iPod Short - Blaise Maximillian & the Black Marketeer

Being hit hurts. That's the whole point of hitting you hit someone to hurt them and stop them hurting you back.

There are a number of things that you can do when being hit in the face. The first is to give in to the pain. Being hit hurts, even the biggest and toughest of bruisers have to admit that to themselves, even if only on a sub-conscious level.

Giving into the pain usually results more pain, as the attacker continues to pile into you and beat you to a pulp. So that's not really an option.

The next thing you could do is to try and reason with your attacker. Attempt to connect with them on an emotional level and help them see that hitting you is not a nice thing to do and that they should stop. Usually reason has gone out of the window by that point. Things have been said and done that can only be fixed by the application of physical force and blunt trauma. unfortunately there are many reasonable people out there who still believe that reasoning with someone is a valid form of self-defence even when the attack has commenced. The reasoning phase has well and truly been passed by that point.

Another option is to try to block and dodge the blows that your foe is attempting to land upon your personage.

Again this is a very flawed option. Granted your attacker might only throw the one punch out of frustration, but if they continue to do so your chances of dodging or blocking every blow lowers with every blow thrown. What this means is that in the end you're going to take a hit. Depending on where this hit lands, your ability to dodge or block more of the blows continues to decrease until your defences are worn down and the tracker can strike you at will.

The final option is to hit back, whilst tying to dodge and block the attacks. By hit back, we're jot talking about throwing a good shot and then trying to get them to back off and leave you alone, we're talking about hitting them so hard and so often that they are too busy dodging, blocking and wincing that they can't spare the time to strike back at you. To act with violence and intent.

This is the option that Blaise took. His whole body shook as the flat-nose bruiser in front of him slammed home a shovel hook that threatened to force his lungs from his body.

GOOD GOD! he marvelled at the fact he could find breath to think, even as his own right cross ploughed into his opponent's face.

Like most men of their age, both were veterans of the Great War, their skills honed in the streets and trenches over years.

His opponent had lived a harder life than he had however. His nose was smashed flat, battered into submission by repeated blows. There were gaps in his teeth, either punched out or lost as a result of the Spanish Flu. Finally, a scar bisected his lips, making him look as though he had a hairlip.

Another sledgehammer blow came crashing into Blaise's arms as he barely managed to get them ip in time.

He snapped out a wicked front stab kick, hitting his opponent's shin with his steeled Loake Brogues. The pain reached his opponent's brain almost instantly and his arms dropped for a split second.

A split second was all he needed. Blaise hooked both hands around his opponent's neck and drove a rear knee into his stomach.

Still holding on he wrenched the man around and drove his right leg forward and down, toes outward, pushing threw the man's knee with a wet crack.

The fight was finished a bare millisecond later as he slammed an elbow into the now exposed throat. Letting go, he dripped the now limp attacker to the floor.

He swayed as he sucked in breath, trying not to vomit as the pain of at least three broken ribs hit home. Finally, he turned and looked at the man behind the desk.

'You are in deep fucking trouble Mr Blackmore. Deep, fucking trouble.' Blaise's voice was still hoarse from the fight and all the more menacing for it.

'Now, now Inspector! I'm sure we can find a solution amenable to the both of us. I didn't realise who you were until William had already attacked you. He's a simple soul and quite tenacious once he gets started.' Blackmore slowly started to count five pound notes off a pile in front of him, a greasy smile flickering across his face. Even though he'd taken no part in the fight, beads of sweat rolled down his face.

'Steven Hope Blackmore, you are charged with profiteering, smuggling, Treason and trying to bribe an officer of His Imperial Majesty's government. Consider yourself under arrest.'

'Wait! I have a thousand pounds here, more than most make in ten years! Take it, let me go.'

Blaise stepped forward and slapped the five pound notes out of Blackmore's hands. He stood over the cowering black marketeer, pinching his nose with frustration.

'You stupid pig! I've got lawyers that will have you wishing you'd never fucking laid hands on me! My customers pay your fucking salary you piece of stupid shit!' spittle flew from Blackmore's mouth, coating Blaise's favourite suit.

'Fuck it'. The words had barely left his mouth before he drew his pistol and shot Blackmore in the face. He reached forward and plucked Blackmore's handkerchief from his top pocket, and wiped himself down. Pocketing the notes that weren't blood spattered, he turned and walked out.

iPod Short - Blaise Maximillian and the trench

Trench warfare is one of the dirtiest forms there are. First off, you have men living in what are basically open holes or buried holes in the ground. Add water to that mix and the men are constantly having to put up with mud.

