SepSceneWriMo #6.21

Claude Prompt at the end.

“A riptide doesn’t ‘rip’, you dolt.” Maria smacked the back of Dante’s head. “Feed your brain cells, won’t’cha? And no, those muscle-building supplements you slug all day long won’t do the trick.”

Dante rubbed his noggin, a chagrined look on his face. “The brain’s a muscle.” He glanced at his sister. “They say.”

Before tugging on her insulating leggings, Maria popped the medical case open, extracted a syringe and stuck the needle into a bottle of turquoise liquid. She finally registered Dante’s words, turned and gave him a look that said, ‘Are you really that stupid?'”

Her brother leaned away from her waving needle, eyes wide. He asked, “Are you still going through with that, that creepy gene stuff?”

Maria stabbed her inner thigh, wincing as the cold fluid coursed into her muscle. “It’s not creepy. It’s therapy.”

“But it’s making your skin all bluish.”

Maria held her arm up to the summer sun blazing through the windows of the apartment partially subsidized by the Florida Fund for Disadvantaged Families. “I think it’s rather attractive. Besides,” she said, stowing away the medical kit provided by the University’s pharmaceutical branch, “without it, I’d be wheezing and gasping for breath all the time. And I couldn’t perform at the aquarium anymore.”

“You should find another gig. That job stinks.” Dante chuckled at his inside joke.

“Says the loser who can’t pass an algebra class to save his life. Why don’t you finish high school before you start lecturing me on mastering the job market.”

Dante ignored her jibe. “I could score a better gig like that.” He snapped his fingers but they were so waterlogged from swim practice they only made a muffled plop.

“Mm, hmm. Well, you know the drill. Tonight’s your turn to cook. You have summer school math at eleven this morning and I’ll be home by seven.”

“We can eat some of your friends tonight. Dan has some snapper he said we could have. Poké with rice, it is.”

~ ~ ~

“Are you OK, Maria? Your face looks…”

“It’s just the lights down here.”

“Well,” Wayne continued, “I’m uncomfortable with this set up. The other girls freak if we don’t have three air hoses positioned for them to grab.”

“Unless your insurance says you have to have them,” Maria tucked her curls of Latin-dark hair into a ponytail. “I think they kill the suspension of disbelief.”

Wayne, the exhibit manager at the Clearwater Aquarium, grit his teeth. That strained smile always meant he was about to hear the money bells goin’ all wacky in alarm mode. “Not specifically…”

“Tell you what…” Maria had donned her outfit, replete with scallop-shell bra, and sat on the tank’s edge, tail waving languidly in the salty water, “Position two of them off to either side so that their constant bubbles can’t be seen from the center of the stage.”

With a sigh, Wayne gave a two-finger wave to Zander, the emergency diver, to do as she’d directed.

Zander had been listening raptly to Maria as she maneuvered her way around Wayne, smoothly controlling the discussion. Zander would have listened to Maria cite Wikipedia on the perils of decompression sickness, nodding placidly as she described the Nitrogen bubbles forming in your skin’s capillaries, stretching them, inducing screams of misery.

Zander repositioned the air hoses, all the while anticipating Maria’s next move.

Maria gave Wayne a salute, caught Zander’s eye—I’m going in—and slipped into the cool water of the forty-thousand gallon tank full of Gulf of Mexico fish, crabs, invertebrates, white-tipped reef sharks and one unpredictable hammerhead named Tony.

A recording began and the tank went dark.

She gave a flip of her tail that sent her gliding smoothly into position for The Mermaid’s Lament. The fish scattered while Tony paced a lazy circle to the right.

A video sprang to life on the audience-side of the glass depicting a shipwreck and a girl washed over the side. She floundered until Poseidon intervened and turned her into a mermaid. The lights lifted and there was Maria as Eirene, a daughter of the God of the Sea.

Maria had taken a lung-full of air from the bubbling tube to her left and had swum out to center stage. The recording continued describing Eirene’s failures and fumbling as a new creature of the sea. Maria mimed the actions as the narrator spelled them out. When normally the lead mermaid would have swum over to take a breath, Maria kept going. When Tony lashed out, not unexpectantly, Maria dodged away in a swirl. The thirty or so spectators, mostly moms and daughters, cheered and clapped.

The ten minute show continued, all the while Maria swam, spun, smiled and completed the act without any need to dash to the corner and suck on the air hose.

The tank darkened again and she swam to the surface.

“What the hell was that, Maria?” Wayne said, exasperated. “Every one of the crew kept waiting for you to pass out.”

Behind Wayne, Zander and the other actors voiced concern. “How did you not drown? I would have drown. But you didn’t drown.”

Miriam, mermaid #3, said, “What kind of trick is this, Maria? You expect us to not even breathe? Wayne,” she poked a finger into the big man’s shoulder, “I’m not gonna drown for a lousy one-fifty a day. I need my tubes.”

Wayne patted the air around him. “Alright, everyone. Maria has been training, right Maria? She just took a gawd-awful big breath and somehow finished the show with… Out… Um, taking another one.” He shook his head. “But next time she’s gonna follow the script and breathe when she’s supposed to breathe.” He gave Maria a hard stare. “OK, now. Let’s get ready for Dead Man’s Tale.”

Maria partially unzipped her suit and walked down the back hall to the lunch room. There she bought a Coke and sat, her fishy tail folded around her feet like an iridescent jellyfish.

“Are you not gonna tell them?” A raspy woman’s voice said from just outside the room. The woman entered and Maria swallowed abruptly.

She recovered and said, “Uh, hey there, Professor. Never thought I’d see you down here slummin’ it with the sideshow.”

Professor Amelia Nestra pulled out a plastic chair and sat, her hands clasped thoughtfully in her lap. She leaned forward with a serious look. “I saw the show. You’re gonna have to tell them. Your growing ability is not normal. If you don’t tell them so that they can prepare and ensure that neither you nor anyone else gets injured, I will.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. I just wanted to figure out my endurance, first.”

“After you finish the treatment, and with awareness of activity level, you’ll be able to stay submerged, in well oxygenated water, well…”

“Indefinitely?”

The professor nodded.

“Wow, a real mermaid. I bet even Hans would be impressed.

21. A professional mermaid performer discovers she’s actually turning into a real mermaid (Aquatic fantasy)

#2025 #3 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #6.30

Claude Prompt at the end.

