Make your own Steampunk

The week the writing challenge was to build your own steam punk world, but with a personal spin on it.  If you're not familiar with Steampunk as a genre, Chuck sums it up nicely.

So I was going to use an idea I'd had last time this challenge rolled around, but I was getting stuck on the logistics.  Then I was at work and a song came over the radio and this idea sprang to mind.  (The title still sucks but whatever)  I deliberately left out dialogue this time, I wanted to work on getting more detail instead.

The Sound of Silence

MotherSong was all he could hear, all he wanted to hear.

It filled him, it supported him.  Wave after wave of the glorious verse crashed into him, pulled him down into its warmth, buoyed him up into its love.

All their work was for the song, the machine must be tended.  All the workers moved in perfect harmony with the song, with each other.

The pitch of the song changed, telling him where he was needed next.  He followed the beat and left his work, following the massive flow of hundreds other workers following the same unspoken instructions.

Words were not needed.  The song told them all they needed to know.

            The soothing hum of the MotherSong filled the central hall, a room as vast and beautiful as the love Mother felt for them all.  Gleaming silver walls caught the light and warmed their bodies as the song warmed their souls.

He stood in line for his daily ration, one of the countless lines they all stood in.  He waited for his turn for food, he listened to the song.  Everyone heard the song differently, but all were blessed with the same feeling of peace.

            Movement at the front of the line drew his attention.  The Lord Overseer, glorious in his silver helmet, was announcing that all the days rations had been given out, all workers were to report to their next shift.  The song was all the nourishment he needed, it did not matter that he had not eaten in days.

The line turned as one, in tune with the pulse of MotherSong.  They moved toward the exit when something happened.  A hissing noise filled the air.  A rasping screech that cut into the beauty of the song.

The hissing grew louder, louder and louder until it screamed in his ears.

Then the song stopped.

MotherSong stopped.  He could not hear it!

Why- Why was it not silent?  If MotherSong was not playing, then nothing should be playing.

But something was.  He could hear a humming pulse, a smooth flow of air.  A steady double beat that soothed him.  What song was this?

Something else, something beyond this new song.  The noise…What was causing that noise in his head?!

            It- It was his thoughts.

            His- My thoughts.

            I can hear my thoughts?

            I look around me and see the shining silver of the hall as it really is, a dull steel hull.  I see the other workers, lying on the floor in fear.

            I see the overseer, the faceplate of his helmet open as he calls for reinforcements, waving frantically to protect the piles of unopened rations behind his station.

            I feel my hunger give me strength.

They find me hours later, surrounded by scraps of food.  Covering my ears and screaming, trying to stop the song from taking me again.

I fight them, afraid they’re here to take me back.  It isn’t until they put the headset over my ears that I relax.

I can’t hear the song anymore.

They explain that not everyone can handle being freed.  Many aren’t able to live without the song.  But some fight, some run, as I did.

They ask if I’m willing to join them.  To fight, to free others.  One of them reaches out.

I take his hand.  The headset fills my ears with noise.

I ask what it is.

"We call it music."

The (Again) Return of Flash Fiction

And I'm back!

Yeah, long time without posting...or writing.  No excuses.  Regardless of my lack of ability to stick with continually writing, I did finally manage to sit myself down and dive into one of Chuck Wendig's Flash Fictions Challenges.  Found here.

It was one of my favorites prompts, taking items from a list (or two in this case) and using them as story elements.  I've had the idea in my head for awhile of a detective who finds a dead body in his office, so it was easy to adapt that into two characters.  Actually made it easier since they could play off each other.

It's still a bit rough in terms of some grammar issues, but I'm really happy with the general flow and pacing.  And the characters of course.  And with a word limit of 1500 instead of the normal 1000 I got to play with it a bit more.  There are some particular things I was focusing on for each of the characters, but especially for Don and John so I'd love feedback on how they came across.  Enjoy.

B & B - The Skinner

“Ok,” he sighed. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is?”

            Don Baugmann looked around the office confirming that everything was just as he’d left it last night.

