"40k is among these infinite universes like a diamond in the ruff,
standing as a testament to the resilience and tenacity of the human
race. As it wheels into view, the very fabric of this universe looks
frayed, desperate, like a piece of rope straining under a heavy load,
but which refuses to snap. Nowhere else is our dogged determination to
survive against all odds so plainly displayed, or so harshly put to the
test. They may not be “real” in the way we normally use the word, but
the souls who exist within that bleak reality are still to be both
pitied and admired. Across the omniverse of myth and legend, created
and sustained by those of us lucky (or unlucky, as the case may be)
enough to live in the “real” world, 40K shines forth as a beacon of
inspiration to us all, as an example of courage and, if not hope, at
least stubborn defiance in the face of inevitability. Most people say
that 40K is grimdark. I disagree. 40K is the poem "Do not go gentle
I like to think that the people that read my blog are a pack of roving Steppenwolves, wandering aimlessly through a world that is far too strict and set in its ways to really take notice of these strange, lonely people. I like to think that some of you are writers and artists yourselves, come to gloat or share in my strangeness for a while. That you are languid sleepers wandering into my home in a torpor, come to ask advice and simply enjoy yourselves---at least, that's what I hope it's like. I don't want this to be about me (even though it's my blog...) for some reason I could never have something like that. I would much rather it be a place where you can share and talk and feel free to criticize me, to share your work, your feelings and thoughts just as I do. I want it to be that. I want it to be that all you strange wanderers into the dark and weird can have a place where for a moment you can share in something that perhaps you wouldn't be able to before.
This one's both abrupt and long winded. Proceed with caution.
I mostly wrote this little thing to do some fun dialogue and talk a little about the world. I can only hope you all can bare through it.
Thunder played in the skies above the old city of Grimshaw.
Thick sheets of rain blanketed the streets like a death shroud, making
the squat stone buildings that lined them only vague silhouettes in the
cold. Men and woman rushed to their homes for shelter; a few drenched
guardsmen stood grim and watchful, one hand holding a lantern whose dim
light glowed wanly before them. Among the abandoned streets and
flooded alleys of the old city stood the door of a decrepit flophouse,
too leaky and filthy now to attract much custom save a few thieves and
beggars that wander in from the street. The owner of this dismal
establishment, one Malcolm Shanks Harlow,—M.S. to what little there
still remained of his friends—sat in a torn armchair by the hearth,
smoking a melange of drugs he…