Martin Estridge
Bio
Occasional actor, infrequent writer, amateur photographer, aspiring electrician.
Stories (8/0)
A Messy Divorce
Henry glanced at his favourite armchair. Someone had draped it with a heavy quilt. Behind him, a floor board creaked. He was turning when Eleanor stabbed him in the liver. The shock drove him backward into the chair. Eleanor stood over her husband, still as a statue, gazing intently at the blood-soaked knife in her hand. Her reverie broke only as Henry tried to stand. She pushed him back down, her touch gentle but firm. “Now Darling. You wouldn’t want to bleed on the carpet, would you?” she asked, sweetly.
By Martin Estridge12 months ago in Fiction
Strangers in the Forest
A bolt of lightning exploded in front of Tur-Velig’s face. The intense flash of light blinded him and the heat burned through his scales. The pain was excruciating, but the only noise he made was a quickly stifled growl. Tur-Velig had seen others of his kind scream and wail when struck by Wizard magic, and had been disgusted. Such displays of weakness did not become the dignity of a dragon.
By Martin Estridgeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Survivor
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I haven’t tested the theory. Because the only way I can think of testing it is by taking a spacewalk without any gear. Which means my head would explode. I’m just not that curious. Still, if my day gets any worse I might be willing to give it a shot.
By Martin Estridge2 years ago in Fiction
The Bandit
All was black and Oisin Azor had never been so scared. A cloak of utter Darkness had descended upon the bandit, robbing him of all sight. And in that perfect dark, monsters stirred. Though sight was denied him, Oisin’s other senses were sharper than ever. He could hear the dreadful snarls the monsters made as they stalked around him. He could smell the rottenness of their breath as they closed to attack. He could feel their claws and teeth raking his flesh. He could taste his own blood in the air.
By Martin Estridge2 years ago in Fiction
Sacrifice in Serpent Valley
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley”, said the King as he gazed out from the High Tower. “When my great-grandfather was lord of this castle, there was nothing but verdant life from here in the Grey Mountains to the horizon and beyond. In the springtime, the grass grew lush and green, right up to the twisting banks of the Serpent River. Children would play there, running heedless through stalks that went up past their heads; more than one youngster got a drenching in the cold waters that flowed on by. And above all this stood the mighty oak trees, trees that grew so tall you couldn’t tell where theirs crowns ended and the Heavens began.”
By Martin Estridge2 years ago in Fiction