5thman
03-15-2008, 02:24 AM
Hello fellow classic gamers! A few of you have met me indirectly through Dire51 when he helped me promote my Splatterhouse fan projects a year or so ago (Splat2k3 and Splat3D). Both seemed to get positive reactions here, so I thought I'd stop being a timid little coward and come by to promote my newest project in person.
Over the last six months (and one hundred martinis) I've been writing an epistolary sci-fi/horror novella based on Id Software's golden child, Doom, which I published on Fanfiction.net (if only because I didn't have a better alternative, like The New Yorker). But then they started having technical issues, so I moved it to my google page. The keyword is "novella" because it's clocked in at a hundred pages, so you might not finish it in one sitting unless you're a speed-reader or have a couple hours to kill at the office. I'd like to think it's effectively engaging and frightening, but I need others to read it to know for sure. Be warned that it's not for the faint of heart.
http://mmmacdee.googlepages.com/home
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4131496/1/Knee_Deep_in_the_Dead
Rest assured I don't write like an angsty/obsessive twelve-year-old like most fanfic authors you find on fanfic.net--I put a lot of effort and experience into this. If anyone's interested in reading it, I'd love to hear your feedback, good or bad. Hope you all get a kick out of it.
Here's an excerpt for you window-shoppers:
Feel like a sardine in here. On the outside the ship looked huge. Standard transport shuttle, about fifty-by-thirty feet of bulky titanium hull, six stiff legs and six big lights fore and aft. When docked, it looks like a clunky wind-up tick the size of a small house. But inside it's as cramped as an armored personnel carrier, only so cold your fingertips go numb. Passengers sit with their backs to the walls in plastic-coated seats that I'd bet good money are made of concrete. They strapped me in so tight I can hardly turn my head, and scratching my ass is out of the question. Any other marine would sit back and call it cozy. Color me disillusioned.
Space marine, as hip as it sounds, is roughly similar to calling someone a rent-a-cop. Mars Patrol officers tend to be hot shot kids that haven't even finished their eight, and the few that have any real combat experience are the kinds of soldiers that get swept under the rug before they stain the Corps's reputation. Next to Sarge I'm the most experienced marine on this flight. Rowlins served in the war, but he never talks about it, and if anybody asks he just goes into a silent string of prayers, stroking the cross dangling around his neck. Right now he's sitting upright with his eyes closed, either sleeping or meditating, I can't tell which. Mad Max has tenure, too, but as a Chair Force helicopter pilot. At least, I hope so. She's flying this hunk of shit tonight.
Over the last six months (and one hundred martinis) I've been writing an epistolary sci-fi/horror novella based on Id Software's golden child, Doom, which I published on Fanfiction.net (if only because I didn't have a better alternative, like The New Yorker). But then they started having technical issues, so I moved it to my google page. The keyword is "novella" because it's clocked in at a hundred pages, so you might not finish it in one sitting unless you're a speed-reader or have a couple hours to kill at the office. I'd like to think it's effectively engaging and frightening, but I need others to read it to know for sure. Be warned that it's not for the faint of heart.
http://mmmacdee.googlepages.com/home
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4131496/1/Knee_Deep_in_the_Dead
Rest assured I don't write like an angsty/obsessive twelve-year-old like most fanfic authors you find on fanfic.net--I put a lot of effort and experience into this. If anyone's interested in reading it, I'd love to hear your feedback, good or bad. Hope you all get a kick out of it.
Here's an excerpt for you window-shoppers:
Feel like a sardine in here. On the outside the ship looked huge. Standard transport shuttle, about fifty-by-thirty feet of bulky titanium hull, six stiff legs and six big lights fore and aft. When docked, it looks like a clunky wind-up tick the size of a small house. But inside it's as cramped as an armored personnel carrier, only so cold your fingertips go numb. Passengers sit with their backs to the walls in plastic-coated seats that I'd bet good money are made of concrete. They strapped me in so tight I can hardly turn my head, and scratching my ass is out of the question. Any other marine would sit back and call it cozy. Color me disillusioned.
Space marine, as hip as it sounds, is roughly similar to calling someone a rent-a-cop. Mars Patrol officers tend to be hot shot kids that haven't even finished their eight, and the few that have any real combat experience are the kinds of soldiers that get swept under the rug before they stain the Corps's reputation. Next to Sarge I'm the most experienced marine on this flight. Rowlins served in the war, but he never talks about it, and if anybody asks he just goes into a silent string of prayers, stroking the cross dangling around his neck. Right now he's sitting upright with his eyes closed, either sleeping or meditating, I can't tell which. Mad Max has tenure, too, but as a Chair Force helicopter pilot. At least, I hope so. She's flying this hunk of shit tonight.