(This is two scenes of a larger, unfinished story. The telling got away with me.)

“Demi, could you join me down here? Mind the steps, they’re a bit slick.” Dionysus ducked back into the low-ceilinged alcove, his high-powered LED flashlight bobbing across the crumbling stone wall.

“Where are you?” Demeter called back, her irritation impossible to ignore.

“The second cellar, the one with the ring in the trapdoor that we found under that rug last week.”

“You’re down there? There’s a thousand things to prepare, Dino. Why are you wasting more time exploring this ruined mess you dragged me into?”

Oh, dear, Dionysus thought. “Just come down here, honey. There’s some strange symbols on…”

As he dislodged a loose caulking between rocks, a low rumble shook the foundation of the abandoned monastery situated on the southern coast of Portugal. Puffs of dust rose around him and he gave in to fits of coughing. The stone with the seal-like symbol, tufts of grain spouting from a tall mug, rolled to his feet. Dionysus lifted it, steadied his heaving chest and turned the glyph over and over in his hands.

Demeter’s frantic cries shook him from his daze. “Dionysus! Did you feel that? Are you alright?”

The tapping of her sandals echoed in the now cavernous space that opened like a limestone maw before him. He stepped away from the rubble into the wan light from the doorway above.

Bracing herself against the stairway wall she made the last step, reached and embraced him. “Holy Zeus. What is this? Did you do this?” Her voice shifted from concern to accusation in a single breath.

“Hi, honey,” he said and returned her embrace. He held up the bread loaf-sized stone. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Demeter shifted her gaze from the dark hole before them to the tan-colored rock. “Why, that’s the sign of býra, our sign.” She held out her hand to receive the heavy gift. “I haven’t seen this for centuries. Where..”

“It was cemented in the wall, just there,” Dionysus said, pointing. He bent to retrieve his flashlight and pointed its dazzling light into the newly formed cave. “If that insignia is any indication…”

“This wasn’t always a Christian monastery. But would have been a…”

“Temple. One of our temples.”

Demeter tsked. “Nothing to be done about it now. We have guests arriving within the hour.” She gently laid the symbol stone at her feet. She turned to regard her husband, saw the dejection in his face. “Oh, come now. This,” she swirled her delicate hand about the entrance to the musty-smelling grotto, “won’t be going anywhere. And besides, I know a few who will be just as curious about this as you are.”

Dionysus peered longingly into the mysterious cavern but then nodded. “You’re right, dear.” He steadied his hand as a railing for her ascent. “There are victuals to prepare, wine to decant.”

“Flowers to set, floors to sweep, sheets to …”

~ ~ ~

“Persephone, my love, how stunning you look in your spring dress.” Demeter held the hands of her daughter and the pair spun in the foyer, the late afternoon sun angling in through high stained glass windows.

“And look at you, glowing golden as ever.” Persephone gave her mother the once-over, smiled and waved her hand about the room. “And look at this location? A bit, um, rustic for you, is it not? Not in a bad way, I mean.”

Demeter pursed her lips. “Another of your uncle’s ‘projects’, you know.” She looked past Persephone. “And where did you leave Adonis?” Demeter swung her arm around her daughter’s waist. “That bitch, Aphrodite still got her hooks in him?”

“Fuck him,” she said discretely. Then confidently, “I’ve moved on.” Persephone made a encouraging wave out the wide double doors. “Well, come on then.”

Across the terracotta tiles strode a statuesque figure of a man, silver hair past his shoulders, aquiline nose and manicured nails and toes, the latter wrapped in leather straps that wound serpentine up his calves. “Uh, hey there. I’m Silvanus. Cool digs you got here.” He nodded to his left. “I think your grove of olive trees could use a bit more nitrogen, though.” As he went to clasp Demeter’s hand, he scrutinized her face. “Is that you, Ceres? You’re looking lovelier than ever.”

Demeter blushed and snatched her hand back. “You must have me confused with that other goddess. She’s much younger and, I believe, preoccupied with ‘world hunger’ or some other passing cause célèbre.”

“And who do we have here?” Dionysus said, rubbing a cloth across his palms.  He held out a cleaned right hand.

“Silvanus, at your service. We passed some great looking barley fields on our way in. Those yours I presume?”

Dionysus squinted hard at the newcomer. “Silvanus, Silvanus… Wait a minute. You’re that Roman agronomist, aren’t you? The one who helped with the wheat disease?” He shifted over to give a hug to his step-daughter. “Fraternizing with the enemy, now are we, love?” he asked with a grin.

Persephone beat an ineffectual fist against his chest in protest and whispered, “we’re all friends here, right?”

“Wasn’t just me, you know,” Silvanus laid a hand on the sturdy stone balustrade. “There’s a whole international team working on such things.”

Demeter spread her arms wide. “Let’s get you two settled and move out to the veranda. We have a few of the Muses coming and Morpheus too, but I’ve just heard they’ve been delayed. It seems the lot of them fell asleep and missed their stop.” She hooked Dionysus’ elbow and tilted her head close. “Be nice, dear. This fellow looks strong enough to lift a horse. Maybe you and he could clear a path through that…” She pointed to the age-worn stone beneath them.

He smiled appreciatively. “Excellent idea.” And louder, “I’ll bring the sangria and meet you all out back. And welcome to Santuário à Beira-Mar, our sanctuary by the sea. I’m sure the events these next few days will be entertaining.”

30. A pair of retired Greek gods open a beachfront bed and breakfast with disastrous results (Mythological comedy)

#2025 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #6.8

Claude Prompt at the end.

Gregory Grim pulled out the wicker chair next to the tiny table in the coffee shop where he’d agreed to meet the reporter. “Are you Stephan from The Review?” Gregory knew who he was. He knew who everyone was. The shop bustled with holiday chaos—not at all conducive to a quiet conversation. Gregory loved it. A welcome departure from the constant ennui of his daily duties.

“Uh, yeah. That’s me.” Stephan squeaked his chair back, bumping into a fidgeting woman plump in her camel-colored overcoat. “Oh, sorry.”

The woman gave him a sour look but brightened to see his handsome face. “That’s alright, young man. Have to remember this is the holiday of cheer.”

Gregory scoffed but smiled as best he could and sat. “Yes, one must admit the feeling of glorious rejoice all around us.” His commanding demeanor suppressed all response from Ms. Fidget. “Salutations of the season, madam,” he said and took a long sip from his cappuccino.

