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July 11, 2011

From “The Steam’d and Sultry Metropole” by Lord Gilbert Upton-Pookie

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: fiction, humor, story |
[16] Comments

This post is part of the July 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is a bad opening sentence in the Bulwer-Lytton tradition.

The steam’d and sultry city immemorial was suffused with oppressive heat, the level of phlogiston in the aether reaching such levels that the guttering flames of the carriage-lamps threatened to burst forth and consume the tinder and kindling set forth by the slumbering metropole even as it moistened the brow of one Cecil Coulmore, the contusions and contours of whose skull made phrenologically clear his profession as gentleman detective and amateur pugilist.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
AuburnAssassin
dolores haze
xcomplex
Proach
BigWords
jkellerford
Ralph Pines
Euclid
Diana Rajchel
pezie
Guardian

June 5, 2011

From “Across Worlds Book I: Heden’s Psyche” by Altos Wexan

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: Altos Wexan, chaos, crime, drama, fiction, gun, love, parallel dimension, science fiction, sister, steampunk, story |
[15] Comments

This post is part of the June 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is a simple descriptive setting.

It was raining in Heden. This was evident in the way its citizens scuttled to and fro in the few open spaces, avoiding the heavy droplets as best they could.

It always rained in Heden. There was a faint shimmer to the bright, bizarre fabrics worn by the people that indicated waterproofing, and each person shed a wake of droplets that collected near thousands of drainage grates.

It would always rain in Heden. There was no way to be sure of this, but the water-worn and rusted surfaces of the Towers suggested it. Looming up into the ever-dark sky, they seemed resigned to an eternal pelting from the neverending storm.

The original design of Heden had called for six of the great Towers, forming the simple hexagon shape found on many of the great neon billboards and television screens that dotted each Tower much as lichens dotted the occasional real rock. The Towers had grown together, fused into one great shapeless mass by centuries of construction, destruction, rust, and rainwater. The simple glass walkways that had connected them had been long shorn of their panes, and hundreds of homegrown, rickety, winding paths of iron and steel had appeared to supplant them.

A monitor was suspended above one such improvised walkway, placed to ambush passersby with its message. Its bright, flashing image wasn’t an ad. Ad Boards were hard to afford, anymore; people who wanted to advertise just added more crumpled paper or laminate fliers to the mass that coated every surface reachable by human hands. This screen was an Info Board.

Info Boards were there to ‘illuminate possible interpretations of information for the purpose of educating the people’ according to the Boards themselves. This particular Board was playing the ‘History of Heden’, and everyone passing beneath had seen it before.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
juniper
LadyMage
dolores haze
jkellerford
Ralph Pines
TheMindKiller
AuburnAssassin
pezie
WildScribe
Inkstrokes
Irissel
Guardian
Lyra Jean
egoodlett
cwachob

May 8, 2011

From “Major Problems” by Altos Wexan

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: Altos Wexan, fiction, historical fiction, science fiction, Soviet Union, story |
[10] Comments

This post is part of the May Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to show a character’s approach to relationships in a short scene.

In a corner of Sasha’s basement, Mirya was sorting a pile of hand-typed literature into piles for distribution when Vasily found her. “So,” he said. “Why did the Siberian buy a refrigerator in winter?”

“Because, as a Soviet-made appliance, it was prone to overheating,” Mirya said.

“Close! Since it was -20 outside and -10 in the fridge, it was the warmest place in his igloo!”

“Very funny,” Mirya said.

“Where’s that revolutionary idealist of yours off to?” Vasily asked, pulling up a chair.

“He’s got a meeting with our sponsor,” Mirya said.

“We have a sponsor now?” Vasily said. “I’m not sure I like what I’m learning about this job after the fact.”

“I was completely honest when you came begging for work,” Mirya said, sticking out her tongue. “Wanted: ex-KGB agent to forge official-looking documents in service of sabotage, revolution, and other acts of all-around hooliganism. Well-adjusted individuals with no penchant for telling corny jokes need not apply.”

“Nothing in there about a sponsor,” Vasily said. “I have to report you for misrepresentation.”

Mirya crossed her arms. “Trying to keep me from getting work done, Vasya? That wasn’t in the description either.”

“I just want to talk, Mirya,” said Vasily. “All I have to go home to is a dank corner and a shrew of a landlady, with toaster assembly to follow at work. Being here, with you…that’s the high point of my life right now.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Mirya. “Roman wouldn’t like that kind of talk. He’s very protective, you know.”

