This is the work of Charles Delucie. Words are tools used to build roads. My attempt is to carry my reader to the place in my head. Sometimes the work is fantastic, sometimes not, but it will usually be fiction. Visceral is the quality I work towards, and the physical sensation that I would love to give my readers. Please feel free to comment openly about the pieces, but most of all, get your feet on the pavement and travel.
So I woke up this morning, earlier than I would have liked, and popped open my gmail account to find a comment and a like on my blog despite not having written in it for almost 3 weeks. Finals happened, then my Mom came out to visit for two weeks so it’s been a blog free couple of weeks, and because we are about to move to a new apartment, it might be a week or so before I get back to work.
However, in the space of time that I have been writing I have come across a few bloggers, or they have come upon me, thus expanding my writing community. One of the bloggers that discovered me, and by that act allowed me to discover him, is remingtonmoll over at think/look/write. Not only has this guy written some great stuff, he has encouraged and supported my work along the way. This week he threw his hat in the ring to give me the Liebster award for new blogs. I’ll explain the rules of the award and sort of get into what it means below. Either way, I would like to really thank Remington for the honor and the privilege. I will refrain from passing the Liebster right back, but I will send my sincere thanks and get down to the brass tacks of my obligations when it comes to the Liebster. Continue reading
There is house in central Vermont at the apex of a cul-de-sac. The address is 385 Champlain Circle. There are no other houses in that particular cul-de-sac. There are no other houses in that particular community. There are piles of decaying wood and plaster in each lot of that community, but they have all but turned into hillocks dotting a long abandoned landscape. In the basement of 385 Champlain Circle there is a staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, just to the right, there is a burlap sack hanging on a rusty hook. It is slightly green from mold, and if you were to see it at night, it would look quite full. This is where Morsel sleeps. Continue reading
An aching beep pushed its way into her mind dragging her from the depths of sleep with a slow insistence. She opened her eyes and stared at the small blinking set of numbers that told her it was six o’clock in the morning earth time. She glared at it, wishing–not for the first time–that she could destroy the blinking numbers with her mind. When nothing happened aside from the incessant beep-blink-beep-blink repetition, she sighed and pushed her arm from beneath the warm blanket and flicked a switch. A small light popped on at the same instant as the beeping stopped and the ceiling of her sleeping chamber became gradually brighter, giving the appearance of a curtain being drawn back from a window on a Sunny day. Continue reading
Down the wheezing stairs–to the right, the moth-eaten sack hangs on a hook. Every night I crowd into the moldy burlap and hug my knees until my stomach aches me to sleep.
My prompt came from Trifecta Writing Challenge.
His legs felt like overstretched elastic and his lungs crackled and burned like a campfire.
He had been pedaling for hours through the cobblestone streets.
His hands had grooves worn in them from the grips on his handlebars.
He had been riding for days through this burnt out husk of a country.
Twice this week he had been woken up by the terrible feeling of a pack of feral dogs trying to make a meal of him. He had run then, too shocked to get to his bicycle in time. Climbed onto a balcony where they couldn’t reach until they lost interest.
He was almost out of food now. The canteen he had pulled off of a dead corpsman and filled with rusty green fountain water was nearly gone as well.
He hadn’t seen anyone alive for nearly two months.
Even then he had to run to survive the blows.
Again a prompt from another blog. This from VisDare and the prompt was the picture above. I’m pretty sure the originator asked for whimsy, but I felt it going another way. Then again, I just like dark prose so… sue me
A crowd was forming at the base of the mottled granite plinth. The stone was reminiscent of black-eyed peas, the beige and black slopped together in a way that was both elegant and nauseating. In the space above the slab was a shape covered in a stark sheet.
Murmurs had begun to spread among the gathering, everywhere at once the question was being asked:
“What is it?”
No one person quite knew what the answer was but all minds were pitched against the question that hung around and clung to each of them like a grasping fog. The curiosity was thick, creating a stew of unease and expectation. Continue reading
It is grey here. It is always grey here. On the other side I’m sure there are days filled with yellow and green. I can feel the faded reflections under my fingertips. I can sometimes hear things from the other side. Not like the gaping shrieks that fill the yawning nights. Different sounds. They make my palms itch and my neck sweat, frightened. If only I were taller I could maybe see the things making the sounds. Or see the yellow and green. But this side is grey. This side will always be grey. What else could it be?
This is based on the prompt walls and a 100 word writing about that prompt. follow the link here to see what I’m talking about/