If you add shit and piss from latrines, and men who have gut rot, as well as rats and the remains of unburied troops - or some of their bodily parts at least - then you have the true meaning of dirty.

That, believe it or not, is not the worst part. The worst part is that once the enemy has struggled across no-man's land, the distance in which you engage them is limited to no more than twenty yards, and often as close as twenty inches.

Trench warfare is personal. The enemy has a face you could put onto any of the lads in your unit. The enemy has halitosis, body odour, fleas and lice, just like you.

The enemy is as hell-bent on killing you, as you are him, and will use any weapon he can including his teeth.

Trench warfare is positively medieval. Serrated bayonets, daggers, knives, bayonet swords, home-made spears, maces, billy clubs and knuckledusters are all used to rip, tear, slash, cut, smash, break and destroy the enemy. Even sharpened spades make excellent tools.

All of this crossed Blaise's mind as he ducked back into cover. The grenade went off with a muffled crump and mud flew everywhere.

He pushed himself up and round the corner, trying desperately to see through the glass goggles on his gasmask, sucking hard for air.

A figure struggled to rise, but the fact it was missing an arm hampered it somewhat. Blaise shot it twice, his heavy Webley bucking.

The figure dropped back into the mud and he ran forward, his foot landing on its head, shoving the face further into the mud.

'Teuffel!' a curtain, made practically invisible by the mud coating it twitched aside as a massive Prussian Guards Officer stepped into the trench.

He gasped as Blaise rammed the Webley under his chin, eyes widening behind his own eye slits. A quick pull of the trigger and the man fell backward down the steps into his bunker.

'Quickly!' Blaise snatched a petrol bomb from the man behind him, lit it, and tossed it down the stairs. The darkness within was instantly removed as the fragile glass broke on the helmet of one of the Prussians behind the officer.

Horrible, piercing, heart-rending screams came from the men as the petrol, soap and rubber mix melted their rubber masks onto their faces. A couple of grenades stopped the screaming, as did the bayonets of the tommies that went down into the bunker.

'Move up!' There was a bend in the trench ahead so he threw another grenade up and over the bend, aiming for a couple of yards beyond it.

'Lovely throw sir, you'd be well placed on the regimental cricket team.' his faithful shadow, the Colour Sergeant was right behind him as ever.

'Thanks sarn't, I didn't know they used grenades as balls!' he moved on before the Colour could reply.

He stepped into utter carnage. The enemy had been in the process of setting up a heavy machine gun. When the grenade detonated, it had destroyed the carriage, turning it upon its crew as it was blasted into so many pieces of shrapnel.

'How far now Colour?' each unit of the attackers had been given a certain sized corridor of operations in order to avoid friendly casualties, and he was keen to avoid any mix up.

'We stop at the next bend sir.' the Colour Sergeant suddenly pushed him out of the way, lunging forward as he did so and bayoneting a Prussian through the head.

'Bastard was playing dead sir. Sorry for the push,' the Colour Sergeant stuck his bayonet into the mud to get the worst of the blood off.

'Not at all, Colour, not all.' adrenaline surged through his body, another dump on top of the previous fighting. Blaise had never felt so alive.

By God trench warfare was dirty, but by God was it glorious!

iPod short - Blaise Maximillian and the sniper

The noise a bullet makes when passing through the air is like that of a bee, an angry bee with a sting that can ruin your day.

A high velocity bullet, can quite often crack past you, like a whip flicking your ear. Whether you hear a buzz or a crack, the end result is the same; you take cover as quickly as you can.

Blaise found his face down in the dark, stinking mud of the Somme before he even realised what was happening. An invisible cloud of foul-smelling gas puffed up with the sound of a wet, trouser ripping fart.

The gas mask did nothing to keep the smell out and his cheeks bulged as his stomach tried to add to the stench by forcing his breakfast back up as well.

He looked down and realised that he was lying on the body of a German soldier, his face snuggling into what he had previously thought was mud, but which he realised was its groin.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and ripped off his mask. Vomit hurtled out of his mouth, so fast that he was surprised at the strength of his stomach.

He put the mask back on for another breath and then back off for more vomit. The chuckles around him from the men he was leading only added to his misery.

'Cheer up sir, I'm sure your boyfriend won't mind you going first!' Colour Sergeant Jones was a mild-mannered, slightly built man, and every soldier in the regiment held him in the highest regard.

It didn't stop Blaise retorting with a muffled 'Fuck off Colour, there's a good chap.'

