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About Literature / Hobbyist Dirk HoderinMale/United Kingdom Groups :iconpnf2-twisted-truths: PnF2-Twisted-Truths
You Cant Fight The Lies
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so yeah, this is the newest stuff, there's plenty of old stuff to look through too

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This is very well written; the flow and the imagery is especially nice, with the little rhetorical questions and whatnot, that said, I ...

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I'm hoping to turn what I originally intended to be TV series into a webcomic. There's a small amount of concept art and some writing I did for it if anyone wants it. it's a sci-fi story that's hopefully going to be done in an episodic kind of style.

I'd be interested in working with anybody but I'd prefer if any applicants had a more realistic style (more or less detailed doesn't matter much) and I'd rather avoid anime styles.

Thanks for your time.

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For the last three hours, Danny Blake had become increasingly fractious.
Perhaps the biggest contributing factor was that “Clash of Candy Bird Ninjas” was not, in fact, the thrill-packed super addictive app its store page had promised. In all honesty it hadn't even entertained him until they'd left their home town.
Moreover,, as of about twenty minutes ago the game's poor quality had become a moot point, owing to the fact that his phone's battery had drained to nothing and despite his best efforts, resolutely refused to charge from the meagre amount of power offered by the car's on board USB hub.
And finally, perhaps he would only be tired and cranky were they taking a more scenic route, but the perfect monotony of endless motorway had been taking its toll on him ever since he realised the app he'd downloaded for the trip was garbage.
As it stood, he was tired, cranky and bored.
He tried his phone again in the hopes that the feeble car charger had at least served up enough power for him to turn it on and call somebody, or aimlessly surf the internet for a minute or two.
No such luck; a battery icon flashed defiantly at him before the screen went black once more, hammering home the harsh reality that the remainder of the journey was going to be spent enduring crushing boredom.
He looked out the window in case anything interesting might appear or go by, but the motorway continued into oblivion; as astoundingly dull as it was long.
For a moment a sign caught his attention, but he quickly forgot it once he realised it only indicated their proximity to a service stop.
Danny sighed heavily as he resorted to listening in to what his parents were talking about, but as he feared, all they were talking about right now was just the impenetrable dullness of local government policies in the little town they were moving to.
Even the radio wasn't engaging him right now: for the umpteenth time, a newsreader went through the day's articles, though they might as well have been the same articles as any in the last ten or so years.
Somebody had gone to jail, people were killing each other in far off countries and a celebrity had said a thing: same old, same old.
He wondered for a moment just how much the newsreader got paid, but it wasn't long until the boredom set in again.
Finally – as futile as it may well be – Danny felt driven to subject his parents to some whinging, if only to make his current displeasure known.
“Are we nearly there yet?” he asked, being sure to use the time-honoured rhythm and intonation that drove parents across the world to despair, but when his mother turned round he instantly felt guilt sinking in.
She smiled weakly at him to indicate her sympathy, “it's not all that far now” she soothed, “yeah, don't worry, we're only going to be moving for another half hour at the most” his father added.
His mother looked sure of this, raising her eyebrows in agreement.
His dad continued, glancing in the rear-view mirror so he could get a good look at him, “look, I know it's been a long journey. Tell you what; once we get there, I'll just dump all our stuff down and we'll all go out for a nice big lunch. How does that sound?”
Danny nodded enthusiastically, relieved his parents hadn't picked him up for his comment. That morning he'd not had anything for breakfast save for a pathetically small cereal bar so any news of food was music to his ears.
“Sounds great” he replied “thanks dad.”
“That's okay, but any more bellyaching like that and you're unpacking the car by yourself.”
He laughed nervously.
He deserved that, he thought to himself.
Danny Blake and the Dawn Eater
So a while back I wrote a thing to probe at the fringes of a potential story and now, some time later, I'm revisiting that story in an official manner, even if it's just by way of writing an opening.

It occurs to me that in all this time I've written about fantastical worlds, airships, action, space, friends and the post apocalypse, but it's been pretty much EXACTLY ten years since I've written a simple scene with a few characters in a car.

