Tag Archives: #WOW555

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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The Nightmare in Blue

I tried and tried to keep the word count down. I edited it down to 555 words, which is apropos for #WOW555. I also worked in Inspiration Monday, Word-a-Week, and the Writing Reader.

* * *

Her wrath resulted in a world broken and dead. It was devoid of life; of color; of humanity. Everything that made our world unique was destroyed as our oceans, once a testament to the awesome spectacle that was our little blue marble, were boiled away. Our atmosphere, formerly indigo, was replaced with the desolation of blackness. A blackness that tries my soul, for in that blackness is the memory of glorious sunsets, puffy clouds, and birds a myriad of colors and species.

Everything’s dead.

The vitriolic rain that fell dissolved anything it touched. Cities once thought beautiful, and hailed the pinnacle of mankind, were reduced to rubble. The world is now a replica of our lifeless moon: cratered, and without an atmosphere. When I close my eyes, and feel the edge of tomorrow, my dreams wail into the night. Thrashing with hope, my human brain defies the Nightmare in Blue.

I call her the Nightmare in Blue, when I’m sure she’s not watching, not because she’s clad in the color, but because she emits a pale blue glow when she bends me to her will. The glow is darkest around her cold dead eyes. Her mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. Never have I been so terrified of a child.

“Wake up, silly.”

The corners of my lips turn up. I expect to see my wife, her jovial smile easing me into the day. My beautiful Rosie with lips to match her moniker. I used to tease her because she preferred lavender perfume to her namesake. My eyes open, and if I weren’t strapped firmly to my couch, I might’ve jerked upright.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

I glance past the nightmare. I can see my dead world rotating below. I fight back the tears because I’ve ended my servitude to her so many times. She refuses to let me go. I thought for sure breaching the airlock would be the end. I hungrily consumed the vacuum. Sweet oblivion took only seconds after pressing the button on the cracked panel.

She brought me back, I think bitterly. Plastic grating against flesh was an easy fix for her. Drinking caustic chemicals was painful, but she brought me back again and again. Even the nothing of space was her domain.

She pulls the Velcro straps off, and my body drifts away from the couch. I cling to the thought of my Rosie. The lingering memory of her smile was just as desirable as the fine lines at the corners of her eyes from a lifetime of smiling.

“Now for your surprise,” the nightmare says in her child-like voice.

“Jorge?” The voice is unmistakable. My Rosie floats there in a smart business suit. She twists her long brown hair over trembling fingers.

“I’ve brought you someone to play with,” the nightmare replies, a smile eerily displayed on her cherub face.

“Can you bring back anyone?” I ask, my eyes never leaving my wife.

“Of course, silly.”

I nod and push off of my couch, my aim true. Rosie’s embrace is… well; I can’t describe the joyous rapture I feel after missing her for all these years. A plan forms as I squeeze my one true love. A plan that if successful, could restore the human race, and erase my years of servitude. Only if I can best the Nightmare in Blue.


The Afflicted

410 words for Wendy’s #WOW555 prompt this week:

* * *

Long ago, Quentin told me that time flow is relative to each person. Its speed doesn’t remain constant throughout a life. I never understood what he meant by that, but I started to when we were on assignment in Germany. He would use himself as the example when I asked him. He’d sometimes tell me that time slowed down drastically for him in the 80s, but sped up in the 90s.

This, he said, was because he lost his sense of purpose, only to find it not long before we were paired. I never asked him for the details, to ask would’ve gone against the most sacred rules a soldier must obey – not that anyone ever sat me down and told me this rule, I had to learn it the hard way. Besides, why would I ask about the past? Soldiers must live in the present, each day divided into minutes and seconds. Those thin slices of time are what we care about.

This particular second is just a piece of the greater minutes I’ve been staring through my scope, hidden from time eternal, waiting for my next tango. His words seem to haunt me. They were, like many of the things he told me, the absolute, undeniable truth. I find myself in one of those slow-times right now. Time has not only slowed, it seems to stop with me perched on a roof staring down an unmarked door in a nondescript building. This time dilation seems to leave me with too much time to reminisce on the past. I try to ignore it, after all, as a soldier, I must live in the now…

I’m not alone, trapped in timelessness. Looking through my scope, I see that it’s in a state of timeless meandering, just a tiny part of an unending and unchanging cycle. Wars are still fought with entire nations trapped in a cycle of poverty. The world constructed a cage long ago and has been trapped in it ever since. I’ve become trapped in the same cage. Barless, brickless, even timeless. Death is my only escape.