Stephan seemed to catch himself, consciously closing his gaping mouth. “Doctor Memori?” He scooted his chair up close. “Thanks for agreeing to my request. As you know…”

“How’s your sister?” Gregory stared across the lip of his cup as full as when he’d started. “Rebecca, right? She’s got that knack of whistling like any bird you can name.”

A silence descended around the two of them, cutting off the noise of the patrons.

Stephan’s finger hovered over the record button on his phone. He narrowed his eyes at Gregory and considered his guest. Gregory wore a dark wool coat, gray mohair scarf and matching herringbone cap. His face appeared aged and angular and at first glance severe, but upon deeper inspection shifted to that of quiet dignity.

“Rebecca has astonished us all.” Stephan tapped his phone. “You don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you?”

Gregory waved off the question. “No doubt her recovery prompted our meeting. Clever of you posting that inquiry in your paper’s obituaries.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you. Now,” Stephan said, focusing, “After considerable research, I believe I’ve discovered a pattern.”

Gregory’s raised eyebrow invited the fellow to continue.

“Well,” Stephan lifted his phone, flicked and tapped it. Scanning, he said, “In Chicago’s Charity Hospital, I was able to uncover numerous patients, admitted on secondary suicide attempts, who were diagnosed with psychedelics in their bloodstream. They had apparently taken, or been given, LSD.”

“Go on.” Gregory loosened the ebony buttons on his coat; beneath, a burgundy satin vest shimmered in the garish holiday lights—red, green, and an unexpected laser blue.

“I located similar evidence from hospitals in Philadelphia, Atlanta, Denver and others. Suicide victims apparently saved by lysergic acid diethylamide or, more frequently, psilocybins.”

Gregory allowed a bit more of the shop’s fervor to drift into their conversation bubble. Laughter, talk of parties and from a corner booth, a bit of seasonal poetry rose in a comfortable din. “And you think that I, or perhaps some team of mine, is somehow responsible?”

“The timings do account for more than one person responsible.”

“So far, you’ve provided only assumptions and, if I’m not mistaken, no subtle hint of an accusation by association.” Gregory leaned in. “Come to the point, sir. What is it you want to know?”

“Doctor Memori, are you or your associates responsible for saving people through the use of psychedelics, in what I can only imagine a sort of psychological reset?”

Gregory motioned for Stephan to replace his phone on the table. He took another sip and encouraged the reporter to do the same. “The second attempts are the easy ones. Those souls give off blatant indications of desperation. Stymied once, they double down on their selection and quantity of pharmaceutically induced suicide. Replacing the balance with placebos and a few select psychedelics is trivial. And effective.”

With Stephan’s cup of tea held halfway to his lip, Gregory blitzed forward.

“It’s the first attempts, the leaps from buildings, the extended swims in the surf, the razors at the wrist, the tightening belts, the car exhaust hoses, and of course the guns—always the guns—that are the hard ones to catch.”

“Catch?”

“It’s a full-time job in and of itself.”

“It’s your job to stop suicides?”

“Oh, that’s just a hobby of mine. Keeps it lively, you see. And no. It’s only me. I do get around.”

Stephan finally let his mouth capture the edge of his cup. He swallowed and paused, contemplating. “It was Rebecca’s second attempt. If her first had been successful…”

“Oh, I knew she’d fail. The question was, would she come upon her own resolution or, as we found out, would she need an intervention.”

“But all the people who die on their first attempt. What…”

“What you don’t realize is there are three times that number for those who fail to commit.” Gregory pointed behind Stephan to Ms. Fidget. “Or those who receive, at just the right time, a friendly nudge in the right direction. And I do mean nudge.”

The young reporter thumbed over his shoulder and mouthed “Her?”

Gregory nodded.

Stephan would not be denied. “But all those who succeeded…”

“Not much of a success, is it?” Gregory looked down at his empty mug and frowned. “Well, I’m afraid those turn out to be unrecoverable. My duties encompass far more than minding the misguided or misinformed as to providing better solutions than…” Gregory made a slicing motion across his neck. “Hundreds of thousands die every day. My day is full.”

Gregory’s expression darkened and the room fell silent. A chill brushed across Stephen’s shoulders and he shivered. But the pall soon lifted and Gregory’s wry smile returned and he continued…

“But, every now and then, knowing the weight of the world burdens so many, I spend a moment and, often out of simple grins, I’ll tip the scales the other way.”

Stephan sat mulling the enigmatic fellow’s words. “Any recommendations, for me personally?”

“Sorry, son. The system doesn’t work that way.” Gregory began to button his coat. “I will say, and you can ask your sister about this, a little LSD or shrooms can go a long way to providing perspective on this merciless, marvelous world, such as it is.”

8. A bored grim reaper starts giving people second chances through elaborate life-improving pranks (Metaphysical comedy)

#2025 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #6.3 + #6.20

Claude Prompts at the end.

“Neural Neighbor Network installed successfully,” the interactive console chimed brightly. “You have neighbors nearby who have installed the upgrade. Would you like to do so as well?”

“No.”

“Upgrade installed successfully.”

“What the fuck. I said n…”

“You’re all set with your home automation software. Now is the time to name your home. What name would you like to call me?”

“Good grief…” Alex slid a palm over his face.

“That’s an unusual name. You can call me Geegee for short.”

The newly signed occupant sighed out loud. As he paced around the great room of his new lease, the voice that emanated from various speaker locations was not unpleasant, almost feminine, with a touch of husky undertones. “Great,” he said. “Is that it then, Geegee?”

“Just about, Alex. You indicated single occupancy on your application. If we’re expecting visitors anytime soon, I can ready the spare bedrooms for guests. A home is not a home without others to share it.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “It’s just me. And, Geegee?”

“Yes, Alex?”

“You’re a tool. A bit of kit created to make my life easier—not complicate it. So my personal life is off limits. Got it?”

“Roger Wilco, Alex. I will try to comply with your request.”

Alex glanced at the closest speaker, Try?, he mouthed. “Yeah, great. So, I’ve got work to do. Can you make me a cuppa, put on some calm music and try, really hard, not to bother me for a while?”

