Tag Archives: #3WW

Moonrise CH14 – Crime Scene Investigations


[1035 words – Inspiration Monday | #3WW | Sunday Scribblings2 | Terribleminds]

Detective Frank Massey reckoned this was his slowest walk toward a crime scene. He dabbed his forehead from the icky sweat building on his skin. The last of the ambulances were just rolling away down the street. Massey respectfully waited until their sirens died away within the traffic. He sighed he steeled himself to what was to come. Up front, cameras flashed as the crime scene investigators took photos of the site of the massacre. Massey refused to call it the Madison Park Massacre, but he had no doubt that that title would live in infamy until some other scandal rallied the attention of the sheeple. Flashes of light from the screaming bunch of reporters coalesced with the CSI ones making Massey walk through a white-lighted field of blindness.

Things had happened fast: the massacre, the news spreading, and the closing of the crime scene. Massey felt as if he was arriving at something done and over. Massey had baggage and a few nasty ones under his belt, but this tipped the lavish carriage into the ditch. Just minutes after Major Globe’s concerned and heartfelt speech, this had happened. It proved his point, he thought, and Massey wondered whether the major himself hadn’t set it up. But his optimistic soul refused to believe that there could be someone so cruel. He silenced the nagging voice in the back of him mind that laughed at his naiveté.

Patrol officers struggled to keep the crowd further away, but they were in no viewing distance to the playground, so Massey was thankful for that. He hated being shown Facebook posts and Twitter messages with photos from the scene, and he had developed real hatred toward people who tagged themselves not present at the scene. It was all fake condolences and pretend concern these days and Massey couldn’t help but think that that simulation of care was the leading epidemic of modern society. Perhaps that they couldn’t let a crisis go by without making a statement, or without being a part of it. Tragedy was the new mortal gods. Posting how sorry they were didn’t help anyone; it only made them feel better about themselves.

Maybe the years on the force had turned him into a cynic. He shook his head; maybe he was just old fashioned and didn’t understand what a comment section on a social media platform could do for the dead. It only served to turn them into virtual ghosts. No doubt, tomorrow these children would be the poster faces for Jacob Globe’s mayoral campaign. If that had truly been Globe’s idea, to begin with, Massey couldn’t wait to prop a gun to his forehead and watch him being cuffed.

Returning to the present, Massey took a steady breath of the humid air to calm jitters he thought he vanquished years prior and rushed the rest of the distance. Nearing the murder floor he noted that the area was a few degrees lower, casting a chill upon him that prickled his skin. Massey bit his lower lip. The report he glanced at did confirm that Miles Jensen possessed the ability to temper with ice, but the ground surrounding the epicenter of the event didn’t feel just cold… It gave him the notion of something still, stopped, paused. Massey knelt for a closer inspection. There were no blood stains, not a drop anywhere. Usually, when there were this many casualties, the scene was painted with the blood of the victims. The scene he encountered was pristine, and he doubted they’d find DNA evidence different than the victims. There were no peculiar smells either, just the faint scent of fading feminine perfumes. The crime scene guys always debated when and what an olfactory sampling of the air yielded. Not at this crime scene. Massey traced a latex-gloved hand on the ground. There was noticeable discoloration on the entire playground, an almost bluish imprint where the bodies had been. He brushed his finger against it and lifted light-blue residue. He stood up and asked the CSI team whether they had taken samples of it. He wanted to know as soon as possible what it was.
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Moonrise CH13 – The Vigilante Case


[1044 words | Inspiration Monday & #3WW]

* * *

Arriving at Madison Park, Massey told Joaquin to stay put in the car along with Andy. He made haste and Joaquin saw him slip underneath the yellow line of police tape. Then he was gone, absorbed by the crowd of bystanders and journalists. Doom merchants, Joaquin thought watching the journalists photograph the scene from every angle. For convenience, Joaquin was sitting in the backseat, and no one was going to bat an eye at him just now. He had to convince himself he was just playing a part, and people who would look at the police car would see just another thug. He had to know better than that. He wasn’t that person anymore.