            “If you think it’s a dead body then you’re right.  And I think it’s staining the carpet.”

            Everything, that is, except the bloody corpse in the middle of the room.

            “Thank you John, what I meant is why is it here?”

            “Most likely to send us a message.  Who have we pissed off recently?” John asked, stepping around the body into the office kitchenette.

            Don closed the office door, the stenciling ‘Baugmann & Baugmann: Private Detectives’ mirrored on the glass, and crossed the room to his desk.

            “Who haven’t we pissed off is the better question.” Dropping into his seat he put his head in his hands and muttered, “God dammit I hate Mondays.”

            He looked up when John handed him a cup of coffee.

            “It’s Thursday.”  John said.

            Don took a long drink before answering, appreciating the burn of the hot caffinee.

“Thursdays are for wrapping up any big projects of the week so that they don’t monopolize your Fridays and, god forbid, spill into the weekend.”  He pointed at the corpse, “We came to work, early no less, and found that little gift waiting for us.  That makes this a Monday!”

“I’ll phone the station and get Michaels and his crew over here to remove it.”  John smiled, “Why don’t you look at our recent leads and see if this doesn’t tie back to anyone.”

Don finished his coffee and began a more thorough examination of the office.  Michaels would be irritated, and irritating, enough just coming this far out from the station, might as well appease the man by doing some of his work for him,

Not that there was much work to do.  Their office was small, partly by choice but mostly by necessity.  Their clients typically paid more in good will than in good credit.  Searching showed no signs of a break-in, the locks on the windows and door hadn’t been tampered with.  The only disturbance to the normal quiet atmosphere of the room was the body itself.

“So we’re dealing with a dead body in a locked room.”  Don muttered as he crouched to examine it.

Face down with a congealed pool of red staining their tan, ‘Beige, it’s beige Don.’ ‘Yes John, thank you!’ carpeting.

Don took photos of the body; male, five foot ten, looks about one-sixty to one-seventy, nondescript clothes, to pass on to Michaels then rolled it face up to take pictures for ID.

‘Huh, that’s a new one.’  “John?”  Don called out.

“Yes?” John looked up from the phone.

“Does it count as face up if the body doesn’t have a face?”

Leaving John behind to handle Michaels, Don went looking for one of their more reliable contacts.  Jessie, frequent snitch and chronic abuser, was exactly where Don expected to find him.  Face down in an alleyway buried under trash.

Don nudged Jessie to wake him up, absolutely not kicking him.

Jessie's answering groan of pain was probably just caused by whatever he was crashing from.

"H-Hey boss."  Jessie sat up, bloodshot eyes blinking away the light.  "What's up?"

"Didn't John set you up with a room in a clinic?"

"Yeah, yeah he set it up."  Jessie trailed off.

"But you weren't interested."

"Did you actually have a question?  Because if you could just step to the left and block the light that'd be great."

Don sighed, pulling Jessie to onto unsteady feet.  "John and I need you to ask around about something."  He explained the situation at the office.  "Let us know if there's been any disappearance, any bodies found killed the same way, or if-"

"Boss, I know how to do my job.  But," Jessie glanced around quickly, "But if you could front me some cash..."

Don pulled a pack of cigs out of his coat.  "How about I get you a cup of coffee, and we go from there."  He said, lighting one and handing the rest of the pack to Jessie.

           

Confident that Jessie would find at least enough rumors for a solid lead Don headed back to the office.  He could hear the argument from the stairwell.

‘Surprised I couldn’t hear Michaels from the street.’ he thought.

            “This room is a crime scene!  I demand you unlock those files.”  Michaels blustered, red-faced and utterly failing to make an impression on John, who was in front of the filing cabinet in the office corner.  Leaning casually against it as if that was the most comfortable spot in the room.

            Not that there was space to stand anywhere else.  Michaels had brought an entire forensics team with him, who were currently very busy doing anything except watch their Lieutenant lose his composure in front of a couple of P.I.s

“Those are private files regarding our clients, detective.”  John said.  “If anything is missing we’ll inform you.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t take any comfort from the Bagmen Brothers,” deliberately mispronouncing the name. “But you two are persons of interest in my investigation.  How can I trust anything you say?”

