Mandorin Anamor
Bodybuilding book addict.
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2007
- Messages
- 86
Hello, something else i just found, once again leaving it open to your comments. Its a short piece that is destiend to be part of a much larger book i'm planning, just wondering how it measures up as a scene...as i'm venturing into science fiction/science fantasy now rather than fantasy for the first time.
Thankyou.
The gunshot rang hollow and loud in the vast desert, the heavy round thwacking against a dry stone wall, fragments of sun drowned stone ricocheting amidst a muffled cry of panic from behind the slumping barrier.
The shadow stretched long and thin across the cracked desert earth, the searing sun hanging low at the hunter's back. He stood tall and gaunt against the desolate breeze; face tanned dry and wind hewn to stone. Piercing eyes of ocean blue narrowed as gloved and arthritic fingers coerced the hammer of his pistol back with a dull click.
The muzzle of the heavy metal piece rose and stared mercilessly across the sands. Not a muscle moved as the hunter waited, drab brown cloak billowing lazily about his gaunt figure, wide brimmed hat shadowing his creased brow from the late afternoon's shimmering heat.
Then the prey was there, lunging from behind the wall with a final desperate roar, voice muffled by a heavy white helmet. The man rose on sand scarred legs, the unnatural chatter of a bulky automatic weapon sawing through the air, tens of rounds splashing sand about the hunter's battered boots.
Yet the good hunter needs but one. The pistol barked once more, and the prey was punched backwards, white body armor crumpling from the hammer blow, the momentum of his intended last stand carrying him back to the ground in a cascade of blood and sand.
The hunter slowly dropped his pistol arm, almost wearily, eyes unmoving, unblinking through the recent murder, his prey now silent and slain.
He finally allowed his eyes to close, shaking fingers reaching up and yanking the flimsy hat from his sweaty scalp, lank and greasy hair hanging in thick strands to his shoulders. His ancient eyes finally allowed the peripheral to return, finally taking in his surroundings.
The desert ran flat and wavering like a white and yellow sea, a small farm - or its remains - stood mournfully by, rusted iron walls and roof riddled with holes and decay. An outbuilding stacked with bags of harvested spice and granium extract burned viciously to the north, the pillar of black smoke rising like a beacon into the cloudless blue sky, the sweet scent of heated and burning cinnamon thick on the northern breeze.
A trio of sun brown people huddled near the largest of the farm buildings, shirts ripped and torn, trousers stained and filthy. Three pairs of eyes watched their grizzly savior with fearful disbelief.
For about the sands, scattered like so many broken dolls, were nine more of the hunter's prey. Men - or so they seemed - encased in white armor of many flexing pads, the black of thick fatigues visible beneath armored plates, featureless white helmets encasing heads, save one whose brains lay exposed and scattered by a heavy caliber round.
The hunter returned the heavy pistol to its holster, returned it to its home, alongside its equally deadly twin, and moved unhurriedly towards the cowering three.
He walked eyes unblinking, blue iris's unbearably brilliant in the desert's shimmering glare, ignoring the various heavy weaponry that lay scattered about the sands, bulky black pieces, long magazines holding many rounds, little good it had done them.
He stopped by the three; a husband and wife, and a child, the young girl's scalp still bloody from where the prey had struck her. The hunter smiled down at the girl, a surprisingly warming sight amidst the wind battered harshness of his features.
The girl stared up in terrified fascination, tears still trickling from deep brown eyes. The hunter said not a word, merely brushed a single tear from the child's cheek and closed his eyes.
'Thus the tears of angels seep longest, for they caress the heart of innocence!' his voice was gruff and somber, yet somehow poetic as he intoned his verse.
'They shall not trouble you again Judans!' he whispered to them all.
'The sinners reckoning is at hand and I am one of his many righteous fingers. One of his fiery hammers of war, spilling Iscariot blood so that the dawn may yet still shine brilliant and gold, so say's Joshua!'