Andy whistled low from the front passenger seat, and the harmonious sound broke Joaquin from his bubbling thoughts. “There certainly is a lot of attention on this one,” Andy declared. “Crazy shit huh? That Doctor Globe guy makes a speech warning us how dangerous you supers are, and whaddayaknow, soon enough, BAM,” Andy clapped his hands suddenly, and it made Joaquin wince, “there’s a fatal massacre and a super is blamed for it. What’re the fucking odds?” Andy raised his eyebrows and nodded conspiratorially toward Joaquin.

Joaquin bit his tongue and pretended not to hear Andy’s question.

“I tell you what, Joaquin, I’m gonna pop out of this here paddy wagon and see what the fuss is all about. You stay here and guard the car yeah?”

Joaquin wished he could reach from the back seat and grab Andy by the neck. There was something messed up with the guy and the way he talked about supers. As if he knew anything about the powers and what they meant to people like Joaquin. The constant need to prove ones self-righteous and that those powers weren’t wasted on a petty thug from the Seattle projects. Joaquin knew that he was so much more than that punk kid who stabbed a man on a rainy night to get a few bucks from his wallet. He would be better than the bumbling idiot who left destruction in his wake. Destruction so obvious, that an old-ass police detective tracked him down and turned him into some sort of sidekick. I ain’t nobody’s sidekick, Joaquin thought and realized that Andy was staring at him, waiting for a response.

“Whatchu so excited ’bout?” Joaquin sputtered, “You heard them kids got killed, right? Plus, Massey said ‘you stay put.’”

Andy smiled and met Joaquin’s eyes. “I didn’t know your moral compass pointed that way, Joaquin. I’m thrilled to know that it does.” He crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and nodded. “And you needn’t worry about me ’cause I have this.” Andy reached into his inner jacket pocket and flashed Joaquin a press card with his name and picture on it.

“Man, that shit’s so fake!” Joaquin exclaimed.

Andy grinned from the front of the cruiser. He turned to sit in the seat properly, and after he had adjusted the rearview mirror, he regarded Joaquin’s reflection. “Yeah, but they don’t know that.” He gave Joaquin a small salute, a gaping smile, opened the door, and stepped out.
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I decided to give Mental State a break this week. Instead, I jumped into Chuck Wendig’s THEY FIGHT CRIME! prompt with both feet. There wasn’t a way to link directly to the output of the Movie Idea Generator, so I screen cap’d it, and for those of you reading in the text-only thing that wordpress does, my “Movie Idea” is “He’s a sharp-shooting war veteran who don’t take no shit from nobody. She’s a fast-talking museum curator haunted by the brutal murder of her family. Together, they fight crime!” You all know that I like to buck the status quo and interpret prompts however I like, so I wrote the aftermath of them fighting that crime that they fight. These 1700 words also have prompts from Three Word Wednesday, Inspiration Monday, Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Writing Reader.

* * *

Kimberly’s head popped out over a partition. She saw Caroline in Tupper’s arms, starting to move. Caroline’s eyes fluttered open, and immediately she winced in pain. Kimberly walked cautiously over, her eyes darting from one FBI agent to the next.

“Did you do this?” Tupper demanded of Kimberly. He scowled when he felt Caroline sag.

Kimberly rolled her eyes. “You must know how much I cherish activating an alarm system.”

Caroline’s shoulders lazily lifted, and sagged, followed by a wince. Her good hand came around to cup her injured wrist. “We needed a distraction…” she started, before her remaining words were swallowed by the cacophony of alarms that still blared.

The sound of an ambulance siren was barely able to penetrate the din. “Can’t you do something about this neural thunder?” Tupper shouted, waving his free hand toward the ceiling.

“Please, Kimberly,” Caroline babbled.

“Of course,” Kimberly shrieked, throwing her hands in the air. “Turn on the alarms, turn off the alarms.” She still muttered when she disappeared around a corner.

Moments later, the group emitted a collective sigh of relief as the gallery fell silent.