Since Quentin left, I’ve been called a lone wolf. I am a wolf. The most basic instincts rule over me: the urge to hunt and the urge to be independent. Each time I carry out the hunt, I eliminate my target with precision, but I still wait for the favor to be reciprocated.

To be freed from my cage…

The Wait

The Afflicted

Here are 500 words for the #WOW555 prompt this week:

* * *

Ashlee leaps over a slight depression in the snow. When she lands, her foot sinks and she tries flailing her arms to maintain balance and forward momentum. Flailing wasn’t an option, however, she hugs a CheyTac M-200 tight against her chest, cursing herself for being in a situation best left to amateurs. This was a race across a field of white, but in this race, the loser dies.

“Damn it, cue ball, where’s my air support?” Ashlee yells.

The static in her ear reminds her that she’s far out of her operational authority. There’s a delay in Quentin’s response – a response she doesn’t hear as branches of a pine tree shudder and drop their accumulated snow. The crack of a rifle soon follows.

“If I survive this mission, cue ball,” she hisses as she flops into a snow bank, “we gonna have a conversation about intelligence gathering.”

She feels the impact on her body armor before hearing the shot. The ChayTac is torn from her grip as opposing forces spin her body. She lands, and slides on her stomach down a soft slope.

“I’ve got.” She breathes in deep, trying to compartmentalize the pain.

“Eyes on the.” Another stab of pain, following a terse intake of mountain air.

“Target,” she finishes with a grunt as she lands after launching off a mogul.

Her right arm is numb from fingertip to shoulder. I’ll need to finish this with my off hand, she thinks as her target stares, mouth agape at the madwoman sliding toward him.

Her right shoulder impacts the man in the mouth, droplets of blood staining the packed snow. Fueled by training and reflex, she brings her knees up and they land with her crouched on his chest.

She reaches across her body for her KA-BAR, but the sheath is positioned for right-handed retrieval. The man slams both his fists on the sides of her head.

Everything goes quiet as Ashlee staggers back from the impact. Quentin is saying something, but she only feels the vibration from her earpiece. His excited chattering means nothing in her sensory-deprived state.

She crabwalks back and staggers to her feet. The man is built like a heavyweight boxer – all arms and shoulders. His face and ears pink from frigid exposure. His eyes focus on her as he draws a pistol and aims.

Ashlee watches helplessly as she senses the slight depression of a trigger. Despite the ringing in her ears, she hears the bark of a pistol. It’s familiar, like the embrace of a lover.

The man falls back, rapidly expanding red just below his hairline. Ashlee looks down to her right hand and sees her Beretta, gasses escaping the end of its barrel.

She still can’t hear Quentin, but she speaks aloud anyway. “Tango down. Get me the fuck outta here.”

She walks to a clearing and sits on the powdery ground, awaiting extraction. Her right hand still grips her Beretta, fatigue threatening to supplant consciousness, and she waits.

Next: A Million Birthdays

Path and Fruition


As you already know I’m not writing this in chronological order. I’m gonna go with this sequence: Joy POV, Shield POV, Joy Flashback/forward, Shield Flashback/forward. I’m thinking this flash forward and the next come somewhere after the story last weekend, but before some story I’ve written, and haven’t seen yet. This’ll be the first 1k of my weekend goal of 10k. I’ve edited the other story chunks already revealed to indicate where in the sequence it falls. I’ve worked in prompts from Word-A-Week, Inspiration Monday, #3WW and went over the word count for #WOW555.


Where is he?

Joy’s head and shoulders breach the surface. She looked elegant, water lapping against her smooth skin. The scene, had anyone seen it, would’ve been serine. The sun appeared to perch on her shoulder, casting long rippled reflections on the water. The moon was just piercing the flat horizon. It was as if the sun’s reflection pointed to the sliver of the moon for any interested to behold its birth.

