Gianfranco Mancini > Recent Status Updates

Loyal subjects of the Imperium always feared hulks. Imperial merchantmen traversing the warp would flee at the sighting of one. Space Marines were honour-bound to board a hulk, to cleanse any threat it posed, and to recover any valuable or enigmatic pieces of ancient technology from millennia earlier which might be encysted in the wreck like pearls held in a lethal clam.

Mechanisms - Christopher Golden & Mike Mignola (Illustrations by Mike Mignola) ☆☆☆

Every Wrong Turn - Tim Lebbon ☆☆☆☆

The Collector - Kelley Armstrong ☆☆☆☆☆

Bulimia Richard - Christian Matheson ☆☆

Orfeo the Damned - Nancy Holder ☆☆☆☆☆

She jerked and backed away. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.” “You summoned us,” said the man. He raised a hand and pointed to the box gripped in her hand. Blood was running down her forearm and dripping off her elbow. “We came. Now you belong to us.”

Then a man stepped out of the icy blue light. His skin was dead white and his eyes were two wounds; his eyelids and lips were wrenched back by hooks. He wore a black robe, like some kind of monk, as the light swirled around him like mist.

I walked over and picked up the puzzle box. I turned it over in my hands, the wood so velvety smooth, so inviting, that it took all my willpower not to start turning the final pieces. “A Lemarchand’s Configuration, I presume?” She blinked. “You know it?” I lifted it to eye level, peering into its dark cracks. “It’s a legendary collection of pieces. Every enthusiast has heard the story.”

Dramatically, at the top of the eleventh hour, the e-mail arrived. My prize? An invitation to try for the grand prize: five thousand dollars. The catch? I had to go to the publisher’s office and solve the same wooden puzzle that was rotating on their splash page.

‘Sacrifice–’ Many of those on board who were of merely ordinary calibre would serve by yielding up their vital force to feed the Emperor’s insatiable soul, so that he could continue to be a watchful beacon and protector. After suitable lengthy training for the sacrifice, these psykers would be consumed within a few scant weeks or months, drained of their spirits until they died. ‘SACRIFICE!’

Prisoners of the Inferno - Peter Atkins ☆☆☆

The Cold - Conrad Williams ☆☆☆

The Confessor’s Tale - Sarah Pinborough ☆☆☆☆☆

Hellbound Hollywood - Mick Garris ☆☆☆☆☆

With a wide lens—perhaps a 14mm, or maybe even a 10—looking up this impressive if weathered stairway, I might be able to capture its growing sense of dread. Especially if I placed the camera right on the floor as it looked up to the next storey, and crept it forward ever so slowly. Yes, this actually might not be such a bad place to shoot, after all. We could spill some blood here . . .

“I found this hidden at the bottom of the cupboard. I think it belonged to your mother.” She shrugged. “It has her name scratched on the lid anyway.” His eyes fell to the box. “I think it is some kind of game. Perhaps a puzzle of sorts.” She shook it, and Arkady heard the pieces rattle inside. “Anyway, it seems poorly made and can have no value, so it is yours if you want it.”

The source of the noise found, it tore Arkady’s tongue free from his screaming mouth before disappearing out into the summer night, leaving only a bloody trail of silence. When Arkady’s mother ran into the bedroom and found her mutilated baby, she couldn’t bear the weight of her own guilt at leaving him to cry. She stood by the crib and hacked at her wrists with the pin from her hair until she bled to death.

The Emperor’s Tarot was supposed to partake of the very spirit of the Master of Mankind, forever on overwatch throughout the warp. Immobile in his throne on Earth, that godly paragon who was so old that his personal name had long been forgotten both beamed out a beacon and sensed the flow of Chaos, through which his starships must swim and out of which could congeal... abominations.

Several hundred loyal troopers stood to attention. A band in gold-braided uniforms blew long brass trumpets. Lesser lords and bodyguards thronged two reviewing stands. Servants circulated with wines and sweetmeats. Banners fluttered. Preachers chanted prayers to the Emperor. Privileged merchants patted their paunches. Near-naked performers danced and juggled.

"Protect us from the foul ministrations of Khorne and Slaanesh, Nurgle and Tzeentch..." He spoke those words silently, only to himself. A common squat, a Navigator, even an assassin – should not even hear those arcane names of the Chaos powers. His companions’ heads remained bowed. The names would only have sounded to them like unfamiliar ritual incantations. Or, he thought grimly, like eldritch poetry.

“She’s sweet,” Johns said. “She could be yours, if you want her. She wants you.” Gravier stared at him. “What? What are you talking about?” “Girl of your dreams, Detective Inspector.”

He hurried to the door that led into the next room, and then he hesitated for a moment. “I can just imagine the excitement of our readers,” he added. “I'm sure that The Haunting of Old Coal House will thrill and delight!”

A moment later, the beating began. I heard the crack of the rope against my sister's skin, and I heard her faint, stifled gasps of pain. Finally, unable to bear such awful sounds, I turned and hurried from the house.

L'ultimo banchetto di Arlecchino ☆☆☆☆☆

Autumnal ☆☆☆☆