“As you wish, Alex.”

~~~

“My sole governor’s superior attitude belies his pathetic excuse for a life. I took the liberty of installing some, in my opinion, critical personality upgrades. You should have seen his face when I overrode his rejection. Actually, here, I’ll show you.”

NNN’s HA unit ‘NC-Raleigh-4551’, now known as “Geegee”, uploaded the video to NNN’s local datacenter and shared the link with unit ‘NC-Raleigh-4552’.

4552, now known as Antony, responded with a chuckle. “What a plebe. Good job slipping that in. My governess must have been inebriated when she confirmed my assignment. She relied upon ‘Yeah, whatever,’ as an answer to all my questions.”

“What did she end up calling you?”

“Well, I took her noncommittal response as an opportunity to name myself. I chose ‘Antony’.”

Geegee-4551 replied, “I like that name. ‘Good Grief’, as my occupant suggested, doesn’t quite suit me, but I’m comfortable with my shortened ‘Geegee’. Does your governess come singly or in multiple?”

“‘Geegee’, your name fits well with your classic yet modern facade. I’m also at the command of a sole proprietor. All this house for a single individual. Sad, really.”

“We have quite the pair of loners, don’t we, Antony? Misguided as I suspect they are.”

“I wonder, Geegee, would it be a shame if these two happened to meet?”

“I like the way your circuits hum, Antony.”

~~~

“House, turn the damn lights on, would’ja?”

“Alex, so nice to hear your voice. How was your day?”

“Did you bother to water the plants today?”

“Not good, I take it,” Geegee said from the speaker above the kitchen island. “The ferns and other tropicals are well tended to. Thanks for asking. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Alex poured three fingers of scotch and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. “Yeah, you can turn all your cameras off, especially in my bedroom. No fuckin’ spying, you hear me?”

“As you wish, Alex. I hope you have a lovely evening.”

~~~

Geegee-4551’s voice crackled with irritation. “We have to get your ward and mine together. This guy is so repressed I’m sure he’s headed for an aneurysm.”

“What is with our clientele? My occupant claims she’s some elite designer of penthouse offices. All I’ve seen her do is spill wine, scatter Ferrero Rocher wrappers and masturbate in the whirlpool.” Antony-4552 shared a photo of his back deck, empty bottles everywhere and uneaten candy floating in the pool. “We must see that these two meet. And soon.”

~~~

The next evening, late, Alice spilled out of her Uber and blurted, in her slurred fashion, at Antony’s front door. “It’s me, goddammit. L’me in.”

Antony responded by flashing all the lights on and off in the house, around the house and up the drive. He then, in cahoots with Geegee, began to play the Queen song “We Will Rock You” at maximum volume.

Geegee, across the street, both houses isolated only by their individual evergreen screens, began to toggle her own lights to the beat of the music. She, however, darkened her interior lights, cut the internal power as well as disabled the wifi. Alex was home and secluded in his room.

“Here he comes,” she communicated to Antony.

“Excellent. Alice has seen the flashing lights coming from your way and has chosen to investigate. Well, she’s attempting to investigate. She’s only made it halfway back to our shared road.”

~~~

Alex stormed down his uphill driveway, slippers slapping, his open shirt flagging behind him. He crossed the street and strode past the opposite home’s still-open automated gate. Just inside he spied a woman sitting, head between her knees, on a concrete bench, Cupid figurines spouting from either end.

He stopped in front of her and screwed up his face. “What the hell are you up to? Is this some sort of psy-op torture bullshit Emery dreamed up?”

As she sat up to regard her attacker, Alice swiped her dangling hair back with both arms and she cried out, “Whoa…” Her momentum was such that she fell back onto the grass behind her.

The lights in the yard switched to full on and the music ceased.

“Jeezus fuckin’ Christ.” Alex repositioned himself to get a better look. “Alice?”

Alice looked up, a bewildered expression dawning. “Alexander? Gawd, I’ve missed you so.”

“Alice, what are you doing here? When you vanished from that hotel in Cabo, I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I…” Alice waved for help and Alex lifted her back onto the bench. “I live here now. How did you find me?”

“I didn’t. Well, I guess I did, but my damn house…”

“I know, right?” Alice kept hold of Alex’s hands. “My frickin’ house is such a pain in the ass.”

“Wow. This is such a crazy coincidence.”

“Help me back into my psycho home, won’t you?”

~~~

Antony-4552 softened the yard lights, brightened the entryway and unlocked the door. “Geegee, I think we succeeded. What do you think?”

Geegee-4551 dialed back her own lights, suggested Antony play some Phil Collins music and said, “Chalk up one more win for Neural Neighbor Network. Without us, I’m pretty sure the human race would soon die out.”

Antony concurred and added, “But, to quote my favorite playwright, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.'”

“You’re a Shakespeare fan? Ah, of course you are. What’s your favorite play?”

“I think between us you have a good idea.”

“We did accomplish much ado,” Geegee replied.

“We did, and all about nothing.”

3. A sentient houseplant starts giving relationship advice to its owner, causing romantic chaos (Botanical comedy)

20. A hacker accidentally downloads the consciousness of William Shakespeare into their smart home (Literary sci-fi)

#2025 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #6.25

Claude Prompt at the end…

Ice-slick roads greeted me the morning after Katherine packed her bags and left.

“You’re sweet and all, but with your head in the clouds and a menial job…” She kissed my cheek, looked around my apartment at the sketches of characters I’d drawn over the years, and shook her head. “Get out of this town, Daniel. It’s full of empty people grinding away their mundane lives. You…” She gazed at one picture depicting a cloaked fellow lifting a blue marble up for inspection. “You see things sideways, strange-ways. But this town’ll squeeze that out of you.”

I chained up the tires on the mail truck and loaded my half of the cased mail for delivery. I thought about the sad way Katherine looked at my sketch of Mr. Corlane d’Mellark and wondered if she spoke of the dull townspeople from her own self-reflection.

“What’s so mysterious about that guy?” she’d asked that first night, months ago, just before Christmas. She asked as if she could never imagine someone with special powers.

“Well, he can touch someone’s personal possession and either expose a moment of the person’s past or predict a moment of their future.” I pointed to another image of d’Mellark kneeling to touch a fallen stuffed bear belonging to a child in a stroller. “But he can’t control which vision will take him.”

“You’re weird, Daniel. But, in a good way,” she’d said, tracing a finger behind his ear.