It may have looked serine from the surface, but below her legs kicked to maintain her position. Her fingers fluttered to keep her facing the moon. She shook her head, spraying water from her hair as she watched the moon slowly rise. She could feel the warmth of the sun wane as the two heavenly bodies performed their dance of death and birth.

The last five years were peaceful. She was able to bask in all that she and Shield had accomplished. Where is he? she thought again as her gaze shifted to the only other thing in the sky.

When she visited the Sky People a little more than five years ago, the spires gleamed in the sunlight. Brilliant white stonework adorned with intricate carvings astounded her. Winged people flittered from tower to the ground, and groups of young men and women fell toward the water before flying great arcs back to the floating city.

Then, she had lived with Shield not seeing it for himself. The glory of the Sky People was not something she felt he could not comprehend.

He barely accepted me, she thought. And I was only away from the Sunken City for four years.

The city she saw now made her sad. She knew the path she set in motion only five years ago had only a single conclusion. She now witnessed that path in fruition.

No longer did the towers gleam. No longer did the spires contrast, adorned with colors unseen below the surface of her world. Rust streaked the heavy chains linking the skyways from one floor to the next. Those who deigned to walk on the ground dodged a fusillade of debris. The massive base the city sprung from listed to one side. A pool, larger than the great arch, looking over the edge of the city now formed a lazy waterfall as the city continually pumped in replacement water. Hoses and other apparatus skimmed the sea replenishing the city’s water supply. The roots of the trees that decorated the city poked out of the bottom of the flotilla. It was all roots and wings, she thought, with sudden odium. It was as if the Sky People had given up. They needed the fresh influx of young women to maintain the construct, and without the promise…
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01 – The Burning Seas


As I was planning on writing to Chuck Wendig’s prompt, I saw a beautiful illustration by Julie Dillon on Twitter. Well, I was inspired, and worked in the rest of the prompts. Enjoy these 1000 words with prompts from #WOW555, #3WW, Inspiration Monday, Writerish Ramblings, and Word-A-Week:


Joy frowned at the scene before her. She crept into the shadows, pausing slightly before each move towards the still form of Madam Vess. Her actions felt jejune, but she pushed her former mentor with her foot, before thinking of checking for a pulse in the carotid artery.

Joy said a few silent words, and placed her cloak over a woman who had infuriated her and challenged her. The last four years since Joy’s thirteenth birthday were full of training, tasks, and study. She had felt she was ready to return to her people a year ago, but Madam Vess insisted she continue her studies.

Now, there was no Madam Vess to hold her back. There was no one, in fact, in the barren outpost she lived. Joy performed her duties for a day or two longer in preparation of her journey. The call of the sea had never really left, and without Madam Vess to constantly fill her thoughts and tasks, the pull only increased.

She could see the sparkling sea from atop her tower on one of the few islands that dotted the pristine blue sphere. Pristine from the surface, but below…

Below is not something I wish to think about.

The sudden thought palliated her place in the world. Would she really turn her back on her people? Without Madam Vess informing the protectorate, she could hide from her responsibilities. She only needed to escape them for another year, and she’d be too old for the ritual.

She shook her head and frowned. Leonard, one of her tutors, had told her that the good of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Or the one, she finished the adage, closing her eyes. No, she would return to her people. She would perform her duty. The stone stairways and arches of her home would be a welcome sight after so much time away.

Joy carefully donned her travel clothes. Her pants were as dark as the depths away from their sun. Her shirt was a tight wrap, the color of the crustaceans that frittered to and fro on the beach. She frowned at the blemish of coverings she had on her feet. Up here, they protected her as she walked.

Walking was the second most difficult thing Madam Vess taught her. Two full years she had to learn to hold up her body. A body that grew strong for the tribulations ahead. Standing erect in a world devoid of life-giving water was… Well there weren’t words to describe it. And filtering oxygen without water? She knew it was possible, but until Madam Vess held her down – her hair and translucent skin covered in sand and bits of shells… Let us just say that knowledge of a thing and experience of a thing are worlds apart. She gasped as the water dried from her body under the fiery sun. She panicked as the water evaporated from her neck gills and she tried to crawl back into the sea, but Madam Vess forced air into her mouth and started Joy’s lung. It was vestigial, and breathing air accompanied walking as her first lessons.
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