Decennium’s Demon #microfiction #fictionfriday 6/23


Another installment of brief fiction for your #fictionfriday enjoyment. Have a good weekend.

Decennium’s Demon: Fiction in Under Fifty Words

     October tenth. Greyson’s gaze drifted to the bedroom door. She’s back.

     Ten soft knocks. A feminine moan.

     “We’re through, Decennia, remember?” He kissed his crucifix, grabbed the holy water from the shelf, and pushed open the door.

    Breaking up with this succubus had become a decade’s-long event.

“Aftermath” WIPpet Wednesday: 6/21

*Looks up from intense back edits* Oh, hi! Is it Wednesday again? *clean her specs on her shirt tail and stretches out the kinks*

All right then, let’s do this.

So, what am I working on? Surrogate: Hunted. I’m in my final back edits before it goes off to the best editor I know at the first of July. After that, it’s off to an editor at Supposed Crimes. That said, Hunted is officially out of WIP play, (it’s listed as coming soon at Supposed Crimes) *happy dance* I’ll be sharing from another WIP for Wippet Wednesday from now forward. Welcome to Surrogate: Traditions. The manuscript has hit the land of rewrites, so I’m comfortable sharing snippets.

Here’s this week’s math:

The numbers – 062117

My calculation choices: 6 x 21 = 126 + 170 = 296 words from Chapter One, “Aftermath,” with enough added to complete the paragraph.

     Dead or gone. Gone or dead. Etain Ixtii slumped against the foot of the bed, her head between her knees. The life she’d known, most everything she’d come to value since living on Takran— gone, gone, gone. But her heart still beat despite the pain. Alyward workers like Etain were built to succeed in adverse conditions, and— is anyone besides us still alive?

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Go Away, Vultures: A Writerly Rant, a Self Pep-Talk, and a Giveaway


Outside of my poetry, which is often self-reflective, my postings on this blog generally stick to writerly topics: world-building, Sci-Fi, promotion… but not this post. Why? Because I’m experiencing something I absolutely detest as a writer—a tonnage of crippling self-doubt. It’s looming over me, staring down like a humongous black vulture, and for the life of me, I can’t seem to shake it this time.

 I’m hoping that by addressing the vulture publicly, it’ll go find someone else to pick on. I apologize to this person in advance, but my circus stays full and I can’t afford to feed any more monkeys, so good riddance.

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