Paul Martyn
Bio
- Sydney-based unpublished writer here to share my work, to be inspired by others, enter a few challenges, and develop my skills along the way to becoming an author. Feedback welcomed.
IG: @appauling_fiction
Stories (12/0)
Ring
It is cold, damp, and dark where I sit. I am almost dormant, as I lay here, inert and without tether. You could say I lost track of time, however I do not perceive the concept, do not experience the passing of your seconds, minutes, hours in the same way that you do. The passage of your time is fragmented for me, but it has been said in my presence that my birth occurred over several of your millennia ago. I gleaned this somewhat meaningless observation from radical shifts in the worlds my hosts inhabit.
By Paul Martyn3 months ago in Fiction
The Road to Santa Fe
A note from the author: due to the reception that my previous piece in this series received, I will be attempting to write an entire novel based on Quinn's journey for NaNoWriMo. I am presenting this next chapter here now in order to tide those of you who enjoyed "The White Oak" over until I've finished the book.
By Paul Martyn5 months ago in Fiction
Up, Up, and Away!
Jerry drifted through the clouds, the cool morning breeze ruffling his already thinning hair, and fluttering his cape against his calves. An air pocket shook his body, almost causing him to drop his phone. He gripped it tighter, while trying to both text and maintain his speed and altitude.
By Paul Martynabout a year ago in Fiction
Fight or Flight
Sigra was jolted awake by the familiar dull thud of blaster fire slamming into bulkheads, followed by the constant, all-encompassing blare of alarm klaxons. She sat up in her bunk, adrenaline cranking her heart up to eleven. She kicked her covers off, and jumped into her flight suit, shoving her feet into her boots, and haphazardly throwing her belt around her waist, fumbling at the buckle. She pulled her blaster pistol from its locking pegs on the wall, and secured it in its holster. She picked up her CommPod, then changed her mind, biting onto one end of the strap, yanking a hair tie off her wrist, and quickly pulling her hair back into a pony.
By Paul Martynabout a year ago in Fiction
Wave Reflector
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. The difference was subtle enough that I didn’t see it at first. It took me a while to notice that something wasn't quite right; my hair parted on the wrong side, a shirt button open that in reality was not, a slight delay in my reflection returning a wave. When I looked into its depths, I would see my reflection, yes, but who that reflection was of, I could not tell you. It would come to show me so much more.
By Paul Martynabout a year ago in Fiction
The Heirloom
A note from the author: This story was inspired by a character in one of my favourite video games, Dark Souls II. In the game, he speaks with a jolly Scottish brogue, however I didn’t want to go full Irvine Welsh, so I kept the dialect in English with a few Scot inflections here and there. If you want, feel free to read the dialogue in your best internal Scottish accent. Or don’t, I’m not your dad. Either way, I hope you enjoy - Paul
By Paul Martynabout a year ago in Fiction
- Top Story - March 2023
Tour GuideTop Story - March 2023
"Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. This phenomenon marked a new age of human history, the revelation that we were not alone. This phenomenon coincided with the arrival of the Elhokai people, on this spot, 8th of March, 2019."
By Paul Martynabout a year ago in Fiction
Blabbermouth
- WARNING: This story contains adult language - "If walls could talk..." I love that phrase. I love it because it's truer than any person that speaks it could even begin to imagine. I love it because, in an ego-stroking fashion, it reveals our value beyond that of holding up a ceiling, of keeping weather out. We don’t just protect you from rain and heat and theft, we provide privacy. We protect the secrets of horrible and well-meaning people alike without prejudice...without consent really.
By Paul Martynabout a year ago in Fiction
- Top Story - August 2022
The White OakTop Story - August 2022
The repeater grew heavy in Quinn’s hands. Pressed into a corner of the room between the side wall and a chipped and worn bureau, he tensed and relaxed his hands in turn to try to alleviate the perceived heaviness of the paltry 9-pound piece of wood and steel. It wasn’t actually heavy at all, he’d just been waiting in the same position for too long. Quietly waiting. Patiently waiting. Almost motionlessly waiting.
By Paul Martyn2 years ago in Fiction
Locket
A forgotten city, long from now; could be any month, any day, almost any time between sunrise and sunset. Clouds the colour of faded renaissance paintings blotted out the sun, leaving only a faint shadowy disc. A sense of pressure hung in the air, humidity threatening to worsen and turn into rain. The sound of restless crowds, of Militia boots falling in step, heralding another patrol, another raid, another skirmish. Trash lined the sidewalks and crumbled underfoot, blooming horrid, previously undiscovered odours.
By Paul Martyn3 years ago in Fiction