Another bullet cracked through the air, spanging off the wrecked hulk of an allied tank. Sparks flew through the air and the metal glowed where it had been struck.

'Bastard's got a high velocity rifle. Anyone see the shot?' a chorus of muffled no's rang out.

This was the part of being an officer that he hated. The responsibility for the lives of his men and the authority to make sure he could save as many as possible, or throw them away in order to achieve the objective.

'Jones! When I say, up and run five paces. Everyone else, look for the shot!'

Jones stared over at him, tightly gripping his rifle, the bladder on his mask inflating and deflating rapidly.

'Go!' jones scrambled to his feet and lumbered forward the five paces, dropping down into the mud and rapidly rolling away to a different position.

At the same time the rest of the squad popped their heads up and scanned for the shot. Nothing.

'Fuck! Jones, up five on my command! Go!'

The unfortunate Jones was just scrambling onto all fours when the bullet punched through the top of his head, drilling through his body and erupting from his arse in a fountain of gore. His corpse dropped back into the mud with a macabre tail of guts trailing from his back end.

'One o'clock, two hundred yards. Low wall. Five yard to the nine o'clock of the wall. Watch my shot.' there was a pause as the spotter loaded a tracer round. With a muffled crack, the tracer raced towards its target.

'Fire and manoeuvre in pairs! Fire at will!' shots rippled from the squad as they slipped into manoeuvres that had become second nature. One member of the pair provided covering fire for the other as they ran forward five paces and took cover, then repeated the process.

There was no return of fire from the enemy sniper, and it made Blaise uneasy.

'Colour! To me!' he waited until the Colour Sergeant reached him. He was interrupted before he could voice his concerns.

'Too fucking quiet sir! We should have taken at least two casualties by now.'

The concern on the Colour Sergeant's face said it all.

'We can't bally well fall back in the face of a determined lack of opposition can we Colour. Let's get to the wall at least and see what to do after that. The chaps are nearly there anyway.'

It was true, the closest pair was only ten yards away, close enough for grenades and he watched as a couple were lobbed towards the target.

They had barely finished exploding before the man surged up and charged the wall. A flurry of shots and then silence.

Blaise and the Colour Sergeant stood up and stared as faint shouts of 'all clear' drifted towards them.

'What the ..' the Colour Sergeant didn't get to finish his sentence. The ground erupted with a roar and flames twenty feet high shot from the ground. Blaise watched in stunned disbelief as his men were incinerated where they stood, dying without even screaming as the superheated gases flowed down their throats and cooked their lungs as they instinctively drew breath to scream.

Even at two hundred yards the heat was intense, steam rising from Blaise's wet uniform, the mud drying almost instantly.

Within seconds it was over, the flames dying down as quickly as they appeared. One or two corpses stood, looking like Negro scarecrows, all humanity burnt from them.

'Come on sir, nothing we can do.' the Colour slowly led his sobbing officer back to their lines.

Blaise Maximillian & the Orphan Robber

The Bitter Peace had come six months ago, but you wouldn't have known it looking at the people that surrounded Detective Inspector Blaise Maximillian. Even now, they scurried along the streets, lean-faced, most wearing the ration-issue uniform of the Imperial Volunteer Workers Corps. The yellow skin of Canary Disease marked many as having worked in the munitions factories. The thick blood they coughed and hawked into their handkerchiefs, or spat onto the floor, was a dark, almost tar-black colour. Globules of blood were quickly lost in the black dust coating the pavement, the ash from the firestorms hardened into a semi-permanent coating.

The East End of London had been in a sorry state before nineteen fourteen, but after the bombing from nineteen seventeen onwards, it was in even more of a state. Despite five years having passed since the first bomb dropped, only the most basic of repairs had been carried out. To the bitter disappointment of many, those buildings deemed of strategic importance had been given the full attention of the Department of Public Works during the war, all others being left to literally fall by the wayside. Even now, only those buildings deemed to be important to the first stages of the Great Recovery were receiving any form of attention. Many of the people were still carrying their gas masks, and even the familiar drone of the RAF's latest D50 airships slowly passing overhead, caused many to hunch their shoulders, glancing up quickly, taking quick looks to see where the nearest shelter might be. One or two of the workers were still wearing aspects of their gas suits. Those that weren't hurrying to work for their next twelve-hour shift, were somnolently shambling their way back to the tightly-packed tents.