“Roman’s not here,” Vasily said.

Mirya raised her eyebrows. “And?”

Vasily sighed. “What do you see in him, Mirya?”

“You of all people should know,” she said. “He’s everything we both left home to find.”

“A lot’s changed since then,” Vasily said. “Help me out here.”

“Roman is a revolutionary, Vasya. He believes in things passionately and he’s willing to risk everything. He’s got big ideas, big plans.”

“What about me?” Vasily said. “I’m a part of his cause. Without the passes I forged and the uniforms I found, Roman would still be sitting down here passing out cheap copies of banned books.”

“Don’t you see, Vasya? Even that was something,” said Mirya. She gently took Vasily’s hand. “You being here is the best thing that’s happened to either of us in the struggle. But you’re aimless; unless there’s someone strong to lead you, you’d just sink into a rut with only a few jokes to lighten the way.”

Vasily squeezed Mirya’s hand. “You could be that someone. You’ve always been the strongest person I know, even when we were children.”

“Like when I convinced you to steal sweet potatoes from your mother’s garden? That’s not strong, Vasya. I need someone to show me the way forward, and you do too.”

Drawing closer to Mirya, Vasily dropped his voice a note. “What about just before I left for university. The attic, remember?”

Mirya blushed. “That was just us being children,” she said.

“That’s not what you said then,” Vasily said, only a few centimeters from Mirya’s face.

“Vasya, I…we…no,” Mirya said. She pulled away. “That was a mistake. It’s different now.”

“Does it have to be?”

“I need you here, Vasily,” Mirya said. “The cause needs you here. But please don’t ask me to choose. That choice was made a long time ago.”

“But…”

“Please, just go.”

Vasily stood up and trudged toward the door. “The General Secretary’s son felt out of place riding to university in a limousine instead of the bus like other students,” he said over his shoulder. “The General Secretary told him ‘don’t worry, I’ll buy you a bus so you can drive it to school just like your friends!”

“Good night, Vasily,” Mirya said. She was able to suppress a smile until just after he left the room.

April 10, 2011

From “Beyond the Interstellar Application Form” by Phil “Stonewall” Pixa

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: fiction, interview, science fiction, story |
[19] Comments

This post is part of the April Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe one of your characters in 50 words or less and then have that character interview you.

Peg Gregory has found herself in the place she’s always dreaded—a dead end. Stuck hauling supplies to a backwater planet no one’s ever cared about, there’s nothing to do but sell homemade beer and lob verbal grenades at her crewmates. They claim Peg’s being insubordinate; she finds it liberating.

“So, what special kind of madness has you thinking of signing on with the United Nations Transport Service?” said the recruiter behind the desk—Peg, according to her name tag.

“Well, I love to travel and see exotic places, but space travel is expensive,” I said. “I figure that a tour with the UNTS will let me get a good bead on spaceflight and maybe pay back a few outstanding student loans. See the universe, earn some scratch.”

“Of course. How do you feel about endless expanses of boring blackness, punctuated with beat-up hulks of stations and eight hours of leave on a pissant rock with fewer inhabitants than your high school and about as many opportunities for sightseeing?”

“Not…as good,” I replied sheepishly. “But a rock’s a rock, and I’ve only seen one so far. I also think you’re underestimating my high school. The ceiling tiles had some really interesting rust stains.”

Peg rolled her eyes and filled out he requisite line on the application. “Let me ask you this, then: ever get seasick?”

I nodded. “Once, but in my defense there was a swarm of jellyfish involved.”

“Imagine the worst, pukingest, colon-twistingest part of that, and multiply it by a hundred. That’s launch and soft landing, every time, all the time. Also happens when the gravity goes out, which happens a lot on the rattletrap tubs they throw you on. Ever see vomit in zero-g? You’ll be able to write a master’s thesis on it before you’re done with training.”

My stomach churned just thinking about it. “That’s why God invented dramamine.”

“Yes, nothing like a drowsy helmsman on a trillion-dollar tub.” Peg drawled, filling out another portion of the app. “Afraid of heights?”

“Only when I’m near the edge, and even then peer pressure will get me to the lip. I even went all the way to the very edge of Victoria Falls once, on a dare from my brother.”

Another part of the form scribbled in. “You do know that space is nothing more than one gigantic neverending drop, right? You’re always on the edge.”

