Helios 12 – Second Draft


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            She lay there in the dark chill of her bunk and tried to ignore the grating beep of her alarm.  It had pulled her out of the deep dark hole of sleep a few minutes before but she always hated that damned sound.  It might have had something to do with the fact that she slept so much better out here.  No traffic noise, no birds to wake her, no sun coming up and invading her room through her windows.  The sun was always up out here, but it only came in when she wanted it too. Continue reading

Trifecta Prompt – Crude – (warning – violent content)


So it’s been a little while since I’ve written anything.  A lot of stuff going on and I was honestly just a bit of a breather over the summer.  Let’s get back to it shall we.  

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I watched them hack him into pieces that no longer looked like they came from a human and shove them into their mouths.  Their tools were crude misshapen gouges of nearly black iron, and I knew by the grunts that accompanied their thrashing blows that they were not sharp.  The jagged metal was tearing more than it was slicing. Continue reading

Morsel – An, as-of-yet, unfinished continuation of “A Place to Rest Your Head”


0000002811Down 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.”

       – Morsel           

            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

Helios 12 – Short fiction from a prompt


sun  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

A Prequel To: The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.


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It’s been a great couple of days for writing.  I got a prompt from another blog I stumbled across Master Class  the prompt was “Desperation had given him authority.”  It reminded me of my recent story about Gregorim, so I thought I’d expand on the universe a bit.  Let me know what you think :).  Here’s a link to the other story 

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The flames licked at the edges of his vision.  Smoke hung thick in the air, carrying with it the smell of burning wood and flesh alike.  His mind was frenzied.  His breaths came in ragged choked gasps.  His eyes stung with the combination of smoke and tears.

He hadn’t meant for it to go so far.  He hadn’t meant to do all of this.

He gaze drifted from the husk of one building to the next.  The shells of what used to be homes and shops leering at him, flames staring from behind the empty sockets of their sagging window-frames.  There was no movement in the streets aside from the hungry fire.  The screams had stopped.  The only thing to be heard was his own heart, sounding like an army of angry blacksmiths, destroying his ears.  The time passed with the slow crawl of tar on a cold day.  He was numb.

Finally he looked down at his hands.  They were covered in blood so thick it looked black.  His once white clothing was also mostly reddish-black.  He let his focus slip for a moment, at his feet were three torn and battered shapes.

Small shapes.

Children. Continue reading

The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.


Dust flew in wisps around his feet as he stood at the edge of the rocky peak.  He stared down into the deep valley below the mountain, fury gripping him in tight bonds.  The smooth features of his face were taut, frozen in a grim snarl.

“Not now.  Not here!”  He focused on the small figures far below.  They scurried like ants around a small, newly forming building with a symbol perched on its sharply peaked roof.  A symbol he recognized.  A symbol he did not want to believe was in his village.   Continue reading

People Don’t Get Killed in Kid’s Books.


Derek’s fingers flew over the keys, punching them rapidly and with purpose. The words poured from his mind ceaselessly, each keystroke a defining choice. He spun through sentence after sentence, driving his protagonist, a young swordsman trapped deep behind enemy lines, ever onward into what was surely to be his doom. The rain smashed into the thin pane of his windows as he typed. It had been pouring for hours and the lightning had just begun to flash, momentarily lighting up the otherwise dim living room of his small house.
Continue reading