Blaise continued to stride along the street, his brass-capped cane making a sharp tap on the pavement with every other step. His very presence marked him out as someone not to be messed with, and the red-lined, Norton and Sons, tailored three-piece suit marked him out as being someone, the crowd parting as he made his way along Cable Street. Shrapnel holes pockmarked the buildings that still stood, and neat piles of bricks were all that remained of those buildings hit in the final days of bombing, the "Lassen Keine überleben", otherwise known as 'Let Nothing Survive.'

Those last few days had been hell for the people crammed into the slums and industrial districts of the East End of London as the bombs rained down upon them. High-explosive, incendiary and gas bombs fell continuously for ninety-six hours as wave after wave of Zeppelins and bombers showered the city. No-one who survived those final days was left unmarked. Many had lost friends and family, had been deafened by the blasts, had burned lungs, seared eyes and scarred skin from the incendiary and gas bombs. The Imperial German Navy had first dropped incendiary bombs, causing such a firestorm that many were unable to breathe in the constraints of their gas masks. Five hours after the last incendiary had been dropped, the gas bombs fell alongside the explosives. Caught unawares, great swathes of the population were forced to scramble for their suits and masks, barely no-one in the East End escaped being injured by the gas.

Blaise on the other-hand, was physically unmarked, well-fed and well-dressed. He walked ramrod stiff, his highly polished brown leather Loakes tapping as the metal tips on the sole struck sparks from the pavement. Going past Well Close he saw his prey turn right into Fell Street, skirting around the remains of a shell-hole. Everyone so often the man would glance over his shoulder, bumping into people and drawing half-hearted curses from them. Slowly Blaise raised his reinforced bowler hat, tipping it towards his prey the next time he turned to look. His prey practically tripped over at the blatant threat, recovered and then started to run pell-mell down the street. Workers scattered, standing aside as the two men raced down the street.

The street opened up into a massive space. Wooden platforms supported the Communal Tents erected on them, and children leaped from one platform to another, sometimes using improvised rope swings. To the front of the square, the Imperial Ministry of Food had set up a number of soup canteens. Hundreds of people queued in front of them, either waiting for their breakfast, lunch or dinner. No matter what meal they were waiting for it was always the same, Ministry recommended soup, with a chunk of high-protein bread. Dodging through the crowd, his quarry suddenly leaped over a soup cart, stopped, and shoved the canteen over, scattering the people queuing in front of it. He gave a brief scream, shaking his hands as he ran, blowing on them and yelping as he did so.

Bloody cliché! He's been in the Kino a few too many times.  Blaise skirted around the rapidly spreading soup, shoving workers out of the way as they too tried to avoid the boiling liquid. Skidding to a stop, he drew his Webley, "Special Intelligence Agent! Move out of the way!" He cursed as people did the exact opposite, scattering like a flock of startled chickens, and running in front of his line of sight almost deliberately.

Arms pumping, the temporarily useless Webley pointing to the sky, Blaise started to sprint after the man again. A worker was too slow in getting out of the way of his quarry and was sent spinning as he was elbowed in the face. There was a sudden zipping sound, a sound that Blaise had heard far too many times before the Bitter Peace, far too fucking many times since peace too! There was another zip, a thwack and a soft sigh. A worker just in front of him folded and dropped to the ground as if he was a marionette whose strings had been cut.

This time the people moved, diving for the ground as pure instinct took hold. The sound of hot metal scything its way through the air was familiar to all, workers and veterans alike and constant exposure meant that their bodies took action before they even realised it. With a clear shot, Blaise dropped to one knee, ignoring the pain as the sharp rubble sliced into his knee. Another bullet zipped past him as he casually raised his pistol and fired a shot of his own back. His target squealed, dropping his weapon as he grabbed the wound that had opened up on his arm. He turned and started to run, giving Blaise the perfect shot. Controlling his breathing, steadying his aim, Blaise took careful aim and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a heart-stopping click as the hammer slammed forward onto the round, with no effect.

Fucking hell! He snapped off another shot, missing as anger caused him to snatch at the trigger. Many veterans believed that the war had been lost at home as much as it had on the battle field, more so in some cases. Poor materials and poor workmanship, but mostly poor materials had meant that there was an increasing amount of duds being delivered to the battle field.

Blaise felt his blood surging through his veins as he started running full pelt after his prey. He cursed at the weight of the belt at his hip as he raised his left hand and spoke into his Radio Chronograph,"Bill, the target's running down the Fell Street brownfield, he'll be on to St George street shortly. I'm pursuing. Cut him off! Cut him down! I don't care, just bloody stop the blighter!'