Caroline’s eyes focused on the floor, and Tupper looked over his shoulder to see Agent Braxton had pulled “Lady by the Window” away from the wall and rummaged behind it.

“Found it,” Braxton declared as he lifted up a plastic baggie with an SD card inside. He beamed like a toddler who had just pooped in the potty.

“You’d better not give Hicks a deal,” Tupper complained, but couldn’t help but match Braxton’s grin.

“Deal?” Braxton scoffed, as he stepped toward Tupper and Caroline. “Why would I offer that damned piece of…” Braxton’s voice trailed off as he realized the gallery was teeming with agents. His eyes returned to Tupper. “No deal,” he said emphatically. When his eyes met Caroline’s, he tensed. “Collins…” his mouth formed several words, but they were all apparitions. After a few moments of severe jaw wrangling, Braxton knelt beside Caroline and thrust out his hand.
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Tendrils of Time


I started writing a scene, and had a decent one done at the 500-word count, then didn’t know where to go from there. I scrapped what I wrote after reading the first six chapters and wrote these 1,025 words. I used prompts from Inspiration Monday, Word-a-Week, #3WW and SM Cadman. This is also a switch back to present tense. Do you like past tense, or present tense?

* * *

Reese’s eyes snap open at day break, and she disentangles herself from her bedfellow. She silently dresses in her cloth uniform, and her hand caresses the leather armor draped over the back of a chair.

“Sneaking off?” a voice calls from the bed.

Reese spins and takes in the view. Sky walks toward her slowly, her hands fussing with her curly blonde hair. With Reese’s help, Sky washed the blood from her hair. After their night together, Sky stood unashamed of her nakedness. A flush had risen on Reese’s cheeks, and Sky smiled at the younger woman’s embarrassment.

“As often as we bed, I would think you would be familiar with my body.” Sky winks, and retrieves her uniform from the floor.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted Reese’s response. “Enter!” Sky shouts, continuing to dress.

“Mi’Lady,” a runner speaks, his blind eyes failing to discern the potentially embarrassing scene before him. “The chamber has been located.”

Sky smiles. “Tell the elder sisters I will be there shortly.”

The runner nods, and turns to leave. Reese let out the breath she had held. “Sky…” she starts, but Sky holds up a finger to silence her.

“Speak not of it, Reese.”

“But, mother…”

“Your mother is not just your mother!” Sky shouts before regaining her composure. “The Queen has too much to worry about,” she finishes her sentence with a whisper.

Reese couldn’t meet Sky’s eyes, and they suited up in silence.

“Snow will be at the chamber,” Sky declared, grasping Reese by the shoulders. “We can talk to her then if that is what you want.”

Reese nods and follows her commander out the door, certain of the events to come. Continue reading

The Rocks Above

Brass Automaton cover - version4

I wasn’t kidding – my comment on part XII has been set up, but only in such a way if Paul runs with it. I reviewed the previous twelve parts, and I noticed that some of them are written in the present tense, and some are in the past tense. We’ll need to figure that out during the rewrite. I incorporated prompts from #WOW555, Inspiration Monday, #3WW & although I didn’t use one of SM Cadman’s prompts, I was inspired by the photo she used in her prompt post. I also turned yesterday’s prompt from The Writing Reader. Finally, I used Dustin Miller’s line from Chuck Wendig’s title challenge. Here’s chapter thirteen of Brass Automaton at 1050 words:

* * *

“I cannot…”

The guard rushed to the barred wall, and examined the scene within.


Ceridwen writhed on the dusty floor, her hands clawing at her throat. Her gasps for breath and help were not lost on the guard, but he had been warned that the old crone was not to be trifled with.


Her bulging eyes, and lips of blue convinced the guard that she was not faking her injury. He withdrew a brass key, and placed it slowly into the receptacle. When the door was opened, Ceridwen gasped her last, and lie still at his feet. He withdrew his cutlass, and prodded her limp form. When he received no reaction, he lifted her frail body gently with his arms and supported her head with his shoulder.

Her woozy eyes opened slowly, and she spoke. “Save me,” she coughed.