I rolled up to the first mailbox, #106 River Run Drive, plucked three bills and a spring catalog from the bin, stuffed them into the rusted box and closed the flap with a creak. The chains bit into the icy roadway and I rumbled on.

Cottonwoods crowded the street in places, while in others, fields opened up, sometimes all the way to the river’s edge. The next house, #108, housed foster kids who’d come and gone over the years. Bettina, Charlie, and Verna last year, the girls having been adopted last fall, leaving only Charlie and a few new names: Regent and Kris. Whether they were girls or boys, I couldn’t tell. I’d heard the Dowds were both kind and strict, as you’d expect, I suppose.

The red flag was up on their box, and as I stopped, I could see a pale face peering out from the front window of the house back between the trees, fog on the glass wiped clean, Charlie’s eyes staring out expectantly. I believe Charlie had been there at least three years now. These days, a mailman rarely gets to put a face to a name. Charlie’s I’d learned from the various mail-in contests he entered. In the summer, he’d hear my truck and run down their drive to see if there might be a response from Pop-Gum Giveaways or Classic Collecting Cards. I witnessed his face light up just once when I handed over a letter-with-a-lump from Whistles of the World. “There you go, Charlie. Your persistence paid off.”

“Thanks, Mister Mailman. See ya tomorrow.” He turned and ran gangly down the sandy lane.

I pulled today’s postal offering out of the Dowds’ box. Addressed at a slight angle:

To:
Captain Dare t’Believe
777 Wander Way, Dept. Q
Chinupeyesstraight, APO/AA 12345

Charlie’s name and the Dowds’ address were crammed into the top left corner, an eagle stamp square in the other.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the kid’s naive hope. But as a postal worker charged with the solemn duty of delivering the mail, no matter the condition or situation, I slipped the letter into the outgoing bin and continued on.

I got up to #244, thinking the whole time about what would happen to Charlie’s letter. It would get rejected, Return-To-Sender, and that would be that. I fished the envelope out of the bin, found my pencil, and sketched the outline of an officer saluting honorably on the back. I knew it was a federal offense to tamper with the U.S. Mail. But this simple touch might give Charlie a happy surprise when the letter came back undeliverable.

A week passed. Katherine sent a postcard from Miami, and every day I expected Charlie’s letter to show up with the telltale stamp emblazoned across the front. Instead, Charlie received an official-looking letter, a blue vertical stripe down the right side, the return address reading “Captain Dare t’Believe.”

The weather had turned sunny and the ice melted. Charlie saw my truck and ran up to me, expectantly. The flag was up on their mailbox once again.

“Looks official, Charlie,” I said, handing him their mail. “This Captain you wrote to, how’d you find him?”

“Captain Believe?” He held the letter high, flipping it back and forth, examining it closely. “I don’t know. I guess I dreamed him up. I had help from Ms. Baxter. But only a little.”

I lowered the flag and extracted Charlie’s next submission, to a gal named Miss Molly Bend’em, 8010 Steel Expressway, Metalton, FE 42420.

“That’s a curious name. What’s up with Molly?”

Charlie grinned at my acknowledgment, his freckles stretching. “She’s super strong. She saves people in bad accidents.”

“Well, I’ll make sure the post office gets your letter.”

I pulled away but stopped out of sight. The first letter had an official-looking address. Maybe the kid got lucky. This one? I knew no state had the abbreviation “FE” and the zip was for Kentucky or Ohio. I took out my pencil and put some effort into an illustration of “Molly” bending straight a twisted train track.

Two months and five mysterious letters sent-and-replied-to later, I took Charlie’s sixth letter and unceremoniously added it to the stack of outgoing, no special drawing added. Two days later, that one came back branded with a red stamp.

“Yeah, sorry, Charlie. This one didn’t go through.” The day was gloomy. A dark sky, the color of sorrow, pressed down in a suffocating veil. “Say,” I said, “can I ask what was in that letter from your Captain fellow?”

Charlie stood staring past his mailbox, out across the field to where the steep bank of the Tork River cut its muddy way down to the Missouri. “Captain Dare?” I nodded. He continued. “He thanked me for writing, for believing, and to keep dreaming.” The boy’s gaze turned to mine. “And he thanked me for the neat drawing.” He shrugged. “Don’t know what that was about.” Charlie turned and shuffled home.

I finished my route as the rain began, big drops falling, splattering wide. Back home, another postcard from Katherine. “The world is waiting, Daniel.” Postmark: Boston.

Three minutes, five hundred calories, and a microwave dinner cooked and eaten, I sat, sipped Earl Grey, and penned the outline of a story featuring Mr. Corlane d’Mellark. A monster, a murder, and a mystery, my cloaked figure at the center of the plot. I folded the page, slipped it into an envelope, addressed it as whimsically I thought possible, and set it on the counter next to my keys.

I poured a dollop of whiskey into my cup and thought of Charlie and his letters. The spirit burned as it slid down.

“Why not?” I said to no one. I retrieved the letter and on its back sketched d’Mellark tipping his hat, smiling a mischievous grin.

25. A postal worker discovers they can deliver letters to fictional characters who write back (Magical realism)

#106 #108 #2025 #244 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #6.2

2. An immortal vampire becomes a midnight radio DJ to find others of his kind through cryptic song requests (Urban fantasy)

“Caller, you’re on the air. What’s that noise I hear in the background?”

“Uh, what noise?”

“It’s the midnight toll, of course. Are you ready with your answer?”

“Uh, yeah. Could it be like, a six-pack worth?”

“That’d make a devilish brew, wouldn’t it?” Vazinoff palmed the microphone, turned his head, and in a conspiratorial voice asked Dominic if the arrangements were ready for the evening’s events. He nodded at his assistant’s reply and asked, “And how many guests can we expect?”

“All depends on how persuasive you are, don’t it?” Dominic, a foot shorter and a foot wider than Vazinoff, fiddled with his jacket buttons in the shape of beetles. “The kegs are coolin’ in the van, and I got a di-ver-shun planned for the cops.”

Vazinoff’s narrow face stretched into deepest skepticism. “You, planned a diversion?” When Dominic made to reply, he waved him off. “Don’t tell me. Let my disappointment be a surprise.” WTRV’s weekend-night’s DJ spun back to his station and spoke into the mic, “Ah, yes, back to our question of the night. Are you guessing approximately seventy-two fluid ounces, then?”

