The ship lurched as he wrenched the great wood-spoked wheel of the ship to the right. All of us on deck, for our part, wrapped ourselves securely to the rigging. Men and women swung out over naught but ocean on the ends of loose ropes as Hardman brought us round side-by-side with the great whale, facing the opposite way. With any luck we could now escape while the thing was still turning around. The maneuver had given us all quite an appreciation for the size of the thing. It was bigger than any living thing should be, plainly the result of some dire mutation indeed.
The collective sigh of relief that was breathed by all aboard was short-lived, however. Mere moments after we left the whale to ponderously wheel around – by which time we would be long gone – another cry pierced the air.
Short story
A Twisted Game of Cat and Cat: Chapter Two
The message came through the laptop with a bright sound like a bell: /IT’SREADY/. The plans. Geist never went through official channels for anything unless he had to, and this was no different. Luckily for him, he knew a guy in the records office. He slid the laptop into his bag, slipped his sunglasses onto his face, and left the hotel into the dullest weather he had ever seen in his life when it wasn’t actually raining. It was as if the sky had turned to asphalt. He folded up the sunglasses and stuffed them into his pocket, feeling naked without them…
A Twisted Game of Cat and Cat: Chapter One
The name of the dead man was Maximilian Bradley. Not that he knew he was dead yet. The blinking green name stood out on the black screen like a neon sign over a dive bar. Underneath it was a number with too many zeroes at the end of it. Geist had heard of Bradley, of course. Who hadn’t? He sipped the honey-coloured liquor from his glass and contemplated. This was a chance to make history. Of course, if his name showed up anywhere in the history books it would be curtains for him.
The Deadman’s Finger: Chapter Two
Hawks vaulted the fence easily and touched feet to slab in the backyard. Most of it was concreted over, save for a stretch at the far end that had been torn up and left as bare dirt. The door this side had enough space, so he squared up to it and then kicked just to the right of the handle, smashing the lock and sending a jarring jolt up his leg in retaliation. Limping inside, Hawks saw filthy bootprints criss-crossing the kitchen which he now entered into. His moment of respite would soon be over, and he grabbed a kitchen knife from the block. It sat easily in his hand; he had fought with many kinds of blade in his short life, but knife-fighting would always be his home turf…
The Write Stuff 