The guard’s eyes widened with the realization that when the crone spoke, her lips made no movement. He laid her on the bed, and his fingers probed her withered jaw. His fingertips found purchase, but his eyes couldn’t reconcile the difference his fingers felt.

“Magick…” he whispered, and took a step back, thoughtless to the potential danger.

He watched her chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. He only considered his actions for a moment, before procuring a talisman hidden in the folds of his tunic. He held it aloft, and passed the chained crystal over the sleeping Ceridwen. The magick aura waned as the crystal showed the guard her true form.
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Governed by Time

Beginnings Project

I did this stream-of-consciousness like I seem to do with each iteration I write for The Beginnings Project. These 2,000 words were written as chapter eleven, but after re-reading it, I suspect it could also be an epilogue. When we finish the first draft and start editing, we’ll need to figure that out. I did prompts from Weekend Write-In, Inspiration Monday, #3WW, The Writing Reader, Sunday Photo Fiction, #WOW555, and Word-a-Week.

* * *

My breath was caught in my throat. My reflection caught in the silver mask. It wasn’t the reflection of my face distorted in the folds of his mask, but the background. I could see clearly my head and shoulders framed by a brilliant red door. Something about the door troubled me.

The man turned to his hooligan cohorts. “King Abraham of Siddim has no response.” He laughed, and his minions followed suit.

I closed my eyes, and the laughter subsumed to gurgling.

“My liege, spare my life.”

I opened my eyes, and the four brutes were withering, frozen in their previous positions of joviality. Their forms coalesced into haphazard pillars of lava, and sunk into the parched and razed ground. I’d seen this before when I stared into Jezebel’s eyes.

The silver-masked man stood in defiance to my power, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. “I see you have some semblance of your previous power,” he spoke, an almost bored lilt to his voice.

I must admit to displaying a touch of arrogance. He laughed at my display. “You have much to learn, King Abraham.”

“I wish you all would stop saying that,” I retorted, as I felt the humidity absorb from the air and coat my arms and hands.

“Waterstrike?” He chuckled from behind his mask. “You’re unworthy of the power you’ve been gifted.”

I released the water, and it dripped and sizzled on the broken ground, noxious fumes billowing from where the drops struck. “I’ve already been to Old Siddim; this does not impress me.”

“Fool,” he hissed, “you know nothing!” He performed labored movements with his hands, and earth primeval rose in four columns. I gasped as the columns formed skeletons of rock. Lava congealed as musculature, and rocks formed cracked skin. Three of the four faces were exact replicas of his companions on the journey.
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Lalochezia Metes Impropriety

These 1000 words are a continuation of a flash I wrote a long time ago. It may be best if you read this one, and then read the first part. I’ve included Inspiration Monday, The Writing Reader, and #3WW. I think some of this is a little clunky, but not nearly as bad as the original.

* * *

Chastine walked into the junior suite of El palacio del gobernador. A very handsome woman sat with her legs crossed on a large wooden chest beneath a grand bay window. The chest had water damage, but Chastine had seen the chest in this very room since she started her employment as a handmaiden.

“Greetings, Mi’lady. What shall I call you?”

“You may call me what you wish. For what is in a name?”

Chastine blushed, and looked at her feet. “Mi’lady, if a name means nothing to you, why do you marry the Governor?”

Provisional Governor.”

Chastine nodded, and looked into the eyes of her new mistress.

“Sometimes the score is just too easy.” The woman sighed, as if the words conveyed a truth unknowable to a mere handmaiden.

Chastine furrowed her brow, trying to divine the meaning behind the last statement. “But I need to call you something, Mi’lady.”

The woman couldn’t prevent the amusing smile from rising on her cheeks. Cheeks that sat atop a square jaw, and framed intense green eyes. She was classically beautiful, but there was a stoic tenseness in the woman’s shoulders. “You seem to be doing perfectly well with ‘Mi’lady,’” She retorted.

“Yes, Mi’lady.”

“What do they call me?”

“It’s not my place to presume…” Chastine’s voice trailed off. She wouldn’t admit she had been told nothing as she reported for work in the mansion, and for the first time in years, she had duties to perform.