I shrugged. “Seems like you are too.”

Peg gritted her teeth. “You know what? I was trying to save you from making the same mistakes I did. But if you insist, then screw it. I’m filling out the rest of your application for you. Top marks across the board.”

March 14, 2011

From “Bullhorn Charlie and the Amazing Automat Pie” by Altos Wexan

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: Altos Wexan, detective, fiction, Grand Rapids, story |
[3] Comments

This post is part of the March Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe a secondary character that surprises you in some way in 50 words or less and then to post a scene that shows why this character is special in 100 words or less.

Officer Charlie Bulforth, GRPD: eight-year veteran of the force who’s only just transitioned from his high school nickname ‘Bullshit Charlie’ to the more socially acceptable ‘Bullhorn Charlie’—appropriately, given his gravelly voice and lack of volume control. He is cheerfully, openly corrupt, though he sticks by friends—to a point.

“You need to figure out how to work a little extortion and corruption into your workaday life. How do you think I manage to keep myself in the style which I’ve become accustomed on a cop’s lousy take-home? I seek business opportunities wherever I can find them, be they shakings down, beatings up, or something sideways.”

“Frank about it, as always.”

“It’s a long way from being an upstanding citizen to a bastion of cheerful corruption like myself,” Charlie said. “But here we are. Just don’t ask me to do actual police work; I’m not sure you can afford it.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Ralph Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Yoghurtelf (direct link to the relevant post)
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Knotane (direct link to the relevant post)
Dolores Haze (direct link to the relevant post)
smaddux (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
xcomplex (direct link to the relevant post)

February 20, 2011

From “The Baroness in Winter” by Altos Wexan

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: Altos Wexan, detective, fiction, Grand Rapids, historical fiction, mystery, story |
[6] Comments

This post is part of the February Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe your antagonist in 50 words or less and then to answer the question “what would you say to your antagonist if you met them in real life” in 100 words or less.

Estranged and partially disinherited for her political views, industrial scion Allison Durant is enormously ambitious with far-ranging designs to ascend in political, social, and economic circles. Her vivaciousness and intelligence conceal the fact that she’s willing to betray people and principles to further herself, content to rationalize after the fact.

“Do the industrialists like my brother and Mr. Berkley still bribe citizens like yourself to ignore their dirty work, or is it just part of your tax refund by his point?” said Allison.

“Being apathetic’s damn hard work,” I said. “Take it seriously. If you’re hot and bothered about it, your trust-funded scions of industry can make a better offer.”

“Are you trying to goad me?” Allison said. “Get me to cause a scene? If so, you’re badly out of practice at provoking people. I hear more offensive tripe from my brother whenever we meet; would you like some tips?”

December 17, 2010

From “The Annabelle Waltz” by Christian C. Denner

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: emotion, fiction, love, memory, music, story, waltz |
[12] Comments

This post is part of the December Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to write hint fiction: a story 25 words or less.

“Why do you keep requesting that same waltz?” the bandleader cried.
“Because I wrote it,” the old man said, “and it reminds me of her.”

November 12, 2010

From “Deep Daybreak” by John Sullivan

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: abstract, drabble, echo, fiction, fighter, journey, lady, mystery, soul, story |
[8] Comments

This post is part of the November Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to write a drabble: a story exactly 100 words long.

“But it seemed so real…” Ohns said, tears in his eyes.

“That’s how dreams are,” said the dark-haired child. “We make sense of them, fill in the details.”

“What’s going to happen to everyone?” Ohns cried.

“The sleeper must awaken, but nothing will be lost. We will wake up, and be whole once more.”

Ohns nodded hesitantly. “I think I’m ready.”

The sky bloomed with radiance, overwhelming everything—from the twilight city of Eswe to Clen by his lake–and gently washing it away.

In the ICU, Jackie Sullivan awoke, and Ohns’ world vanished into the recesses of his being.

October 9, 2010

From “Prosperity Falls” by C. Alton Parker

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: drama, fiction, historical fiction, mask, masquerade, party, story, western |
[17] Comments

This post is part of the October Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is masquerades.

The Prosperity Masquerade was the social event of the early autumn season, and invitation in hand Virginia was going to make her presence known, wearing the family’s hand-me down costume as befit any son or daughter of Marshals Vincent and Patricia MacNeil. Prosperity Ranger or not.

