instance, I like my sugar with coffee & cream (props to those who identify the pop music reference). Every morning after I wake up I need a solid 2 hours of doing whatever needs doing, until I’m halfway presentable. If not, I end up like a Gremlin tossed into water (nasty, understand). My wife regularly pokes fun at me for it. And rightfully so. However, this time all by my lonesome has a purpose other than me desperately needing it to resemble a human being.

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  • The Mist That Beckoned

    The Mist that Beckoned

    I rode in a coach across the countryside, on a road wholly undeserving of the appellation. A beaten track amid the fields ‘twas, more like. Barely wide enough for our carriage to pass. Not that there was much traffic the other way at the hour. Nondescript. Anonymous, very much so, as any other dust-ridden, hole-filled stretch of land this side of the zero fucks the gods gave.

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  • On Raven Wings

    On Raven Wings

    Dallas lit a cigarette. Slowly. Deliberate. Hated the damn things, he just couldn’t help himself. He did enjoy the build-up, though. Like busting out his Zippo lighter. Hefted it in his palm. Set it against the base of his thumb, the cold metal pressing into his skin. Thing was more ancient than ancient, really. Only a few spots of red and blue paint remained on the case.

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