Yes, all writers do seem to have such a problem.
Such is life.
The Rule of the Shrykull
Act One: The Fall
Chapter
V
My throat and eyes simultaneously stung; I could feel my sharp breaths ripping against my windpipe as if it had been rubbed raw. I felt a metal slug scrape against the top of the right soldier and gasped in pain. I fell, fully this time, and landed on the harsh terrain with hands outstretched.
A haunting chuckle behind me. I rolled onto my back and held a hand in front of my eyes, for protection, both against my attacker and against the smog. The robotic legs had stopped. Another chuckle. Where was he? What was he going to do? I made a spluttering cough and once more heard the metallic legs coming towards me.
I flailed my hand around aimlessly, hitting the ground and picking up multiple loose handfuls of gravel; essentially in a state of panic. Then the obvious idea struck me, probably too late. I picked up a stronger handful of gravel and carefully waited. I heard the metallic legs stop moving and I dared to remove my hand from covering my eyes.
He was right there. Gruesomely brown, though I think I saw splashes of dark green under it. I later found out they were called sligs. They have no discernible mouths, but instead their faces are home to a number of freakish tentacles. It was from these tentacles that the sound came from; I remember them jiggling in the most unsettling way whenever they laughed. Their arms are small, emaciated with disproportionate fingers, suitable used to carry their high-tech firearms.
The slig in front of me leant forwards and rammed the nozzle of its gun into my chest. I then did perhaps the most stupid thing – I should have done it earlier, when there was less danger – I recklessly threw the stones in my hand at it’s eyes. Well, it’s mask which was cleverly designed to protect the eyes against such attacks.
The slig yelped in obvious surprise, and next came the crucial event. Slowing things down once again, the top half of the slig (the legs remained motionless) leaned backwards in surprise. The gun and hand came back from my body a few inches, and possibly by accident, I don’t know, the sligs finger pertinently pushed into the trigger. A burst of three bullets launched from the barrel, making the gun recoil so that two of them embedded in my left shoulder, and one in the dirt just above of it.
My cry of pain was sure to attract even more attention.