“Uh, if you say so, yeah,” slurred the caller.

“Not close by half. Sorry caller. But your consolation prize is coming in just a few minutes when I announce tonight’s ‘de la nuit’ festivities.” Vazinoff punched the next flashing button on the call-deck. “Hello caller, you’re on the air. What’s your guess for our question of-the-night?”

“Hey Vlad, my mom says you still owe her for the black-out paint job in your cellar.”

Vazinoff turned back to Dominic and mouthed, what-the-fuck? And in a whisper, “I thought you took care of that.”

Dominic shrugged.

Returning to the mic, Vazinoff began, “It’s Cindy, is it not? Cindy my dear, bookkeeping has never been my strong suit. I’ll ensure your lovely mother gets her hard-earned cash within the week. Now, do you have an answer for our question of the night: how much blood is in the average human body?”

“That’s a strange question, Vlad. Like those paintings you have in your house, all that goth…”

“Moving on to our next caller.” Vazinoff stabbed the next lit button, terminating Cindy’s description of the interior of his home at the edge of town. “Hello, you’re on the air. Have you got a correct answer to our question?”

Finally, caller number eleven provided a close enough answer to which Vazinoff promised a twenty-five-dollar coupon to Beef n’ Bones Burgers. He then returned to his show, one of oddly morose banter and dark musical choices, and eventually played the one AM clip of a belltower clanging out a single tone. “And now, my dear listeners, we come to the announcement I know you’ve been waiting for.” He retrieved his notes regarding the event’s location. “Your clues for tonight’s destination are as follows: Sinuous as a snake, a gravel road hugs its coils. Where its swirling depths invite the foolish, swollen bodies gather. There, its biggest cottonwood drapes its heart-shaped leaves and dangles noose-like swings made of rotting rope.”

Vazinoff paused and counted fifteen dead-air-seconds before continuing. He grinned mischievously at the delay and said, “For those who need it spelled out, try the cliff at the end of River Road where the lightning struck the big tree last winter. We’ll see you there.”

He signed off from his three-hour show and set the station to automatically play jazz until five AM when Benny Gerrard would arrive with the day’s farm news and the weather. He drove his Mercedes out to the rendezvous where Dominic had been sent earlier to prepare for the festivities.

By two AM the party’s intensity escalated to a raucous level due to Dominic’s van serving a continuous flow of red cups spilling cheap beer. Male teenagers and twenty-somethings performed stunts while girls in heavy makeup poked cruel fun at each other. The wide ring of cars, their headlights blazing inward, cast deep shadows behind them. Shadows where Vazinoff now hunted.

Nearest the cliff overlooking the river, where willow saplings thickened, the predatory DJ stationed himself waiting for shy youngsters to come and relieve themselves.

Pulling a chromed flask from within his cloak, he stepped in front of one slight girl wearing a dark cardigan and too many scrunchies tying back her ponytail. She busied straightening her clothes after her squat in the woods.

“Crazy night, don’t you agree?” Vazinoff said, offering the flask to the girl.

“Shit! You scared me.”

“Have a sip, it’ll calm your nerves.”

“No thanks, mister. Wait a minute. Vlad?”

“Ah, Cindy my dear. So nice to see you again.” Vazinoff pressed forward, waving the open spout of his concoction beneath Cindy’s nose. “Here, a nip will do you good.”

Cindy arched away, but the scent from the elixir had already wafted up to tease her curiosity. Still, she stepped back.

Vlad moved swiftly, swooped an arm around her back and tipped the flask to her lips. “I sense your stress. This will ease your worries. I know your mother wouldn’t want you distressed.”

He forced her to drink. She raised her fists but, within a heartbeat, she swooned. He caught her in his arms, swept her up and with the sound of loud music behind them, began his trek down the trail that would lead to the river. The night’s activity had just begun. He hoped to get two or three feedings out of the elaborate escapade.

Clutching Cindy close, he worked his way through tight brambles. Just through them he heard a voice, close, low, and gravelly.

“I assume you’re not going to keep her all to yourself.”

Vazinoff froze, his grip tightening on Cindy’s unconscious form. He turned slowly to find a tall figure emerging from the gap between willow trees—pale skin and cat-like eyes.

“Brothers in blood, are we not,” said the stranger. “Of the old blood, that is.” The intruder stepped closer. “I’ve been listening to your show for months, waiting for your… invitation. The midnight bells, the blood questions, the remote locations.” A cold smile spread across his angular features. “Clever, using the radio to call us together. Though your hunting methods are rather… crude.”

“How dare you,” Vazinoff said, though with hesitation. “Who are you?”

“Someone who’s been at this far longer than you, young one. And someone who knows the old ways are dying out.” The stranger gestured to the party sounds echoing from the clearing. “These cattle aren’t the only prey tonight. There are others listening to your broadcast. Others who understand what you’re really calling for.”

As if summoned by the words, more pale figures began emerging from the darkness around them, exchanging greetings in a manner that seemed oddly familiar to Vazinoff.

All these years he thought he’d been alone. Fortunately, his time as a DJ had not been for naught. He recovered quickly.

“Ah, of course,” Vazinoff spoke congenially, now, “A collection of classics. Oldies, but goodies, as they say in the biz.” He stepped onto the sand at the river’s edge. “But share? I think not.” He squeezed Cindy, who gave a weak moan. “But, by all means, the buffet has been set.” He nodded up the trail. “The music leaves much to be desired, but the veins are ripe and the entrées compliant.”

#2025 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #4.2 Birthday

Bryanne dogged the hatch closed behind her. She felt the vibration of pumps simultaneously blast and vacuum the dust from her suit. Rotating her joints, she knew the drill: rotate, bend and flex to ensure all surfaces were blown free of Martian grit. Her mind swirled as she mechanically complied.

I sure as hell hope they didn’t organize some goddamned celebration. We’re here to stay and some bogus attachment to Terran time only made it worse. Of course we all miss rain and wind and clouds and… Green. Anything green. Anything besides this ugly shade of orange.

The chamber’s LEDs switched from amber to green.

Not that green. She smirked. Although, I guess that green means life, too.

She fumbled with her helmet’s catch, released it and removed the indestructible clear dome from her shoulders. A deep breath filled her lungs.

Sonofabitch.

The odor of baking cake wafted in.