            “We’re not brothers.”  Don grumbled as he flicked the butt of his smoke into the potted plant by the door.  Ignoring John’s glare, ‘It’s just a plant John, relax.’ Then the rest of Michaels’ comment sank in.

            “Investigation?”  John eyed the stain where the body had lain, “So there’s been more murders like this one?”

            Michaels drew himself up to all his quivering glory.  “That is Police.  Business.” He hissed the words.

            “And our files for our clients are our business.”  Don crossed the room in a step and filled Michaels’ personal space the way the fat man filled the office.  Staring down at him Don said, “Your team is ready to leave now, aren’t they.”

            It wasn’t a question.

Ten minutes later found the office much calmer and with significantly more elbow room.

“Well?”  Don asked as John got out the cleaning supplies and started on the carpet.

“His main concern was our case files,” John said.  “He barely acknowledged the body.”

“Why do we have to call him?”

“Because he’s the lead detective of the homicide office…Somehow.” 

“Asshole probably placed the body himself.”  Don muttered.

“You know he’s not a crooked cop, we’ve exposed plenty of those.”

“Yeah, he’s just a bad one.”

“Regardless, what’s our plan?”

“Jessie is sniffing rumors for us but I figure we can hit up some of our other sources, see what they cough up.”

“Figuratively I’m sure.”

“To start with.”

John left the cleaning solution to sink into the stain as they locked up. ‘Not that it seems to matter.’

As they were heading down the stairs Don felt his phone vibrate.

The text from Jessie was direct for once.  “Bad news.  6 other kills.  No faces.  Hired nutcase.  Can I get paid now?”

“We need to talk to DeSarno.”  Don said.

“Well hello boys, thank you for coming.”  DeSarno gestured with his cigar, “Please, have a seat.”

Don let himself get shoved into a seat at DeSarno’s booth.  “Well after your goon squad was so gentle patting us down how could we say no.”

“I like that we didn’t need a reservation.”  John smirked.

“It’s almost like we’re VIPs.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say DeSarno likes us.”

“And if I didn’t know better,” DeSarno cut in with a glare, “I’d say that B & B was a comedy duo.  But I can’t say I’m amused by the P.I.s who’ve damaged my business as much as you have.”

“Hard to avoid that,” John said.  “Seeing as how you bought half the police department.”

“The stupid half.” Don added.

“Be that as it may,” DeSarno ground his teeth. “What brings you here today.”

“We’re curious about a string of rather disturbing murders.”  Don said.

“And the fact that the victims are all being connected to us.”  Said John.

“A bunch of corpses with their faces removed?”

“One being left in our office to boot.”

“So we were just wondering if you might know anything.”

“Since this seems like the work of a professional.”

DeSarno went pale, “Their faces have been removed?”

Don nodded.

“You boys might want to hide,” DeSarno took a long, shaky drag from his cigart.  “It sounds like the Skinner is in town.”

Fiction late arrivals

So I kind of got distracted this week.  Being home with my video games again for the first time in month...yeah, 'nuff said.

Anyway, the challenge for this past week was to use a random title generator and write a story from that.  The generator gave five titles and I went with the first one that gave a strong mental image.  Ended up being not too bad, I think it worked better in the present tense.

That's about all I have to say on his one, hope you enjoy.

At the Gunfighter with a Gambit

            I push through the doors to the Gunfighter, letting them swing closed as I make my way through the saloon.  I already know where McKenzie is.

            Everything stops when I kick open the door to his private dining room.  Waitresses with drinks, men paying cards or darts, even the music grinds to a halt.

            I step into the room.  When one of McKenzie’s men tries to stop me I slow only long enough to clock him with my pistol.  He falls to the floor clutching at his mouth and trying to hold in the blood and teeth.

            I slam my gun onto the table, scattering money and sending cards flying.

            McKenzie looks up at me past the brim of his hat.

            “Boys,” he says to the two men at the table.  “Take a walk.”

            They look at me then back at McKenzie.  No one moves.

            He picks up my gun.

            “Take,” he says and cocks the hammer. “A walk.”

            The room empties.

            One of them was smart enough to shut the door on his way out.  I could hear the music pick back up and knew we’d be left alone.

            McKenzie still held my gun.

“Pretty stupid move, giving up your gun.  I’d heard better of you.”

“Those bounties were business,” I say.  “I don’t usually care what my mark has to say.”

“So this is personal then?  I’m honored.”

“You killed my father.  You’re damn right it’s personal.”

He threw back his head laughing and I could see the grey streaking his red hair.

“Kid I’ve killed a lot of people, and I’m too damn old for shootouts in the square.  Why do you think I settled down?  These days I’m usually napping at the stroke of noon.”

“I don’t care how old you are, you’re still going to duel me.”

“Tell you what, let’s compromise.”

He released the hammer and flicked open the chamber, emptying all but one bullet with a smooth efficiency that belies his age.  I didn’t doubt for a second that he could still duel.

He just didn’t want to.

“You know roulette?”  He asks.

I decided to humor him.

I sat down at the table.  “Who goes first?”

He gestured at the table.

“Why not let the cards decide?”

“One spin of the barrel?”

“High card wins, low card shoots?”

“Agreed.”

I sit down.

McKenzie clears the table and shuffled the cards.  I cut the deck and motion for him to draw first.  He shrugs and we both take a card.

Ten versus four.

I spin the chamber of my gun and put the barrel to my head.  The hammer cocks back and lands with a hollow click.

As we draw again McKenzie speaks.

“I recognize this gun.”

Five versus jack.

“You should,” I say as the gun clicks harmlessly in his hand.  “It was my father’s gun.”

Six versus eight.

“Your father was a sheriff, tried to stop me from robbing a bank.”  The gun clicks in his hand again.

Nine versus four.

“He was,” I said after the gun hit another empty chamber in my hands.

King versus ace.

“Did you know that he was a made man?”  The gun hits a fifth empty slot and he set it back down.

I don’t say anything as we draw our last cards.  I look at the queen in my hand and watch McKenzie show me what he had drawn.

A two lands on the table.

I watch him pick up the gun and cock it for the sixth and final time.

Before putting it to his head he says.

“Your father was supposed to chase us out of town, you know.  We were going to give him his cut after he made the chase look real.  But when we were out there he got greedy and stupid, tried to take it all for himself.  He tried to kill me with this gun.”

McKenzie points the gun at me and fires.

I don’t flinch as the smoke clears.

McKenzie looks at me dumbfounded for a moment before going for his own gun at his hip.

I drop the derringer out of my sleeve and shoot him before he can draw.

The force of the bullet knocks him back and he falls to the floor.

I kneel down beside him, taking my gun from his limp hand.

His mouth moves, but the bullet had torn into his throat and no sound came out.  I can tell what he was trying to ask.

“I knew all that about my father, I followed him and saw the whole thing.  I saw you try to shortchange him, and I saw your men get ready to shoot him in the back.  My father may not have been a good man, but at least he was better than you.”

McKenzie coughs blood and reaches for my gun.

“I loaded my gun with blanks.  Guess I’m not as stupid as you thought I was.”

Friday Flash Fiction...on Thursday?!?

Figured since I finished it I might as well post it.  I almost feel like I'm being lazy with this story, but I really like how concise it is.  The challenge was to write a scene using four items from the list, and the visuals for these four leapt into my mind pretty much as you see them here.

I like this because it's almost like a poem actually.  I could expand it into a longer story, but I like the punch and the mystery it has being this short.  Anyway, enjoy.

Wasteland

            The road sign hangs crookedly on its post, rusted and illegible.  The wind pushing small clouds of dust over my feet.

            Carrion eaters swarm over a horse carcass nearby, so many that I could hardly see the white of the animal’s skull.

            I tear the badge from my chest and let it fall to the ground.  I'm not a sheriff anymore.

            He lies at my feet, cooling as his blood seeps into the dirt.  I pick up his guitar and start walking.

Weekly Challenge - Random Plot Generator

Pleased to say I have another piece of fiction to put up.  This week the challenge was to use a random plot generator and write the first one it gave.  Me being me, I of course generated a few and brainstormed until one appealed to me.

The plot I used was "The story starts when your protagonist is forced into a car at gunpoint. Another character is an attorney who invents strange machines."

I'm actually really pleased with this one (probably could use more editing).  The opening was easy to visualize and start writing, and while I had an idea for the rest it evolved into it's own work really quickly.  Making me invent new characters, changing the plan I had but in a good way.  Yeah, really pleased.

Enjoy.

A Deal

            “Get in.”

            The dark metal of the gun barrel gleamed in the light from the street lamp.  With the tinted window rolled half down I could just make out the features of a grizzled old pusher with his hand on the trigger.

            Far be it for me to turn down a nice warm car ride on a rainy night.

            I opened the door and climbed inside.  Grizzly slid over to make room, keeping the gun trained on me as he handed me a bundle of sackcloth.

            “Really?”

            “You know the drill.”

            A glance at the driver showed he wasn’t planning to take any part in this debate, but his posture made it clear he also wasn’t going to put the car in gear until I was blindfolded.

            With a sigh I pulled the bag over my head.

            I heard the soft click of the gun’s safety, but I didn’t make a move.  Grizzly tied my hands with a light knot, keeping them in my lap.  I must not be in too much trouble then, if there was a real problem they wouldn’t make it this easy.

            Driver finally put the engine in gear and we started moving.

            I could hear the steady patter of rain on the car’s roof and the splash of puddles as we hit potholes.  The bounce sometimes enough to knock me around my seat since neither of my escorts had me wear a seatbelt, but that was just another sign that tonight was just going to be a talk.

            When we finally stopped about an hour later I already knew what our destination was.

            I waited for Grizzly to open the door and pull me out.  I reached toward the hood but stopped when he pressed the gun barrel into my back and used it to guide me forward.

            I shrugged internally and just kept walking, noting when we had gone inside by the feel of the floor.  I could have turned towards the correct room but I let Grizzly guide me instead.

            Stopping after a few turns I felt a bright light overhead as Grizzly pushed me into a chair and pulled off the hood.

            Walters sat on the other side of the table, pristine white suit shining in the light.  The ever present cigar pinched in his teeth, unlit so no ashes would be spilled.

            “Do you mind?”  I asked, holding up my hands, “They’re starting to chafe.”

            Walters waved his hand and Grizzly untied me.

            “Coffee?”  Walters asked.

            “Please.”

            We waited as a girl, healthy young thing who looked good for someone paying off a drug debt, served us.  I waved off her offer of ‘sugar’ as Walters generously poured white powder into his own cup.

            “I understand you have a new toy for us?”  He asked.

            I made a show of taking a drink, knowing how he lived for the theatrics.

            Putting the cup down I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a metal cube the size of my fist.  I activated it with a tap and watched it unfold into the shape of a scorpion.

            I looked up at Walters and arched an eyebrow.

            Walters nodded to Grizzly, who placed an uncut brick of white on the table.

            The scorpion immediately became animated and crawled off my hand.  Skittering over to the brick it quickly attacked it.  Spearing the brick with its tail and using its claws to cut and shape, it carved out smaller, perfectly dimensioned cubes. 

            Job done, it crawled back to my hand and with another tap, folded itself back into a cube.

            My job was done.

            Walters agreed to the usual price easily enough and I had an order for a full supply of what he was already calling his new cutters.

            Driver dropped me off where they found me, and I gave the hood back to Grizzly as I stepped out of the car.

            Once they were out of sight I started walking, two streets down I ducked into an alley.  A quick jump to the fire escape and three fights up I was knocking on the apartment window of Marcus’ law office.

            Elyse opened the window and I climbed inside handing her my coat with a smile.

            “He’s in his workshop.” She said.

            “Of course he is.”  I smiled.

            I made my way down the hall, passing the office which doubled as his library and letting myself into the workshop.

            Marcus even looked up as I entered, unbending from the workbench with acrid smoke rising past him.  Putting his tools down he turned to me, the protective goggles made his eyes seem more inquisitive than usual and caused his hair to stick out in random directions.

            “How’d it go?”

            “He bought it, literally.”

            “Fantastic!” He said.

            “You’re sure this is a good idea?  We’re making it easier for him to peddle cocaine.”

            “It’s fine, I told you what the scorpion does.  When it strikes it injects untraceable chemicals into the drug that will cause the user to lose their addiction.  Soon Walters won’t have any customers.  And the more he uses these, the faster that will happen.”

            “And the faster he’ll find someone to blame.”

            “That’s where you come in Detective, you know where all his warehouses are thanks to the tracking bugs I built.  When the time is right, break your cover and strike.  Surely you must have enough to arrest him by now.”

            “When you came to me I was hoping you’d have enough to bring him in right away, you are his lawyer after all.”

            “I had enough to lock him up, but not to destroy his cartel.  But that’s the best part, when he calls for me to defend him we can take down his entire operation!”

            I thought about that, it almost felt too easy.  But then, Walters wasn’t exactly the smartest crime lord I’d ever tried to bust.

            Anyone who takes that much crack with his coffee probably fried his brain years ago.

Metafiction

Metafiction is a tricky beast.  Any form of meta-artwork is supposed to draw attention to itself as art while using the styles of that art.

Spider-man making a joke about superheroes isn't meta.  Deadpool is meta because he knows he's fiction and takes every chance to break the fourth wall using comic book narration boxes and even grabbing the frames on the page.

But moving on; yes, it's Friday.  And that means a short story!  Last week the challenge over at Terribleminds was to write the last line of a story.  This week Chuck took ten of those lines and challenged his auidence to use them as the opening to a story.

It ended up being extremely short, but I kinda like how it flows.  As always, I hope you enjoy.

MetaQuest

            Once upon a time, there was a story so short, it was only a single line.
            This is not that story.
            This is not the story where the strapping young Hero saves the girl and wins the kingdom, and it’s not the story where he saves the kingdom and wins the girl.
            This is the story of the Hero who does not know he is.
            In this story the Hero still goes on his Quest.  In this story the Hero’s family dies in front of him, forcing him out of his humble beginnings and into a Legend beyond his comprehension.
            But in this story there is no Loyal Companion, no Wise Mentor to advise our Hero and instruct him in the old ways.
            The Hero is left to fend for himself, to find his own way in a world that he was never prepared to experience.
            Somehow, against the odds, the Hero still finds himself allies.  The Rouge, the Rival, the Redeemed.  He finds these allies and learns to rely on them for support, to help find his way as their skills complement his own.
            They make their way together in the Hero’s adventure, sometimes managing to resolve their own stories along the way, sometimes not.  The Hero trusts them with his life, with his hope.
            Only to eventually lose his allies, his friends.
            The Rival is first to fall, taking a blow meant to slay the Hero, using his sacrifice to prove himself the better of the two.
            The Redeemed soon gives his life as well, facing his own past and falling as he slays the demons of his own creation.
            The Rouge, if only by virtue of his skill, stays with the Hero the longest.  Finally leaving this world in the dead of night, the true cause of his death as mysterious as he was.
            The Hero blames himself each time.  “If only I was stronger.  If only I was better.”
            “If only I was a Hero.”
            The Hero grows in skill and stature, in myth and legend.  Eventually coming to understand his destiny, driving himself ever forward.  Shouldering his losses, embracing his burdens, accepting his fate.
            The Hero faces foes and fiends, men and monsters.  Pressing onward he begins to see the end of his journey.
           The path of his life, beginning to end, is laid before him.  The Hero sees the truth of this, and steps forward to face the end.
            Because this is not the story of the glory of the Hero.
            This is the story where the Villain wins.
            This is my story.
            Let’s begin.