A long delayed update

It has taken me longer than I would have liked to create, edit, and publish another post on my various social media pages that are linked to my WordPress sites. The main reason for it is because I’m growing to favor writing the old-fashioned way, by hand. Which seems to increase my productivity overall, even with me splitting my creative energies between multiple projects and ideas. Even though digitizing them is taking longer than I would have preferred.

In addition to that, I’m also working on expanding the ideas I prefer to work on digitally since they are in one of two states of existence. The first state is the idea is still developing and thus is a waste of paper until it passes that point. While the second state is the story started digitally and has expanded past the point where it would effective for me to transfer it a notebook and write it to a point of completion. Why they tend to lean towards either extremes is something I do not know, and would prefer not to think about.

A brief update

The month of March seems to have flown by, with my sole creative focus being pieces to submit to the Z Publishing Anthology for 2019. With the word limit quadrupled from last year, it allowed me to craft tales with more complexity and details then previously. Along with giving me the ability to craft four unique entries in different genres that kept to my writing style while keeping under the 5000 word limit. While I have yet to hear back regarding the status of anything I wrote, I know that my submission did go through Friday afternoon. Now to wait and see what their decision regarding the acceptance of each piece.

A news update

This year seems to be flying by for me, even if I’m not particularity sure why. However, I do have some news to share with my social media followers.

The first item of news being my award for the WEP writing contest for last month. To my surprise I managed to win the award for most comments, and I would like to thank Denise, Laura, Nilanjana, and Olga for that. Along with thanking everyone who read, commented, and critiqued my entry for the contest. Which for any new followers can be read by clicking the link here: https://christopherscottauthor.wordpress.com/2019/02/18/wep-february-2018-contest-entry/

Secondly, I have been asked to submit pieces again for the Z Publishing House anthology for 2019. With the submission deadline for my state coming up in a month, it will likely be a main focus of my creative mind. Given the increased 5000 word limit for this year, I doubt I will have time to write much else. Wish me luck.

WEP February 2018 contest entry

When I first saw the theme for this month’s contest was 28 days, I wasn’t particularly certain I would enter. Thinking it over for a few days after sign-ups began. Finding unexpected inspiration in the extreme cold that seized the northeast at the end of January and the beginning of February. Inspiring me to craft an epic style poem, where entities of myth live inside the cold. Along with bringing to Earth a champion for humanity, who would fight back against the cold and the creatures that live within. A piece of flash fiction I call, “Forces Of Nature.”


Twenty-eight days have passed since the cold cast its icy hand upon the northern part of the world. It is somehow bringing with it entities both physical and ethereal in its wake. Creatures that have more of a place in mythology than in the real world. There was one strange bright spot in this frozen land, in the form of a man. Perhaps man is a bit of understatement to describe this stranger to our world. A stranger who seems to radiate an intense amount of heat from his body, almost as he can somehow focus and amplify the fiery nature of the sun. While the survivors of the cold world have given the stranger many names, I have taken to calling him Cinead. Watching this mysterious man from afar as he fights back the creatures of the cold.

Twenty-eight additional days have passed since this unnatural age of cold began. Cinead has fought back against the creatures of the winter on behalf of the human race. He was miraculously winning enough fights to bring his existence to the attention of the seldom seen Beria. Her name was only whispered in the direst of times, casting an almost mythic atmosphere around her. From what little information I could gather from both people and prose, she had a spiritual link to the cold. The cold that was beginning to take a visible tole on the survivors. Despite Cinead creating spots of warmth to shelter humanity from the dangerous and intense chill, forcing Beria to issue a hollowed challenge to Cinead. A provocation I believed that if lost, humankind would bear the ultimate consequences.

Twenty-eight days had passed since Beria announced her challenge to Cinead. Beria’s summons for combat was answered and agreed too. They are bringing about an unstable sense of peace between the creatures that took shelter in the cold and their hostile stance on the remaining survivors. Combining their incredible powers to shape and alter the landscape to create a neutral battleground. The hopes of humanity keeping an invisible watchful eye on the area, to make sure the fight would be fair.

Another twenty-eight days had passed since the challenge had been agreed to, and the arena created. Cinead and Beria stood on opposite sides of the makeshift coliseum. Each starring in silence at each other like pugilists before a championship fight. Except for this time, there was more on the line than just a shiny belt. This battle could ultimately decide the fate of humanity. From an unseen corner, I watched staying undetected by the champions of fire and ice, waiting for the fight to move past the tense staredown and commence the altercation. Greatswords of crimson fire and sapphire ice rested over their shoulders, ready to strike.

