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Tales of New Babbage, Vol 1 – Dormant Babbagers!



Just a bit of a taste of the submissions we’ve had so far. I’m very excited. Just a few more days to the first submission deadline. Don’t miss out on being included in volume one!

BTW – if you know someone who used to write about Babbage and has been dormant in SL for a while, would you email them to let them know about the project? They wouldn’t want to miss this opportunity either!

– Cleanslate


Beneath the Drill-Song  by Andrew McCurdy

There was something almost hypnotic in the way the sparkling ripples played with the rising light of dawn. Petharic paused midway across the easternmost of the Stora Canal bridges, entranced by the early morning magic.  He let his gaze carry him beyond the open sea gates at the end of canal, to where the haze-hidden sun spilled hues of orange and pink across the Vernian Sea. The cry of gulls punctuated the rhythm chanted by boats rocking against their moorings. Somewhere nearby an early riser was cooking eggs and sausages, the savoury aroma sang nostalgia, a happy memory that Petharic could only imagine.  He took a deep breath… it was all so beautiful.

            Yet, while Petharic may have appeared distracted during this transcendental moment, he was no easy mark as the boy would presently discover. It was almost supernatural the way he turned. The child didn’t even see the gun until he felt the cold press of steel against the space between his eyes.

            “Oy there mister, there’s no need for violence!” cried the lad, frozen where he stood.  Petharic judged him to be no more than ten.

            “Were you looking for something in my pocket boy?”

            “No sense in lying, a bit of change is all, but no harm done see.” said the boy raising his empty hands.  Petharic held his stance in silence… as still as any wax museum monster, until he saw the boy give in and blink, the only indication of fear he displayed.  This kid is pretty cool, he acknowledged, allowing just the hint of a smile to break at the corners of his lips.  He raised the Colt from the boy’s head and re-holstered it at his side.  The boy, visibly relieved exhaled deeply.

            A stern looked flashed across Petharic’s brow. “Is that the smell of alcohol I detect on your breath son?” he asked.

            “Just beer mister.  I never drinks the spirits afore noon.”

            “What is your name?”

            “Johnny Dawkins” replied the boy.

            “That is a lie.”

“Yes sir it is.”

[To be continued in Tales of New Babbage, Volume 1. Pre-order your copy today!]



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