He stared for what seemed an age when his breath had finished, but not a reply he received, and as a vulture's cruel cry split the air he sighed and turned from the three, striding back into the desert, a mirage, a slayer of soldiers, god's hammer of war.
Thankyou.
The gunshot rang hollow and loud in the vast desert, the heavy round thwacking against a dry stone wall, fragments of sun drowned stone ricocheting amidst a muffled cry of panic from behind the slumping barrier.
The shadow stretched long and thin across the cracked desert earth, the searing sun hanging low at the hunter's back. He stood tall and gaunt against the desolate breeze; face tanned dry and wind hewn to stone. Piercing eyes of ocean blue narrowed as gloved and arthritic fingers coerced the hammer of his pistol back with a dull click.
The muzzle of the heavy metal piece rose and stared mercilessly across the sands. Not a muscle moved as the hunter waited, drab brown cloak billowing lazily about his gaunt figure, wide brimmed hat shadowing his creased brow from the late afternoon's shimmering heat.
Then the prey was there, lunging from behind the wall with a final desperate roar, voice muffled by a heavy white helmet. The man rose on sand scarred legs, the unnatural chatter of a bulky automatic weapon sawing through the air, tens of rounds splashing sand about the hunter's battered boots.
Yet the good hunter needs but one. The pistol barked once more, and the prey was punched backwards, white body armor crumpling from the hammer blow, the momentum of his intended last stand carrying him back to the ground in a cascade of blood and sand.
The hunter slowly dropped his pistol arm, almost wearily, eyes unmoving, unblinking through the recent murder, his prey now silent and slain.
He finally allowed his eyes to close, shaking fingers reaching up and yanking the flimsy hat from his sweaty scalp, lank and greasy hair hanging in thick strands to his shoulders. His ancient eyes finally allowed the peripheral to return, finally taking in his surroundings.
The desert ran flat and wavering like a white and yellow sea, a small farm - or its remains - stood mournfully by, rusted iron walls and roof riddled with holes and decay. An outbuilding stacked with bags of harvested spice and granium extract burned viciously to the north, the pillar of black smoke rising like a beacon into the cloudless blue sky, the sweet scent of heated and burning cinnamon thick on the northern breeze.
A trio of sun brown people huddled near the largest of the farm buildings, shirts ripped and torn, trousers stained and filthy. Three pairs of eyes watched their grizzly savior with fearful disbelief.
For about the sands, scattered like so many broken dolls, were nine more of the hunter's prey. Men - or so they seemed - encased in white armor of many flexing pads, the black of thick fatigues visible beneath armored plates, featureless white helmets encasing heads, save one whose brains lay exposed and scattered by a heavy caliber round.
The hunter returned the heavy pistol to its holster, returned it to its home, alongside its equally deadly twin, and moved unhurriedly towards the cowering three.
He walked eyes unblinking, blue iris's unbearably brilliant in the desert's shimmering glare, ignoring the various heavy weaponry that lay scattered about the sands, bulky black pieces, long magazines holding many rounds, little good it had done them.
He stopped by the three; a husband and wife, and a child, the young girl's scalp still bloody from where the prey had struck her. The hunter smiled down at the girl, a surprisingly warming sight amidst the wind battered harshness of his features.
The girl stared up in terrified fascination, tears still trickling from deep brown eyes. The hunter said not a word, merely brushed a single tear from the child's cheek and closed his eyes.
'Thus the tears of angels seep longest, for they caress the heart of innocence!' his voice was gruff and somber, yet somehow poetic as he intoned his verse.
'They shall not trouble you again Judans!' he whispered to them all.
'The sinners reckoning is at hand and I am one of his many righteous fingers. One of his fiery hammers of war, spilling Iscariot blood so that the dawn may yet still shine brilliant and gold, so say's Joshua!'
He stared for what seemed an age when his breath had finished, but not a reply he received, and as a vulture's cruel cry split the air he sighed and turned from the three, striding back into the desert, a mirage, a slayer of soldiers, god's hammer of war.