Twenty-eight minutes passed before Cinead and Beria charged at each other. Their blades forged of the elements themselves colliding. Each impact was releasing bursts of steam into the air. The steam was growing at an exponential rate until it began to obscure the two fighters. Each champion was becoming a radiant beacon of color in the dense fog. The energies emitting from them both were releasing flashes of light into the mist, giving me some idea of what was happening. Cinead and Beria were fighting with an almost inhuman pace, with neither of them appearing to tire. With a furious pace, the two continued to struggle, with each strike releasing more and more light into the fog. The colors were starting to blend into a dark shade of violet at the center of smog obscured arena.

An additional twenty-eight minutes passed before the fog began to dissipate at a steady rate. The colors that filled the air vanishing with it. An intense and radiant glow of orange light piercing the remaining, thinning fog. Cinead appeared to be victorious over Beria, who was lying impaled on the ground by Cinead’s flaming greatsword. Her sword of ice resting far outside of her reach. With both hands, Cinead reached out towards the midday sun. The air was starting to sparkle between his hands, almost as if Cinead was conjuring something from the sun’s light. Cinead’s body began to emit a pale orange glow. With what I imagine was an incredible focus, the glow radiated around his body, like a fiery aura. This aura was moving up his body at a steady pace towards his hands. Cinead somehow was shaping the energy into a long cylindrical pole of pure flame. The tip of the pole was starting to emit and produce a short curving blade. With a slow arcing two-handed swing, Cinead brought the flaming head of the ax down on Beria’s neck. Cinead repeated the precision arcing movement three more times before decapitating her fully. With its purpose now fulfilled, Cinead let the ax vanish from his grip. The champion of the cold now resting defeated and dead.

An additional twenty-eight days passed before the dangerous arctic chill released its grip on the world. With the cold vanishing, some semblance of normality and civilization returned to humanity.


Critique level: Full Word count: 854


The tease of a blank page, and unfinished ideas

I doubt I’m the only writer who feels the blank page is often a tease for the creative mind. The empty page poking, prodding, and challenging the imagination for a reaction, almost begging to write on. Yet, the responses to all that probing seem to be split between turning the creative juices on, or deeper into a state of dormancy. In some ways, the probing is the equivalent of fencing for the mind. 

For some that dormant state is one of their worsts fears. While for others, the is one often overlooked fear, that of an unfinished idea. Usually, ideas that appear and disappear with all the ease of lighting a candle. While the potential of the rough ideas could be argued at an almost indefinite length. Should one attempt to relight the inspirational candle of the concept, hoping, the original inspiration will come back or is it better to move on. I’m curious to know what my fellow creatives think about that. Is returning to the idea a worthwhile use of time, or is it better to toss the idea away?

A possible prologue to something more….?

“Remember my young apprentice we strive to keep ourselves balanced. There cannot be light without darkness, life without death. Let others close their minds and align themselves towards something they do not fully understand,” closing the polished antique silver lid on the meditative brazier, before resuming “Awaken my apprentice, it is time to end your mediation.”

Watching my apprentice slowly awaken as the mind-altering smoke faded from the room. Allowing his body to begin purging the gas’ effects from his conscious. The mediation ritual was the second part of his studies that forcibly opened the mind’s true potential. Feeling the sheer power coming from my pupil at this distance even as walked across the ancient stone chamber. The strength I had felt from him when I discovered him in a partially burned down farmer’s shack had grown.

Wide hazel eyes looked up at me as I approached, the gas still having a slight effect on him. Staring at me in silence, hopefully adjusting quick enough to begin practicing some of the more straightforward lessons I have taught him. If what I noticed on my travels through the world grows, the balance will collapse. Leading to something ancient and remembered only in myths to awaken from its forced slumber. Making my innermost fears come true, the few who recalled the forgotten truths would need all the strength they could muster.

WEP 2018 December Contest

With the contest theme being Ribbons and Candles for the final challenge of the year, I wasn’t confident about what I wanted to do.  I considered doing a Victorian-inspired holiday celebration with a steam-punk aesthetic. Upon researching some Christmas/Yuletide traditions from the time, I realized it may not have been the best idea to attempt with this particular theme. Clearing the slate so to speak, I also consider doing a small town inspired Christmas through the eyes of a time traveler.  Which I thought would work well but after six-hundred words realized ending the idea without revealing the main character’s secret was impractical. There were just too many questions left unanswered for the ending to feel complete.  Trying to find something that would work within the festive theme,  I stopped thinking about the idea for a couple of days. 

