I’ve got a bad habit of making promises for cool things and then never following up, but this time I’ve come good. I’ve got 4 and a half short stories for my upcoming anthology Ira Draconis: Blackout, ready for peer review. The anthology itself will detail the world of Ira Draconis and, hopefully, create some sort of audience for Wyvern Diary next year.
The short stories range from 1500-3000 words as of the current state of writing, though some of the later ones may be a touch longer. If you would like to help me by reading and giving feedback on these, I’d be really grateful. Send an email to email@example.com if you’re interested in reading some work-in-progress short stories.
Thanks for reading and enjoy your day.
Max refused the image her eyes gave to her mind. The door to her home had swung open and stuck there in the forceful gale, three men being the ones to open it however. They’d come without warning and without a word. They’d come with an ultimatum, to her father, a man of honour and duty. Why would they demand something from Patrick Harris, a custodian of trade and goodwill? The biggest of the three, a bearded man named George, locked Mr Harris’ arm behind his back, pulling the limb far further than was necessary, and pressed him onto the handcrafted oak table, flattening his face in the process. Mrs Harris had the misfortune of walking in on the scene, her jaw dropped in fright and a hand placed to muffle her terrified shriek. The second of the men replaced her hand with his and put a knife to her throat. Max hid behind her father’s box of dirty clothes, not able to muster the courage to look at her mother’s fallen corpse staring beady-eyed at her, blood running along the box’s rim. The third man, pleased with the result of his comrades’ raid, looked at poor Caitlyn Harris’ face and sniggered.
“A shame to waste a beauty like this. You struck lucky for once, Patrick,” he said, pinching Caitlyn’s cold cheek. Mr Harris struggled weakly against the brute holding him down, but a quick snap of his wrist motivated him otherwise. “But luck has a way of changin’. That was your change, Patrick. ‘Unlucky’ is your standard. George, Matt, take Mr Harris to the square. He has some… confessin’ to do”.
A little promo story for Dragon Soul. Chew on this for a little
The dark Brisbane streets were dead, still with a stark lack of the common and honest folk. This was time that thieves and murderers wandered the streets and the six o’ clock curfew that the children were given was for their own safety. The quiet city dwellers knew exactly how justified the curfews were. And now, at eight o’ clock, the parents feared for possessions and lives of their own. Brisbane was one of the worst affected after the Blackmatter incident and the city had never really recovered in those forty odd years. It was that unlucky city that the PMC couldn’t spare forces for, the hub that the administration didn’t require immediately, the place that had once been great but no one cared about now. Gangsters were more common there than in Cape Town in the early 2000s and they held more sway over the people than the business leaders or the mayor.
John peered out fearfully from his window, through the dusty curtains that rippled and shed dirt across his face. He knew it wasn’t wind because his windows had been fastened shut and barred. He was glad for that, having enough money to afford steel protection. He reasoned that the shaking must have been from his hands then. John looked at the once proud street and wondered how much happier it must have looked during the daytime, when light and people flooded it. The gloom carried a kind of dark mystery to it, one that made John think of the old crime novels he enjoyed reading so much. And much like the old, dog eared pages, the paint on the buildings curled and peeled, giving the city an all too common ugliness. John’s breath escaped his mouth when a brisk moving form entered his line of sight.