I applied for GW's US freelance writer position on a whim. They liked my first sample a lot, and gave me two briefs to do. In 250 words.

I haven't heard anything back, so I'm going to assume they've moved on, which I can't really fault them - I was never TRULY happy with how these wound up, but I hit the deadline and had to hit send. 250 words is nothing. NOTHING. Anyway, it's what they do.

I personally don't feel that 250 words is a particularly great way to get a feel for someone's writing style and ability to truly get into anything interesting.

Their loss is your gain. Perhaps next time!

Hope you enjoy.


Brother Sergeant Antilles braced as a single skull-helmed ork lunged from the line of greenskins and charged forward. The raucous din of battle slowed as he focused on the imminent duel.

He took in his surroundings for a moment. Splintered tree trunks from shelling. Thick mud beneath his boots. The blue-painted Deathskull orks mob stood back watching their leader. “Hold!” Antilles called to his squad, “This one is mine!”

The space marine’s yellow power armour took the brunt of the ork’s charge, and adrenaline flooded the Imperial Fist’s muscles in quantities and concentrations that could kill a normal man. Antilles though was a post-human, ceramite-clad giant, and stood firm.

The Imperial Fist clenched his right hand and his power fist coursed with power, but the ork’s lighter weapons made it the more lithe duelist. The beast lunged again and buried its blade deep in Antilles’ left pauldron.

Warning runes flashed in Antilles’ visor.

Antilles brought his primed power fist up, then brought it crashing down through his assailant’s arm as it tried to wrest its blade free. The ork howled as its arm exploded in a shower of gore. It threw its head back to headbutt the space marine, but with his arm now unencumbered, Antilles’ bolt pistol was already in motion.

The ork’s head exploded in a cloud of brain-matter and smoke.

“With me!” the Brother Sergeant called to his squad, and the Imperial Fists pressed the advantage as the panicked ork mob fled.



The young scouts knelt in front of their waiting transport amidst the din of the battle barge’s hangar. Sergeant Hyrata paced in front of the squad as they checked the sights on their sniper rifles.

“We will be dropping forward of our main force,” Hyrata spoke with a gruff voice that matched his weathered face. “From there, we will infiltrate the battlefield and eliminate three pre-designated targets within the Eldar force.” The scouts nodded in acknowledgement. “They should be dead before the bulk of our force reaches the combat zone.”

Hyrata paused. “Are you ready?”

The scouts nodded, nervously.

“Do you understand what it truly means to be ready?” Hyrata mused, with no response from the scouts.

“It means you have absorbed the teachings of the Primarch! Practiced your battle rites to unthinking perfection!” said Hyrata, impassioned. “It means you are prepared to serve the Emperor to the utmost. To truly begin your life as an Astartes. This mission does not end your training, but begins your life as a vital part of the chapter.”

“It also means you are prepared to die… To die as an Ultramarine.” He turned away slowly to let his last statement sink in.

Hyrata turned swiftly back to his scouts and his intense, woe-eyed expression matched the intensity of his voice. “I ask again: Are you ready?”

“Yes Sergeant!” the scouts shouted, without hesitation.

“To your feet then!” Hyrata bellowed, as the transport’s engine roared to life behind them. “To battle!”