“Well than, what do they call you?”

Chastine felt the heat on her own cheeks. “I’d prefer they called me by my given name, Chastine.”

“Well, Chastine,” replied the woman, “I’ve been called many things over the years, but apparently, I’m just a prisoner. Prisoners have numbers, not names.”
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12 – Discovery


[1000 words – #3WW | Word-a-Week | The Writing Reader]Jahan followed the cobblestone road out of the City of Dawn, thinking of her future. She would matriculate soon, and she could study philosophy, but the councilman’s conversation with her brother hung in the air.

“Hello!” someone shouted from the Gates of Dawn. “Where are you going this early, Jahan?”

“Just gathering herbs,” Jahan lied to the guard.

The guard squinted. “Are you armed?”

Jahan grabbed her golden sword from its sheath and waved it over her head. The long curved blade glinted in the torches lining the Dawn Road.

The guard waved his hand, and the gate creaked open, allowing Jahan to pass through. “Stay within sight of the wall in case you need help,” he called out. “Good luck, Jahan!”

Jahan nodded and walked down the Dawn Road, moving as quickly as she could without attracting attention from the gregarious guards. The stale air she’d breathed in the city cleared, and the addictive cool air of an early spring morning greeted her. It was welcome, she felt refreshed and ready for whatever the Dawn Road brought her.

* * *

That morning Jahan followed the Dawn Road through the Dawn Consortium. As her city faded into the distance, she followed the river instead of the road. She knew the ever-increasing cliffs to the sides of the river gave traveling bandits an advantage over her, but she suspected they, like the Denizens of Dawn would sleep most of the morning.

The river proper allowed her to avoid anyone traveling the road. She saw fish swim defiantly upstream against the current. They made the smallest of progress and Jahan knew her breakfast was only a splash away. There was a wide flat area ahead, where the river thinned and she knew she could build a fire from driftwood. Her mouth watered at the promise of breakfast.

As she got closer to the clearing, she saw something lying at the edge of the Dawn River. She withdrew her sword and gripped it with both hands, the blade curving downward. Her brother had taught her well, and his patient instruction flowed into her as she cautiously advanced on what appeared to be a body half in the shallow water.

She used the end of her sword to poke the filthy body, and when a feminine moan released, she rushed to the girl and rolled her out of the water.

The girl sucked in a breath slowly, and tried to reach up to wipe away sand and other river debris, but her arms seemed to disobey. Jahan reached and wiped her face, arranging the wet hair clinging to her cheeks and neck to get a better look at the girl. The girl smiled, and winced in pain.
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04 – Power Piece


It’s been eight months since I wrote more on the Bishop storyline, also known as the Body Rentals sequel. I worked in Adan Ramie’s Word-a-Week, and Thom Gabrukiewicz’s #3WW into these 1000 words:

Teresa continued to stare in the direction “Mister Knight” walked before the crowd swallowed him. She glanced around the room for Candace, but she had likely already left with her target. A squawk in her ear indicated she had an incoming call.

She pressed the wireless device in her ear. “This is Teresa.”

“Teresa, it’s Lance.”

“Colonel?” she gasped. “Where have you been?”

“Indisposed.” There was finality in his one-word answer. Despite her reporter instincts, Teresa decided not to press. “What’s your status?”

“I was on assignment, but I think my target left with her sleeping partner.” A croupier watched from a card table. Teresa turned her back to the man and continued in a whisper. “I met someone calling himself ‘Mister Knight’.”

There was a pause while presumably, Colonel Bishop considered a response. “Tell me about it at headquarters. We’ll be there soon.” He disconnected the call.

We? Teresa thought as she headed for the door. This just gets more and more interesting.

* * *

Still in her evening gown, Teresa arrived at headquarters intent on getting to Bishop’s office. She paused when she passed through a room and a young girl her own age was sitting next to an older woman, deep in conversation. She tried to place either of them, but keeping track of who was who was a tedious job, even without the ability to switch bodies. She continued on her path to Bishop’s office.