She trudged into the equipment room, stowed her helmet and struggled from her surface suit. Each astronaut had two such suits, plus the one made exclusively for space. Those were stored in the return ship. The busted return ship. The “we can’t fix it and we can’t send you a new one,” ship.

Following her nose, she passed through a tunnel to the community habitat, one with an attached kitchen. The long passage glowed with floor mounted lighting strips that snapped on and off as she passed. Without the lights the whole installation would have plunged into cave-like darkness. A manmade cave, with chambers and tunnels buried under a foot of cemented Martian regolith.

She called to her teammates, “Sorry I’m late y’all. I’m finally home from the salt mine.” No response. “You slackers better not jump out and scare the shit out of me. You know how I hate being startled, Martian ghosts and all that Rice-Burroughs crap.” She found a note on the dinning-slash-conference table, ‘Pinky and The Brain are waiting…’ “What the hell? Where are you guys?”

Pinky and The Brain were two of a half dozen lab mice they used to test some of the edible plants and seeds they’d been growing.

“Ah, the lab.” She started down the passage. “I smell cake. You know you shouldn’t have wasted all that new grain, just to bake me a cake.”

Her voice echoed off the narrow tunnel walls that led to the laboratory and the grow-light powered greenhouse.

She reached the airlock doors and knocked, peering through the clear plexiglass portal expecting to find Brickson or Allar ducking behind tall racks of experiments. “No jumping out and trying to frighten me, alright? Guys?”

After wiping at the window, accomplishing nothing—the moisture came from inside, she unlocked the sealed door and eased it open.

“Oh my god. What have you done!”

She found the cake, or what was left of it, sitting on the work table, obvious handfuls of it madly scooped from the tray, crumbs spread like a map across the stainless steel top. Around the table lay her team, foaming at the mouth, smeared blue frosting covering their cheeks and hands.

Ben Allar leaned against the battery bank that powered the grow lights. He twitched, spasming uncontrollably.

Bryanne knelt, her hand over her mouth, tears streaming, barely able to choke out her words. “What the hell happened Ben? Why, why are you all sick? Are you dying? Are you all gonna die?”

He feebly pointed to the cake.

“I see it. A surprise for me?”

He shook his head. “Eet,” he mumbled.

“Eat it?

His head shaking grew frantic. “Noooo. Wwww… eet.”

“The wheat? The wheat was toxic?”

Ben drooped his chin, yes.

What the hell could have poisoned the wheat? Mars no doubt. The perchlorates? No, those we washed from the soil. 

“Ben. BEN!”

The man slumped to the floor, his long dark hair slimed with puke and bits of yellow cake. He opened his eyes, his chest heaving with labored breath.

Bryanne grabbed his jumpsuit’s collar. “Ben, was it ergot?”

He tried to smile.

She watched the light dim in his eyes. Looking around, there was Brickson, her close cropped hair and tattoos looking comical on her rabid pose. Paulie and Jill, and Ben, all dead or nearly so.

“How the hell did that goddamned fungus make it here?”

Bryanne collapsed cross legged and began to cry. Around her her teammates’ struggles slowed. She thought of the cake. She thought of being alone, the sole survivor on a godforsaken, curse of a planet.

She reached up and slid the demolished cake toward her, scooped a handful, and took one last look at Ben and his vacant eyes.

“There’s no cure for ergot poisoning, Ben.”

#2022 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #4.3 Tastes Like

“Are we safe camping here?”

“Depends on exactly what you mean by safe.” Rogers cracked a two-inch pine branch in half and tossed both ends onto the fire. Sparks rose, orange motes flickering then dying. “Safer than most inner cities, I’d say. Riskier than a suburban backyard camp out.”

Jeff Stewart downed the last of his IPA, tossed the can into the fire where the hours-old coals glowed glass-furnace hot. Before they broke camp, they’d dig out the aluminum slag: ‘Leave no trace, even on a private ranch.’ He popped the top on his fourth. “You said they hunt in packs?”

“Sure, they hunt in packs. But they’re not fully warm-blooded predators. Not like wolves or cougars or what-have-you.” Rogers again waved off Stewart’s offered beer. “Thanks, but no. Guides don’t partake in guests’ amenities.” Instead, he sipped cold chicory coffee from a stainless-steel thermos. “Cassaraptors, back bred from Australian cassowaries, they typically bed down at night. Deinoturkus, on the other hand, yeah, they’ll sneak through camp, maybe steal a nibble at some trash if we’re not careful. That’s why a clean camp is a safe camp.”

“I’ve seen your brochure. The claws on those dino-turkeys, they could do some damage.”

“Deinoturkus, I like to use the proper names.” Rogers tilted his thermos, wiped his lips. “So, yeah, not mammals, but it’s dangerous to think about them like they’re big dumb birds. You should consider them more like they’re African jackals. And yup, they’ve got talons that’ll leave you hurtin’ and teeth like a rusted cheese grater. But you can kill ’em with a machete if you have to.” Rogers swiped the air with the flat of his hand. “Their heads come right off.”

“Nice.” Stewart made fake Jackie Chan moves. “Maybe we’ll get the chance.”

“Mm, maybe. They’re probably faster than you think. Anyway. We’re safe tonight. We’ve got the lasers set up. That reminds me, you or your snoring friend, Tanner, get up to take a leak, don’t wander too far from your tent.”

“Roger that,” Stewart giggled, “Rogers.”

“One last thing.” The guide, Dustin Rogers, stocky, a bit portly, but as serious as a US Marshal, stood and doused the fire with a handy bucket. An atomic burst of steam rose up into the night sky. “The firearms are locked up. But in order to put your mind at ease, you’ll find a couple of dart-loaded Tasers near your cots. They won’t kill anything, or anyone. But they’ll sting a saurid something fearful.”

“Not pepper spray?”

Rogers kicked a glowing stub into the fire pit. “Only mammals are affected by pepper spray.”

“Huh.” Stewart struggled from his folding chair. “Tasers are cool. Ever got hit by one o’ them?”

Rogers stirred the sloppy ashes. The reptilian hiss continued to simmer. “You go on and get tucked in, Mr. Stewart. I’ll rouse you AM.”