Also, I'm back. apologies for being away for so long.
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Penelope had lost count of the amount of times that number six auxiliary engine had failed, but now she was fixing it on her own for the first time, it felt like a rite of passage.
With an almost automatic motion, she tapped her phone on the sensor for the external maintenance gantry, which made a pleasant little ping sound before it unlocked and she pushed it open, letting a rush of cold air into the Aurora's cabin as she did so.
By now the safety procedure was muscle memory; first the primary line went on the guide rail on the right hand side, anchoring her to it by a strong and unforgiving cord that linked to her harness at three different points, then the secondary line went on the same rail, this one was considerably longer and fed into a pack on the back of her harness, then finally the thick, heavy-duty tertiary cord attached to the secondary anchor point that was recessed a few centimetres in the floor of the gantry, so that even if the safety rail broke, she had a final redundant line she could rely on.
Even given all that, the safety harnesses also carried a parachute and had a magnetic grappling hook built into them that she could use to save herself, should the worst case scenario arise.
She could thank over a hundred years of technological advances and poor individuals whose misfortunes highlighted the weaknesses of said technology for all that equipment.
Her father even had a saying for it - “the more lines you've got, the more lives you've got.”
With a deep breath to calm herself, Penelope stepped out onto the gantry and began walking over to the back pair of engines, locking her eyes on the troublesome number six, whose propeller had now stopped.
Once she got over to it, she used a small remote control that sat at her waist to lower the maintenance platform that was anchored to the main body of the airship above her; slowly a wide metal platform came down and stopped around her feet, giving her a generous amount of room to move around the engine.
She moved onto the platform with some amount of trepidation, feeling the unsettling snags as her safety lines went from their tracks onto the platform's tracks.
In practice, it was just about as safe as it could be, but that didn't stop it from feeling awful when her lines failed to transition from one to another.
As she set herself down next to the engine and pulled out her tools, she suddenly felt very aware of just how much of a responsibility she carried at that moment; by now she was supposed to know how to fix it, having been trained  for the job since she was four, but if she got it wrong, then there was nobody who she could blame it on and no flex in the reprimands she would receive if an incorrect diagnosis led to the engine being scrapped when the only thing wrong with it was a bad glow plug.
The large chrome engine housing lifted easily once she undid the fastening, revealing the full glory of the massive Parker-Watkins engine and the heady, cloying, slightly sweet smell that a hard-worked diesel engine gave off.
Thankfully though, the diagnosis in this case was simple.
And catastrophic.
The Parker-Watkins Mark 4 engines that made up the rest of the Aurora's set of auxiliaries were incredibly powerful and had - save for one or two little hiccups – never given them any problems, but about five years ago, one of the engines caught fire during maintenance when the Aurora was in its hangar and Skyway had replaced it with a mark 3 unit.
Unfortunately,  while the mark 4 was one of the most popular engines ever made by Parker-Watkins, the Mark 3 – while it had identical performance – was dogged with reliability issues, from simply failing to start to dramatically ripping themselves apart under full throttle.
In this case, it was evident that this particular unit had befallen the same fate as so many of its kind had.
The amount of heat being given off by it was quite extraordinary; far greater than it should ever be under normal load.
She pushed the propeller hard, but the blades refused to turn, having seemingly stuck tight as she heaved at them.
Dreading what she would find, Penelope used the biggest adjustable spanner she had and released the cylinder head, to reveal all six cylinder heads and the shaft assembly.
It was exactly as she had imagined.
Of all the common faults that the mark 3 was afflicted with, the most common cause of death was due to a notoriously flaky oil delivery system, whereby oil pressure would either slowly drop or completely stop, causing the engine to seize with little or no warning.
She fished deeper in the engine, marvelling at just how completely and utterly totalled the engine was; the prop shaft had completely dried up and had welded itself to the bearings and casing with the friction.
The only reason the oil hadn't caught fire was that there was no oil left to catch fire.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth as she reached for the radio attached to the shoulder space on her harness and grimaced as she phoned the report in.
“Penelope to control” she began, still trying to formulate the words in her head, but the sound of her father's voice calmed her nerves just enough for her to continue.
“This is your captain speaking. I don't like the tone you're using there Pen, is it that bad?” he answered as Penelope adjusted her position a little, so that she was now sitting with her back to the huge engine.
“It's a code fourteen I'm afraid. Oil failed and it seized up hard, frankly with how dry it is and just how hot it is, I'm amazed it took this long. The damn pump must have failed yesterday or something.”
She ended her message and her father's calm voice came through again, “okay then, I'll talk to Skyway and arrange a drop-off, you take a hacksaw to that prop for me though, okay? If it ain't spinning, it's slowing us down.”
She raised an eyebrow at that, looking at the propeller and the small amount of exposed shaft that led into the housing.
“Okay, got it dad. Out”
Skybound
So I got a seriously massive urge to write something to do with airships, then the whole thing sort of ballooned (let's just say that I intended that pun) and all of a sudden I had a pretty fleshed out little idea.

I seriously think I should at least try to make this a full story. It deserves at least a little more exploration as a concept.
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Dirk Hoderin
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
I'm a writer with a head full of ideas, a love of tech and the proud owner of perhaps too many opinions.

Cartoons are also a guilty pleasure for me and I thoroughly enjoy creating stereoscopic images as well as trying and failing to draw most things.

feel free to browse my page at your leisure and please do take the time to leave a comment if you like any of my work, I really appreciate it.
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