When she arrived, whispers ran throughout the crowd, about the scandal of an ex-Ranger appearing at a Prosperity Masquerade and young master Sullivan’s motives for the invitation. Partly out of a mean-spirited desire to see how far those flames could be fanned and partly out of a need to express her gratitude in person, Virginia sought her host out, given a wide berth by everyone that recognized her.

Jacob stood at the center of the crowd, visibly ill at ease. He was dressed as a motley jester–the very costume two generations of Sullivans had worn before him–but the front hung open, revealing the young man’s mud-spattered Ranger uniform and gun belt, and the three-pronged hat was in his hands rather than on his head. Virginia was drawn closer to Jacob as revelers moved about him like river waves, and moments later they were face to face.

“Virginia…I was hoping you might come,” Jacob said when he spied her.

At a loss for how to respond, Virginia bit her lip. “How have you been?”

“Nothing’s been right since…then,” Jacob muttered. “Nightmares, rumors, the Ide on the warpath after all they did for me…everything’s unraveling.”

“What do you mean?

“I…I can’t explain it,” said Jacob. He waved Virginia away. “I need to get out of here. I’m suffocating. Please, enjoy the ball.” Before she could protest, he had slipped away, shedding his costume piece by piece and leaving each on the floor as he went.

“What are you doing here, MacNeil?” someone barked. It was Ellen Strasser, resplendent in a dress of eastern silk and wearing a Venetian mask. “Only Prosperity Rangers and their invited guests are allowed to attend! ‘Washout’ doesn’t qualify.”

“Jacob invited me,” Virginia said, spinning her invitation between two fingers. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with him.”

Suddenly Virginia was up against the wall with Strasser’s arm across her throat. “Don’t you even think of dragging the young Mr. Sullivan’s name through the mud with your presence here,” Strasser hissed. “Isn’t almost getting him killed enough?”

“It got me an invitation,” Virginia said. “Maybe you should try almost getting Jacob killed next time. Then you can be his guest instead of just being here because you’re a Ranger.”

Strasser drew a derringer from her bustle. “Invitation or no, you are leaving. Now.”

The widow Sullivan appeared behind them, dressed all in white and speckled with crepe paper snowflakes. “Is there a problem here, Strasser? As a Ranger you ought to know that firearms are prohibited at town events.” A Colt Army glistened in the holster at her side.

September 5, 2010

From “Speaking with Dead Leaves” by Van Bullock

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: assassin, autumn, drama, emotion, fall, fiction, humor, love, seasons, spring, story |
[20] Comments

This post is part of the September Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is seasons as a metaphor for an aspect of one’s writing.

A little late-season drizzle trickled onto Peter’s car as it crawled through the morass of city traffic during rush hour, just enough to get the wipers moving.

“Another lovely fall day,” said Sedena from the passenger seat. “I do wish Littleton & Associates would find somewhere tropical to send me during this time of year.”

“Sure it’s a little rainy now,” Peter said. “But in a day or two it’ll be all blue and crisp out, and all the park trees will be lit up like Chinese New Year. People sometimes drive up north to get a good gander at fall, but we’ve got all the fall you could want right here. I love it.”

Sedena sighed. “I can’t stand autumn,” she said. “I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary, but I hate it and spring. They tear at me, cloud things, make them difficult.”

A car ahead tried to exploit a gap in the traffic; rather then ruthlessly cut them off, Peter waved them ahead. “What’s to hate? Fall is about beautiful colors, mild temperatures, and that hearty bite to the air before things get too cold. And spring’s a marvelous season of flowers and rebirth after a long winter. I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary either, but I don’t see how anyone couldn’t appreciate that.”

“Not appreciate the highly variable weather patterns that make them a nightmare for people in my line of work?” Sedena said. The driver ahead repaid Peter’s kindness with an obscene gesture, which Sedena returned with gusto. “Autumn is all about death, everything growing gray and cold and the streets choked with photosynthetic corpses. I don’t like to be reminded of that. And spring…granted, there’s new life, but you also get to see the world at its most dead uncovered by snow. Spring for me is soot-choked piles of lingering snow and barren branches with nothing to beautify them.”

Peter’s knuckles whitened around the wheel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.”

Sedena shrugged. “Forget about it. More than a little of that is my father talking, anyway. The part of me that’d criticize an artist into giving up his craft and then berate him for quitting.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about a seasons as metaphors for aspects of writing:

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