Headquarters was arranged in a narrow row with the multi-purpose room near the hidden entrance, followed by living quarters, then the analysis room. In this room she stopped and watched for a moment as computer screens compared a photo of a college-aged girl to surveillance cameras around the city. Whoever this girl was, the team was expending enormous resources to locate her.

Teresa scowled, and wondered if they were using the same amount of resources to pursue John Michaels. She knew he had something to do with the president, and as such was nearly untouchable, but she wanted her revenge. A tech looked over his shoulder and pressed a button on his console, darkening all the screens. She rolled her eyes, and walked down the hall toward Bishop’s office.

When she arrived, she peeked in and saw Bishop examining himself in a mirror. His wrists were raw, and thee was caked blood on his face and shirt. “Mister Knight would like his tie pin back,” she said walking into the office.

Bishop spun and stared at Teresa. “I know why the caged bird kills.”
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01 – Heaven’s Sight


[1000 words – #3WW]An enormous moon shone over an undisturbed field of sand, known to the locals as Heaven’s Sight. Flatter than the anvil of the greatest blacksmith, the sand provided no features to cast shadows – it formed a single polished surface. All who traveled during the night or gazed at the sky were awash in the celestial glow. One could walk with impunity during these nights, as there were no shadows for evil to hide in. Breezes from the ocean carried the smell of water, fish, and shipboard life. These smells were welcome, but the wind also carried the smell of sweat, fish, and the cooling odors of the day sacrificing itself to the night. Heaven’s Sight was known the world over for its beauty when the moon shone bright, but when the hand of God gripped the orb tightly within it’s fist, the bandits held Heaven’s Sight just as tightly, ensuring no one passed through the sand unscathed.

The moon had already traversed its zenith, but Kamaria left the passage of time to the whims of others. She had no use for timepieces – grand or otherwise. No one would think to watch for her. After all, the moon lighted the way. When the moon fell into the ocean, she would begin her day. The same day she had lived as long as she could remember. Kamaria smiled. Tomorrow will be different, she thought. Tomorrow I begin my life as an Apothecary. The lessons would come fast and they would be difficult, but Kamaria knew, just as the fish knew they needed water, that she would be an Apothecary.

Kamaria danced, arms outstretched, as her grandmother had taught her. She prayed to the Gods to return the moon the following night. Kamaria, as a modern woman, questioned the need for such ancient superstitions, but she performed the dance not as an appeasement to the Gods, but to honor her grandmother. Kamaria paused, mid-step, and listened to sounds carried on the wind. She knew the sounds of her home and something didn’t belong. A bandit crept slowly toward the girl. He must have thought the moon was low enough to hide in darkness. The great ocean had yet to feed on the moon and Kamaria easily saw the bandit’s advance. In an instant, Kamaria stood with her bow in hand. The graceful dance morphed into a combat stance, the butt of an arrow knocked against the thin cord. She took aim at the space between the bandit’s eyes and smiled. The glint of the moon in his eyes made for an optimal target. She could’ve easily out maneuvered the bandit, but this space was hers alone. Any commotion might have alerted the village guards, and then the endless explaining would begin. As the moon sunk lower, she knew any such investigation would delay her on her first day as an Apothecary.

Only Kamaria heard the whisper of the thin line. She felt the stock vibrate as it loosed its energy. The sound of the arrow was no different than the light breeze. The bandit let out a sound and fell to the ground. Kamaria’s arrow had struck the soft skin between the Bandit’s eyes and the top of his scruffy beard. A miss, Kamaria thought as she padded to the fallen body, her feet barely displacing the sand. She knelt next to the bandit and had to gather herself. Ye Gods, he stinks, she thought as she wrapped her hand around the metallic shaft of her arrow. She pulled with all her strength and the arrow separated from the bandit’s skull. Blood pooled in the sand, and although it was almost morning, the sand drank his blood greedily. She held her arrow aloft looking for imperfections. The metal glinted in the moonlight. The arrow appeared to be perfect – its use unevident, the exception being the red smear that dulled the celestial reflection.
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