Somehow that managed to shake an idea from my head. Using the 1920’s to imagine a world where jazz filled the airwaves, and the mob ruled entire cities. With that atmosphere in mind, I considered a few ideas before settling on the idea that would become my contest entry which I present below. 


The winter chill had filled the air the snow by the time I entered the speakeasy. Mr. Domino had renovated the place since my last visit. Art Deco laminate tile ran through the entire floor, giving it a hexagonal black and white pattern that reminded me of a piano. Vaulted stone painted white decorated the ceiling. Brass chandeliers hung by silver steel chains were dropped from the ceiling. Bright red and blue ribbons hung across the bottom of every light. The strong scent of tobacco and homemade moonshine filled the air. Brass-heavy jazz was playing from some unseen musicians intertwined with the aromas. Several young flappers were dancing to the music with their fellas.

Weaving my way through the crowd of dancers, I made my way to the bar. A burly bartender in a tailored three-piece grey suit stood behind the bar. Slicked back greasy black hair stopped at the man’s ear, adding to his clean-shaven face. Deep brown eyes watched the dancers for a few moments before glancing at me.

Asking me “Watcha drinkin tonight,” while his gaze hinted a silent message; either get your drink or leave.

Glancing around at the few other patrons who were standing at the bar, before responding “A Manhattan but first a message for the owner. Tell him Mr. Keys has arrived, he will know who I am.”

The bartender nodded before going to make my drink. My suspicious nature was forcing me to glance around. Looking for associates of the man I was looking forward to seeing. The iron in my pocket was feeling heavy as several men in all black tailored suits began approaching me. A gold domino lapel pin rested on the right side of the jacket of the suit. Black fedoras were tilted just enough to obscure their faces from view. Tommy guns with wooden stocks pressed against their shoulders.

I asked, “Escorting me to see Mr. Domino gentlemen?”

The men nodded in unison before directing the black barrels of their Tommy Guns up. I have enough odd jobs to know what that meant. Giving me little time to stand up before beginning to walk away. Raising myself from the stool, I followed them ignoring the chaos of dancers moving to the music.

The music had grown steadily quieter by the time Mr. Domino’s goons led me his office. They motioned for me to enter the door before taking a watching spot by the door. Finding Mr. Domino was waiting for me, tapping a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand. A polished silver Colt M1911A1 was resting on his antique wooden desk, within arms reach if necessary.

Mr. Domino asked, “Is the deed done Mr. Keys?”

I nodded, before producing a vanilla envelope from my pocket. Placing the container down by the gun, knowing the envelope’s contents would sway Mr. Domino’s immeasurable appreciation. Mr. Domino spilled the envelope’s content onto his desk. Ten severed ring fingers rolled onto his office, with their gold rings still attached. Each finger belonged to Mr. Domino’s competition.

Mr. Domino began to grin before commenting, “You have done well, Mr. Keys. These rings will make fantastic trophies for me to inspire fear from anyone else foolish enough to challenge me. As much as I would prefer to keep you around, I’m not foolish enough to cross my sister,” opening his desk and pulling out a small cloth bag. “Take this and my blessing to marry my sister,” standing and grabbing me the collar of my shirt. “Break her heart, and I will break you,” letting go of my collar.

“I know,” grabbing the cloth bag as I remarked.

Mr. Domino nodded once, before allowing me to leave his office. Shoving the money bag inside my pocket, trying my best to hide it from everyone. This money was my way of starting something new with my beloved Margaret. She knew the full extent of my past and didn’t care. Hoping between my reputation and her being the sister of Mr. Domino would be enough to scare any enemies away.

*****

A few hours later I arrived at Margaret’s house, the bag still hidden inside my pocket. She opened the door with a smile before I could knock. Leading me to her kitchen table, where a vibrant red unlit candle sat on a silver tray. A box of matches rested beside it, two of them poking out of it.

Margaret commented “Let’s light this candle and begin our new life together,” handing me a match with a smile spread across her face.

Smiling as I took the match, more than ready to start our new life together.


Word count: 774 Critique level: Full

Is too much creativity a good thing?

With the end of the year approaching, I’m looking back at the past year. Realizing I may have too many projects splitting my focus, without losing sight of one or another idea. Along with trying to learn the new WordPress format to create posts. It makes me wonder if an excess of creative energies is a good thing or a bad thing? 

 

Granted the excess is better than having creative blocks but can be overwhelming at times. Trying to balance the new and the old ideas without getting them muddled within each other. Even worse, losing the inspiration behind the idea in general. At a certain point, it conjures this image of a waiter carrying a tray of food. Each food representing an idea, with the waiter’s tray representing the mind. The more food you add, the heavier the load becomes until it becomes unmanageable. 

