tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64111009124709850202011-07-08T12:49:32.935+01:00Serial web fiction by <a href="http://jazmcdougall.blogspot.com">Jaz Mcdougall</a>.Jazmeisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06411953901137184697noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411100912470985020.post-56236459478895002282009-11-01T12:00:00.002Z2009-11-01T12:25:21.667Z

By Jaz McDougallCounting his two surviving arrows, Torg hushed his breathing and cursed his luck. The temple in ruins, the battle won, and still he fought for his life in the dungeons beneath.Still, he'd done his duty, won his honour, and if he could survive to enjoy it, his freedom. Were it not for his quivering knees, the crumbling stone ledge beneath, and the unhinged bent of the slavering

Jazmeisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06411953901137184697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411100912470985020.post-41994495778160474552009-10-01T12:00:00.000+01:002009-11-01T09:10:05.273Z

By Jaz McDougallOn the corner, by the roundabout at the edge of town, sat a fuel station. The lights and sounds of it never went out, and someone always stood there in the window, even at night.Across from the fuel station, a long, low factory squinted at the daylight, and slept at night. Inside, the great long machines seemed like one snaking train track, and a thousand empty jars sat backed up

Jazmeisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06411953901137184697noreply@blogger.com1