Men cursed and women exclaimed as he barged his way down Fell Street, the crowds were thicker here as the workers queued for their meal ration. With every step he closed on his prey, despite the weight of the equipment he was carrying. Digging deep, he came out of Fell Street and turned left, barely yards behind the man. The man looked over his shoulder once again and then turned to put on a burst of speed. All of a sudden his head snapped back. His legs kept running and it actually looked as if he was running up into the air. His feet were still running as his body lost its battle with gravity. With a sickening crack the back of his slammed into the pavement, the rest of his body crashing down with a 'woof' as the air was driven from his body.

Blaise rapidly stomped to a stop within a few steps, leaning back on his heels and making his steps smaller and smaller, stopping without losing balance, and  smiled as he saw the outstretched arm of his assistant, William 'Bill' Thatcher.

'Bloody good effort Detective Sergeant, bloody good effort!'

He looked down at the man on the floor, watching him try to draw breath into his lungs, mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of a water. Casually, he took a skipping step and slammed a highly polished shoe, heel down, onto the man's diaphragm, blasting what air he had managed to draw back out of his lungs. Spittle and vomit pulsed weakly out of the man's lips.

'What sort of shit steals from an orphanage sergeant? Not just any orphanage, an Imperial War Hero's Orphanage! Do you think that this piece of excrement.' short, sharp kicks stabbed into the man's ribs, 'ever served the Empire?'

'No sir, I doubt we'd ever have let him join our hallowed ranks. I mean, he can't even rob the poor defenceless little orphans without getting fucking caught.'

The thief had just about got his breath back, 'Please …. please, God I'm sorry. So sorry.'

'No, I don't think you are sorry. Not yet.' with that, Blaise smashed his cane into the man's face. Blood and bits of teeth flew and he screams in agony. Another blow and the man's right cheek bone shattered, the red and yellow contrasting with the man's pale skin. A third blow opened a gash on this forehead and more shrill screams bubbled out of the ruined mouth. A final, double-handed blow smashed the man's nose back into the skull, caving his whole face inwards as if it was being sucked down a plug hole with a horrendous, wet, crunch.

The man's heels drummed on the floor and his fingers curled as his hands grasped in the air as if trying to pull himself up. Barely breathing hard, Blaise calmly wiped his cane clean, dropping the handkerchief down on to the man's chest. They stood in silence for the next couple of minutes as the man slowly died before them, snoring, snorting and squealing like a pig, the noise gradually diminishing.

Satisfied that the thief was finally dead, Blaise spoke into his Radio Chronograph, 'Thief apprehended. Looks like the crowd got hold of him before we could. Ambulance required for disposal of the cadaver.'

He looked over at Thatcher, 'Drink Sergeant? I seem to have worked up a thirst.'

'Don't mind if I do sir, don't mind if I do.' Slowly, they strolled off in search of the nearest pub.

The start

This isn’t actually my first blog. I’ve had a couple before and always found them to be hard to keep up. However, I decided that I would write another book. This time, I took the Steampunk Fiction route as it is something that I love reading about, love dressing up in the clothing of Steampunk and thought it would be a challenge.

The first few chapters I wrote on my PC and in emails as I walked to – and from – work. I was then lucky enough to be given an iPod by a close friend and started to write using that.
I can honestly say I didn’t look back. I was able to get an average of 2,000 words a down down on the iPod using Notes and had a 75,000 word first draft done in around 30 days.
The next step I took was to put 7 chapters onto http://www.authonomy.com/books/32130/shattered-lands-torquemaster-rising/ and see what people said. I also sent it on to a number of close – but not sycophantic – friends to see what they thought.

As non-professionals they loved the story, as did a number of the people that read the draft chapters and left comments. That’s when I started to get  … overconfident. Not cocky, but definitely overconfident.
I honestly thought I was ready to start submitting to agents. So I did. Fortunately I got a rejection pretty much straight away. It was great getting that rejection as I felt I needed one to get over the rejection hurdle and start looking at becoming a proper writer.

So I went out and hunted for all the agents of the writers whose books I read and liked and built up a list of agents I liked the look of. Whilst I was doing this, I came across John Jarrold who was not only the agent for Stephen Hunt – author of Iron Moon – but a publisher with many years of experience.

I now have a frank, honest and professional editorial document that has left me in no doubt as to just how much of a re-write I have, how to change things for the better, and good examples of POV. I can’t wait to get my teeth into this project to make the world of Shattered Lands one of the best steampunk settings there are.