Does anyone else agree? Disagree? How do cope with both the excess and the dry spells? 

Hmm…Where to go from here?

“Remember my young apprentice we strive to keep ourselves balanced. There cannot be light without darkness, life without death. Let others close their minds and align themselves towards something they do not fully understand,” closing the polished antique silver lid on the meditative brazier, before resuming “Awaken my apprentice, it is time to end your mediation.”

Watching my apprentice slowly awaken as the mind-altering smoke faded from the room. Allowing his body to begin purging the gas’ effects from his conscious. The mediation ritual was the second part of his studies that forcibly opened the mind’s true potential. Feeling the sheer power coming from my pupil at this distance even as walked across the ancient stone chamber. The strength I had felt from him when I discovered him in a partially burned down farmer’s shack had grown.

Wide hazel eyes looked up at me as I approached, the gas still having a slight effect on him. Staring at me in silence, hopefully adjusting quick enough to begin practicing some of the more straightforward lessons I have taught him. If what I noticed on my travels through the world grows, the balance will collapse. Leading to something ancient and remembered only in myths to awaken from its forced slumber.

 


I can feel there is something here, I’m just not sure what. Granted I know the whole orphan protagonist is slightly cliche, but it is an acceptable cliche for some reason.

A start to something…

Honestly, I have no idea what inspired this story idea. Any thoughts on it would be much appreciated.


Glancing down with loving eyes, at my newborn son held precariously in my arms. Seeing him reach out to the world for the first time. His bright sapphire eyes reflecting me, while possessing a familiar but faintly glowing golden color. Doing my best to hide my surprise from my wife, I carefully handed him back to her. Knowing two things with great certainty; he was indeed my son, and his life would be more unusual than anything I wished for him because of it.

My wife, lovingly cradling our first born in a mixture of relief and exhaustion. Waiting for two doctors and nurse to leave the room before speaking. Agreeing only to tell the medical staff just what was absolutely necessary. Even though we had our guardian in the place with us, in case the medical staff turned out to be more malicious then their benign appearance suggested. Given how capable my wife and I were, our child had incredible potential brewing within him.

The one doctor pulled down his dark green face mask before commenting, “We will give you four some privacy. Press the call button if you need something, and a nurse will be here to help,” giving a quick glance to his coworkers before walking out of the room. The nurse shutting the door behind her as she left the room.

Taking a deep breath, my wife commented “He has the gift inside him,” sighing some as our son reached for her pointer finger. “I know we never wanted this for him, but apparently the choice was out of our hands for once. He will need all of us if to protect him, including you, Zero,” glancing at the ex-soldier bodyguard the Protectorates assigned us. He had been standing in the far back of the room, watching in silence while the medical staff were working. “Promise us you will keep him safe if they find us. Even if that means leaving us behind.”

Zero remarked “The Protectorates may have something to say about that, but I will try my best to follow your wishes, Evaline,” bowing his head some. His phone audibly vibrating in his back pocket. Silently pulling it out of his pocket barely glancing down at the display, before putting it back into his pocket. “The escort has arrived to take us to a more secure location. They will be entering this hospital in five minutes. Gather everything you can with haste, Jason. Your son and wife will need protection as they recover.”

Taking a quick glance at Jason, I nodded moving to gather my wife’s things. Knowing that their protection was of the utmost priority for me. Pulling the barely unpacked duffle bag from the room’s faux wooden closet. The pregnancy pants and a loose fitting shirt was resting on top of the pack. Unzipping the bag about halfway, I shoved the clothes into the dark green duffle bag. Tossing a few clean white towels that were neatly folded into the bag as well. Sealing the zipper, before looking back at my wife and son. Evaline had our son neatly wrapped in the light blue blanket the nurses had placed him in. His tiny hand still grasping my wife’s pointer finger.
Setting the bag against the bed, before helping my wife move off the bed. She had swung her legs over the lowered bedrail, waiting for the escort party to arrive. Six heavily armed Protectorates bodyguards barged into the room. Each one looking intimidating with unmarked black armor covering them. Thin black cloth masks covered the lower part of their faces, from the nose down. One of them was pushing a wheelchair in front of them, moving towards the bed. With help from Zero, we slowly lifted my wife from the bed. Lowering her and our newborn son with care into the wheelchair’s padded dark blue cloth seat. Slinging the duffle bag over my right shoulder, before gripping the pale blue foam grips at the wheelchair’s back. Zero and two of the other Protectorates forming a small guard at the front of the wheelchair. The other three guarding our backside, as we began to leave the hospital room.