Tag Archives: fiction

Tribute to DayZ

It seemed like i’d spent days in the water, after jumping the rail from my ship, the infected were everywhere and I had no other options, scrambling onto the beach I lay panting on the shore, thankful for being alive but starting to feel the cold wind starting to bite. Off in the distance the sound of a shot gun tells me all I need to know, the infected are here. Picking myself up, I throw my arms around me, shivering, looking around I can see a house about a hundred yards to my right, just off the shoreline, keeping low, not wanting to be seen, I creep closer, very aware that the t-shirt and jeans I’m wearing are inappropriate for the late autumn weather, thankfully its not raining. Stopping just outside the gate of the one story fisherman’s house I listen, the only sound the birds, opening the gate I wince as it gives a loud squeak and free swings out of my hand with a loud tang against the metal stop. No point waiting, I need to get indoors, even though as I just noticed half of the windows a broken, running forward I try the closed front door and to my relief its unlocked, opening it quietly my eyes instantly spot an old black woolen coat hanging on a hook to the right. Keeping it quiet and assuming from the broken windows, there’s no residents, I pick up the slightly musty coat and slip into it gratefully. Inside one of the pockets there’s an old army knife with attachments. Taking in my surroundings, I note I’m probably not the first visitor, the food cupboards by the cold old iron stove are all open, one hangs swinging from one hinge. Looking around I see a table and chairs and door leading to internal room presumably a bedroom. I open the bedroom door, and the unmistakable stench of something rotten hits me so quickly its closed. Just as I’m pondering my next move, I hear the pounding of soft shoes and a rasping of breath from outside, without thought I open the back door and run!!!

Rough First draft may return later to expand or edit, but may not.

Man Hunt

Below Micro Short Story recovered from long forgotten blog:


Man Hunt

The K drive gives one last static stutter and dies, a small red light starts flashing on the console, the whining hum of that usually accompanies normal ships operations slows and dissipates in to silence. The cockpit of the Aurora class deep space shuttle is dimly lit only by the yellow overhead emergency light. Through the front view port, a green and blue moon can be seen slowly drifting across a class seven gas giant striated with angry purples and reds. The silence is disturbed by an electronic hum coming from behind the door to the rear of the cockpit, followed by a clang, minutes pass and the door opens revealing a tall naked man with long unkempt black hair, yawning as he staggers towards the pilots seat, leaning heavily on the seat back and levering himself down and round in to it. Reaching out he flicks the red light, which immediately illuminates the cabin. Touching another button on the console brings a detailed heads up display across the view port showing the moon, planet and system in digital detail. Two small red dots on the display have white numbers displayed next to them and seem to be travelling between the second and third planets in the system. The gas giant and its companion lay in the sixth orbit of ten from the G type sun.

“All Quiet” he says to himself, punching in a few numbers in the keyboard the display changes to a magnified section of the moon, showing a valley near the equator buried in a heavily forested area, pressing another button the display shifts to the northern end of the valley displaying a large square concreted area with a scattering of small buildings surrounding a large round domed structure.

“Thought you could hide from us, did you”



Just Discovered/Re-discovered GoodReads (I think I knew it existed) http://goodreads.com

My profile: http://goodreads.com/graeme_livermore

Spent an hour tagging and rating books I’ve read, and burnt out!

The count stands at 368, I will have to take it in little chunks, as I’ve lots more work to do.

Conclusion: I read to much


Above was a quick search, but thinking I must not pick up the book, switch on computer, watch trash, I MUST INSTEAD CREATE.

Albert strikes again.



The Silence

The silence

The night was dark, with only the red glow of a setting crescent moon. The long grass on the plains, rippled and danced with a light breeze, and the low hills in the distance are dusted with a light silver sheen. The hoot of a distant hunting owl’s answered by his mate, and the low cough of a fox follows soon after, primordial, untouched and tranquil.
Along the road, down by the river, a soft rhythmic drumming disturbs the peace; a rider travelling fast, head down, shoulders hunched, a twitch and a sharp thwack of a crop, forcing the laboring horse to greater effort, the rider passes on. Minutes pass, the owls fly low across the river, landing in the branches of a great oak, the fox can now be seen sniffing at the deep divots settling from the horses passing. The foxes head lifts with a start, and it scurries off into the grass. Horses again, a group of seven riding at a canter moving out of the night and then slow to a stop. The largest man, sporting a bushy beard, dismounts with a clinking of armour and bridle, takes a long look at the flat grassland and says something to his companions, a tall skinny youth turns a restless horse and rides swiftly back along the road. The quiet men dismount, leading their horses a short distance into the grass and start to set a long picket line, unpacking securely bound travel packs from behind their saddles. The bearded man stretches, sits down on the bank of the slowly moving water, takes out a pipe, fills, tamps and lights it using a tinderbox, then starts to puff slow thoughtful clouds into the night.
Thirty minutes pass, the scouts have set their tents and fed and watered the horses and are lighting a fire, a sharp relaxed laugh punctuates the night, just as a low rumble becomes audible. Time passes, lights can be seen wavering side to side towards the woods the roads lets from. A lone rider drums the earth, as the skinny youth returns, dismounts, ties his horse and sits gratefully by the fire. The sergeant stands from his riverside reverie, seems to sigh and drifts over to the fire just as the pot’s lifted from the stand. They eat. The noise increases, a group of seven riders approach, drawing to a halt, the bearded sergeant stands, wanders across, says a few brief words pointing north up the road, and the second party of scout’s moves on.
The vanguard of the army can be seen more clearly now, 200 men riding horses lead the way, followed by laboring foot soldiers, behind them carriages sporting rich textured tapestries and stretching off into the distance thousands of souls all gathered for one purpose, war.
A large group of unarmored, men and women move ahead. A large man in a long robe starts barking instructions, the carriages, hastily moved forward, are directed to a small rise 50 yards behind the eating scout’s enclave, where men start to clear the ground, erecting tents and start fires.

“Ruminating on a novel start, or should it just be a picture.”


Thoughts on THE modern

Since the beginning of the 20th century with access to education (in the developed world) becoming a generational upwards curve, textually enabled parents begetting more complex children and on wards we are, as individuals increasingly self aware and better enabled to interact with the millions that now intersect our daily lives.  Technology puts current affairs and personal gossip in our pockets, so there are no lost moments, the times we use to sit or stand and decompress are filled with digital input, yet we are essentially still the same race as has been cataloged from 50,000 years ago. What is the factor that’s accelerated development, or is this just a delusion brought about by connectivity, were we so restricted from external influence in the past, that we now are deluded by the constant impact of close personal interaction with other minds, into believing in the worship of self within community.

The above statement is a stream of consciousness and is obviously generated by my own “moment” but with all the structure encapsulated within modern media, am I just another isolated unit of the hive mind or a construct of personal experience, are concepts, or could it be culture, proliferated unilaterally or is it all part of the shared gestalt. We move through time together, if we share language and are part of the same race, what is the connection that allows such deep communication?

We are: