Uncategorized

It was an honor to write a story inspired by one of my favorite 3D artists, who I’ve followed for decades: Pascal Blanché. Definitely things that need to be fixed, but I hope you get something out of it.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Pascal Blanché

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Breck recited The Last Rites of the Calton as the lander made impact.

“To wander upon–”

The lander shook and hissed in decompression. Breck muttered his way back to the beginning. When you lose your way, choose the origin over the fray, Elder Moorst had said, his face awash with firelight.

But Breck wasn’t at the beginning, and he was about to head straight into the fray. Fytorion was a planet of clockwork giants, their clocks never winding down. Enigmas to the Order, these giants were said to possess an esoteric wisdom rumored to hold the secrets they needed. For what?

“They,” Breck said, testing the oxygen wafting through his respirator. Who were they? Veiled in more than dusty cloaks in their cobwebbed hold, where the climb had nearly killed him if not for the moon’s guidance. Where a memory was locked inside a fall.

Breck inhaled synthetics that reminded him too much of home. That smell wouldn’t do him any good here. Soon he would smell his own blood. A suicide mission they’d sent him on.

“They,” Breck said again, tasting it.

The lander’s hatch panel stared at him. A cinder. Glowing. Emotionless. The only light in the cramped space. The guts of the lander hung from the ceiling in hoops to trip him up. He shrugged off the one perched on his shoulder. It sprung back up, elastic but hefty, an arterial conduit demonstrating the fragility of its design. He touched his armored midsection where his own fragility lay. The irony wasn’t lost to him as he punched the panel’s button.

The hatch opened. The ramp thundered onto the surface, hydraulics weakened from the change in gravity. The fog it had disturbed already rolled back, even crawling up, likeflike, sentient.

Brek thought he’d cut the lander’s tubes and read the entrails as Elder Moorst did in secret, locked away in his tower. As if they’d know the riddle he needed the answer to. As if he could read entrails.

The wind will carry it to you upon the Fytorion surface, they’d said. Wielded by fingers of frost.

Breck studied the fog walking its way up the ramp, finger by finger. He unsheathed his plasma sword and cleaved the tendrils before they reached his boots. They dispersed, revealing the pocked surface of Fytorion.

The panel’s button burned his retinas, then his neck as he looked away, so he set foot upon Fytorion. A sky so dark it had no depth shrouded everything. No stars. No moon. A complete darkness that–

Breck rolled out of the way just as a mechanical fist rammed into the surface. The ground fractured into a shower of rocks, and he fell through it, the ice stones biting through his armor. He shook them off before they reached his armor’s hex membrane. He ran until he could see stars. Another fist landed. Another. How many arms did this thing have? He looked up to see firey eyes glaring down at him and heard the clockwork mantra said to turn bone to ice.

Breck found the warning was accurate, his feet locked to the surface as a hand the size of his lander barreled at him with digits spread. He swung his blade to a flurry of sparks. Gravity relented. The ground fell away. His boots dangled, and his cape beneath them. Then pressure registered around his torso as stars flickered through gaps that could only be the space between the fingers of this giant.

He breathed in a scent unlike home through his ruptured respirator as what mixed with the oxygen seared his nasal passage, his lungs.

Then the canopy of stars was complete. He found his footing. All he could see, all he could feel, was a metronome. Full of whirrs, clicks, and shudders.

Breck shuddered. Wavered on his feet. His sword and shield counterbalanced him. A network of cables fragmented his view, and he went to touch one. The movement set him off balance, and he fell forward into the web of cables. As thick as his arms, his legs.

He was righted again, by that great hand, which hummed with the life of the body he stood upon. Within that chorus of life, he sensed an anomaly. A hitch in the tempo.

Two furnace eyes gazed upon him then, housed within the visor of a helm as pocked as the icy ground. They burned the color of an exit. Of a fire upon an old man’s face. They burned like the moon that had guided him. But one too many.

Breck’s chest was exposed, his respirator in shreds. Yet he lived, warmed by these two fires that sought to destroy him. To whisper doubly his demise.

The head turned, extinguishing the two fires, and Breck was faced with the a wall of coils, thrumming with the anomalous song of . . .

“To wander upon the song of the gods . . .”

The giant’s fingers lowered to its neck, parting the cables to expose a cylindrical enclosure where lightning danced. A cadence unlike the others.

“. . . to rend the bottled lightning, which would ink the map to salvation.”

Breck stood poised with his sword, ready to finish the task that had come too easy. A mountain that had carried him to its summit. A path fraught with false dangers.

The giant’s finger prodded him. Breck sheathed his sword.

“No,” he said as hands came down in a blur, gripping the head.

Breck leaped aside and caught one of the sagging cables to slow his descent, then more wedged behind a joint. By the time he reached the ground, he couldn’t feel anything, and gave in to that emptiness.

Breck woke to a fire. A single fire. Within the visor of a helm pocked like the surface he lay upon.

He approached the giant’s severed head and its single eye, which looked like a guiding moon above the hold of conspiring men, where the answer to a riddle had been locked in a fall, now set free.

Who couldn’t use a hug?

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Jon Juarez

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Suli ran. Skinned knees wouldn’t stop her. A single lung wouldn’t stop her. Though it made her feel empty. An emptiness she could never fill no matter how hard she tried.

She focused on trying something else: one foot in front of the other. Though she was empty, she carried something that was not. It spurred her on with its yellowed leaves of time, contained within a folded piece of leather stitched and bound. A book. Colored like the sky. It didn’t hold her back. It pushed her forward.

Meg stumbled. Over a waterfall of shale, bubbling in whorls and waves. It wasn’t cool and refreshing. It cut. It crumbled. She picked her way over it carefully because her legs were bare.

The wind blew so hard she thought she might be carried away. The shale split it, but the wind also split the shale. She brought her purse up to block the projectiles as they raced for her head. They tap-tap-tapped as if knocking on a door, then fell and clack-clack-clacked.

Suli stopped to adjust her bandages, which had fallen loose from the run. They were mottled with blood and sweat. She sighed and took the book in both hands. The top of it fit her hand so well. Her fingertips molded to the patterned cover. She traced it. Inside and outside.

Her hair tickled her cheek, short as it was. She tucked it behind her ears and under her hat. It didn’t stay, short as it was.

Meg lowered her shield, her purse. Heavy on her shoulder, like a shield. She wondered if she would have to hold it up again, maybe walk the entire way like that.

She chose stones as her path when she could, the shale when she couldn’t. The wind had withered to a breeze, which allowed her to concentrate fully on her steps with shoes not made for such work.

She was late. The scuffs on her shoes wouldn’t do. She checked her hair, though it was short as it could be. Still, the cowlick was stubborn.

Suli had reached the cliffs. That familiar waterfall of shale majestic in the sunset. She hadn’t seen it in years.

Her shadow pointed toward home, where there were no waterfalls. She didn’t look back. She looked down. At the book again, which had become heavy. It took two hands to hold, so full.

A page slipped free, rode the wind’s current toward her destination. She ran again, twice as fast this time, three times. Ropes of grass lashed her bandages loose again, lashed at skin that had yet to heal. She let the bandages fall. Then the wind changed direction, coming at her now, pushing her back home. A wall she feared she couldn’t fight.

Meg fell forward with windmilling arms, a new wind at her back, stronger than ever. The shale at her feet snapped, her shoes losing their grip. Her hands took the worst of it. She held herself in a quivering jackknife.

Suli narrowed herself to the wind, like a knife. One hand on the book because the wind helped her carry it, and the other on her hat to keep the wind from stealing it. She took her first step onto the shale.

Meg screamed. At the shale, at the wind, at her hands, at her feet. All of them had betrayed her. All of them had hurt her. Her scream was more powerful than the wind, it’s power bringing her upright. She almost cried, almost laughed. Both battled in her chest, neither winning.

Suli stumbled. Over shale that looked like a waterfall. Still, not bubbling, not flowing. Her hand pinned the page but lost the book. It somersaulted over the stone ridges, until it was lost in the color.

Meg brought up her purse, her shield. By reflex, by precognition, by something else. More shale had broken off by some force, a great shard tumbling through the air at her. Her arms trembled as she braced for what she couldn’t dodge, was afraid to dodge else she fall to the knives at her feet.

Suli cried. With her body, with her voice. She folded the page she had and placed it in her shirt, the only secret she hadn’t lost. Haunting but beautiful, the book flew up into the air and opened, showing the sky what it held within, an open heart that wasn’t meant to be shared.

Meg flinched. Her shield held, her arms. Her eyes opened to the offender, lying at her feet. Rectangular with edges that weren’t sharpened shale at all, it parted with an altogether different color. Almost like the sunset. Almost like summer grass swelling in a warm gust.

Suli smiled. A figure, lithe and perfect stood ahead, concerned with something on the ground. So close to her destination, she resisted breaking into a sprint. The bandages at her legs, still loose, tickled, and stung. She reaffixed them. She checked her hair, her hat, the page near her heart.

Meg ran. The book in her hands, complete with all its mysteries. The shale didn’t frighten her anymore, because she didn’t need her legs to run. She flew, riding the waves of what she held in her hands, quiet but unstable, unbreakable but fragile.

Suli stopped.

Meg stopped.

Suli moved toward her with the folded page in hand.

Meg took it and knew exactly what to do. She knew where it belonged.

Suli tucked her hair behind her ears and under her hat. It didn’t say.

Meg laughed.

Suli laughed.

Meg held the book by the bottom of its cover. Her hand fit just right.

Suli took the top of the book. It fit her hand just right. She thought it was still warm, but that would be impossible.

Their free hands embraced one another. Chins rested on shoulders. Eyes closed. Bodies pressed together. One mouth smiled. One did not.

The only words they needed were written upon yellowed leaves bound in leather dyed in a waterfall.

Simple and utilitarian prose to maintain atmosphere and character.

Thanks for reading.

Anonymity

He woke up and went to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth. Watched the toothpaste suds circle the sink before getting stuck under the drain stopper he needed to clean.

He looked in the mirror. Noted his jawline looking pretty good today. His hair, too. Styled by his pillow.

He felt lighter, looked lighter. He deserved a coffee.

The streets bustled, even this early. He smiled at a woman in a gray coat that reached her knees. She clipped his shoulder as they passed. He told her he was sorry. She didn’t look back.

The bell hanging from a dingy string chimed when he opened the door. People with their noses in their laptops or phones, or in conversation with their neighbors on the long benches that ran through the coffee shop.

He made his way to the counter. Ordered a latte without the foam. Money was exchanged, and he waited at the counter for his order.

“Jim,” the barista called. “Jim.”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Jim,” the barista said.

“Latte with no foam?”

“This one has foam.”

“Oh.”

He left, the taste of coffee offputting.

If he had an office, he’d go there. He worked at home, so wandered around the city a little longer. It was still early.

Lunch came. He wanted to be healthy, so went to the grocery store to pick up a few things. At the checkout line, he put his groceries on the belt and took out his credit card.

The machine wouldn’t read his card. He took it out and cleaned the magnetic strip as if that would work. The cahier looked beyond him impatiently. He said he was sorry and left.

At home, he sat in front of his computer, nibbling on some leftovers. Pulled pork and rice. He checked his calendar. One meeting during his lunch hour. Great.

The camera on his laptop was broken, so he watched the other rectangles with faces. An avatar that vaguely looked like the torso of a human represented him. They didn’t ask him anything, so he didn’t speak.

Work took him well into the night. He thought about going for a walk, but there was no one outside. No fun going for a walk if there was no chance of meeting someone new. He shook his head and sighed at the thought, which belonged in a discount-bin greeting card. He shook his head again, because that wouldn’t even work in a greeting card.

He drowned out his thoughts with TV. Local channels only. Cable and streaming services were getting too expensive. All TV showed him was that bad things were going on in the world and that there was a BLOWOUT DEAL at the car dealership on the corner of Grande and 16th.

He checked his mail piled inside his door. Just a bunch of mail addressed to CURRENT RESIDENT.

In the bathroom, he thought about taking a shower, but felt clean enough. He brushed his teeth and watched the toothpaste suds collect around the dried suds that hadn’t gone down the drain this morning.

He turned off the light and looked in the mirror. A shape that vaguely resembled a human torso.

He went to bed fitting into a depression that fit what he saw in the mirror, and he slept.

A few days behind, but having this word jostle around in my head for a bit helped this one come to life. Glad I didn’t rush it.

Thanks for reading.

Weapon

Alloy straightened her back and squared her shoulders. “Like this?”

Mother looked at her like she did when she was thinking about the past. She shook away her glazed eyes and adjusted Alloy’s new outfit.

Alloy felt like a real Ascension Ranger. And not in a pretend costume kids wore on Halloween back when Mother was her age. The real kind. Mother had told her kids would go outside their houses door-to-door for candy. Alloy didn’t know what candy was, other than something sweet that rotted your teeth or made you fat if you ate too much. But going outside. Could you imagine?

Smelling unfiltered air. Seeing real birds fly and drink from puddles. Saying hello to people that walked by on the street or sharing a smile. Alloy had practiced her smile and wave in the mirror, excited for the day when she’d finally be able to use it. Someday, Mother had always said. Someday.

“You in there, sweetie?” Mother asked, catching Alloy’s waving hand.

“Uh-huh,” Alloy said. “Just practicing.”

Mother touched Alloy’s cheek. Like she did when she put her to sleep. Like she did when she told her stories of better times. Before they closed the borders. Before they forced everyone inside. Before the rules. So many rules. One meal a day. One shower a week. No TV. No reading.

“Good,” Mother said. “Because today is ‘someday.’”

Alloy’s breath caught. The tiny birds that lived in her chest zipped around, beating their wings on her heart.

Mother put her hand over Alloy’s heart. “I feel the little birds in there. I bet they’re more excited than you.” She smiled.

“No, they’re not,” Alloy said.

“You sure?” Mother put her ear to Alloy’s chest. “They sound pretty excited. Like a swarm of bees.”

“They’re not. I’ll show you.”

Alloy went through the motions Mother had taught her with a straight face.

“You forgot one thing, sweetie,” Mother said, and she drew up the sides of her mouth in a big smile.

Alloy found her face locked in a scowl. She fought it, raising her brows and inverting her frown. Mother touched her face again, and what felt forced now felt natural. It felt right.

“Good girl,” Mother said, then led Alloy to the front door. She punched a few buttons on the door panel, which had a device attached to it that Mother said would finally let them open it.

The door swished open. Sparks fell from the panel. Alloy braced for an alarm to sound.

It was quiet. Except for the pitter-patter of something. Alloy opened her eyes. Little blackbirds hopped around a puddle that reflected the sky. A drizzle fell on the empty street, but the birds didn’t seem to mind.

Mother pushed her outside. Alloy stepped back, gripping the doorframe to give her leverage against Mother, who kept pushing.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Mother said. “I’ll be right there with you.”

But she wouldn’t. She’d said Alloy had to go alone. That’s the only way it would work.

Then Alloy saw the procession. A full battalion or Rangers, their armor dripping with rain, assault rifles held to their breasts, heads straight ahead, looking at the “New Beginning” the speakers always boomed outside, marching in time.

Alloy felt her legs move. They took her forward into the center of the street, where the battalion would soon be.

One ranger saw her, looking away from the “New Beginning.”

She eased her hand up to wave, pushed her face into a smile, and pressed the buttons on her outfit in the precise order Mother had taught her.

And everything turned white.

Still trying to stay away from the literal prompt word, which can be challenging but rewarding. I’m sure we can all relate to this one.

Thanks for reading.

Storm

The gray peeled away from her vision. Just a corner, but it was something. She suppressed a smile, so it wouldn’t know, so they wouldn’t know.

She kept her gaze forward, through the window, if it was a window at all. Through the glass, if it was glass at all. A curtain of gloom hung over whatever was out there.

She inspected that space, trying to spot shapes, colors. There were no shapes. There was one color. But the corner. It had peeled more. She sneaked a glance in that direction and felt a tingle in her chest. That tingle birthed images. Clouds, sky, birds flying through both, trees swaying in a breeze from a lake. Yes, there was a lake. All of those things were too much for the breach in her vision, and it couldn’t hold it back any longer. They pushed through with cotton puffs, piercing blues, beaks chipping away at the gray, leaves blowing through it to fall onto her lap.

She felt them. The dead ones she touched gently out of respect. The alive ones she indulged in their silky skin.

When she looked up, she nearly cried. It was a window, cracked. Leaves twitched in that slight opening. It was glass, so clear it almost wasn’t there. It showed her a world she had forgotten. She laughed aloud at the sight. People walking back and forth beneath those rustling leaves. Clouds coasting by, sculpted by the wind from the lake she knew was there. She remembered it. Truly remember it. And behind it, all was a brilliant blue, where birds swam and danced and sang. She laughed again, reaching her hands out to the glass and—

“What’s so funny, young lady?”

She froze, then put her hands back in her lap, which now felt brittle. More brittle than the dead leaves.

“Oh, dear, who left the window open? You’ll catch cold. We can’t have that. And look at all that in your lap. This place will be a mess.”

The woman who spoke wore white. So bright, she had to look away. Which was fine, because she had such a beautiful view that was bright in all the best ways.

Then the woman in white blocked her view, closed the window, and dusted the leaves from her lap. She held two cups in her hand, one smaller than the other.

“Time to take your vitamins,” she said.

She tried to keep her mouth closed, but the woman was too strong. “No, don’t fight, young lady. This is what you need to make you strong. Healthy.”

She swallowed the things down that felt like hot stones in her throat, chased with a rush of icy water.

The woman left without saying another word.

Her view changed. The gray curtain unfurled and fell across her window and her beautiful view.

She sat there alone, hoping the corner would peel away again.