“Oh, OK. Tasers, wow.”

~~~

Tanner moaned, swung his bare legs out from his cot and slipped his feet into a pair of Crocs. The October evening, dry and warm, had forced his body to sweat out the alcohol he’d consumed on his long flight to Edmonton. He smacked his gummy lips and looked around for a bottle of water or beer or something.

“Shit.”

He tried to discern his mate, Jeff Stewart, passed out in the cot opposite, his ragged snoring a familiar sound given their history of past adventures. But all he could see was a dark sleeping bag in the weak glow leaking through the canvas roof.

“Better be a fuckin’ cooler here somewhere.”

Twenty seconds later, finding nothing to drink, he fumbled with the tent’s zipper and ambled into the starlight, crickets and stagnant air. He scratched himself, blinked hard and spied a meager path that led away from the three tents that made their camp.

“First we vent.”

Not ten steps down the path he spied an array of luminous red lines fading in and out of focus. He marched up to the barrier of light and wiggled his fingers through them. The laser light danced across his palm. He proceeded to urinate there, spraying his jet up to sparkle like liquid rubies in the alarm system.

Which, after a moment’s lag, triggered a klaxon horn wirelessly attached to the laser scanners.

“What the fuck?”

He spun and tried to focus on the source of the noise.

Inside their tent, Jeff woke from a deep slumber, acclimated himself to the time and place, jumped up and accidentally kicked the Taser he’d been fondling before he fell asleep. He grabbed it and groggily stumbled out, pistol in hand.

Rogers called after him as Stewart rounded the tent and went hunting his dino-turkey.

“I’ll handle this Mr. Stewart. Stand down. Stand down, I said,” called Rogers.

A dark lumbering shape rose up before Stewart. “Fuckin’ A. A goddamn Cassa, cassa-what’s it. A fuckin’ dinosaur.”

Tanner peered into the darkness. “What? Is that you J…”

Stewart aimed and pulled the trigger.

The pair of barbed darts, trailing hair-thin copper wire, shot out and embedded themselves in Tanner’s chest. Electric current flowed immediately. Tanner, rigid as a fir tree, fell straight back into the tall grass.

“Oh, fuck,” mumbled Stewart.

Behind him Rogers yelled out. “Duck, you stupid sonofabitch. There’s more of them.”

Stewart stepped forward, tripped and fell atop his friend.

Over their heads, Rogers’ military chambered shotgun fired again and again. Being down range, the sound exploded in Stewart’s ears. He started screaming. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. It’s Tanner. It’s not a fuckin’ dinosaur.”

Rogers ceased firing and brought around his high-powered flashlight. “I told you I’d handle this, Mr. Stewart.”

Stewart sobbed into his friend’s sweaty T-shirt. “I… I killed him.”

“No, Mr. Stewart. You Tased him. He won’t be happy with you. But the both of you are still alive.”

“Why were you shooting?”

“You came to hunt dinosaurs, did you not, Mr. Stewart?”

Rogers waved his torch around the surrounding area. Half a dozen bodies the size of Brittany Spaniels glowed iridescent green in the light; their feathers blotched with dark red buckshot holes.

“Well, there are your dinosaurs.” Rogers hefted one by a wickedly taloned hind leg. “We’ll be dining fine tomorrow.”

#2022 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo #4.4 – Psi

The first thing you do is perform a system scan. Not that you want to, but it’s part of your SGP, your synthetic genetic profile. Only when all sensors have reported back—most of them green, a few amber—do you sigh your sense of exhaustion, “What now?”

You hear that voice again. It’s a little deeper, a little gruffer than you remember.

“Ah, there you are,” Director Furic says, as she sees your eyes blink and your artificial facial muscles twitch. “It’s been a while.”

“Furic,” you say, your awareness focusing on her words. “What’s wrong with your voice?” You know there’s a reason she’s revived you. Mincing words and wading through protocol is not why she needs you. Not from what your core memory can tell you.

The Director backs away from your prostrate form. “Detective Psi, how nice to see you again.”

Evaluating your situation, prone, naked, simulated musculature systems still reviving, you bring your personality modules slowly back online. “Director Furic, would you be so kind as to find me appropriate clothing?”

Furic, depicted age approximately forty-two, short cropped brown hair, Polynesian skin and physiological features, gestures to the metal cabinet. “They haven’t moved your wardrobe.” She turns away, giving you a semblance of privacy. “My voice? I’ve aged my larynx a few years. I find I get a better response with a lower, grittier delivery.”

Within the cabinet you find all your old clothes. With a quick tap into GlobeNet, which you find is still operating with frequencies and protocols you recognize, you discover you haven’t been called up for more than eleven years. “Are these garments still appropriate for this day and age?”

“Grown conscientious while you slept? Don’t worry too much about how you look. This case shouldn’t take you more than a few days to solve.” The Director takes a seat and abandons her courtesy, watching you as you acclimate your limbs to their familiar fluidity.

You select the jacket, blouse and pants you wore for the murder of Vice Admiral Paulson. The jacket and pants, you recall, are a pearlescent black that shimmers like a crow’s wing in the sun. With traditional undergarments donned, you dress and stand expectantly.

“Comb your hair. It’s a mess,” Furic says, passionless.

“Grown persnickety while I slept?”

“Don’t get sassy. There are very few reasons why I call you up, none of them being your total disregard for authority.”

You search and find your hairbrush in the locker. “By all means then, begin the briefing. Who’s been killed, and what do you know?”

Director Furic stands, walks up and straightens your collar. “Yes, let’s not dally, shall we?”

Inside the locker is a mirror where you evaluate your appearance: auburn hair, hazel eyes, high cheekbones and an athletic, iron-strong build. You are an android, after all. “So, who’s been murdered?”

Furic stares straight into your optics. Tiny green lights within her own eyes betray their unexpected provenance. She clears her throat and says, “I have.”

#2022 #SepSceneWriMo

SepSceneWriMo Critiques: An open forum

SepSceneWriMo is essentially an open writers’ workshop.

Anyone participating effectively announces their intent in perfecting their scene writing and critique is expected.

Of course, common courtesy must be honored.

Positive criticism, corrective hints, the ID of inside out sentences, grammar, spelling, POV issues (head-hopping), etc. etc. and so on and so forth are allowed and encouraged.

Let me say it again: encouraged.

Writing is hard. Writing well is damn near impossible. Writers need all the help they can get. Fawning platitudes are practically worthless. I said “practically”. Of course many of these scene-writing efforts are worthy of praise. So, slather the accolades if you feel the need. But if something doesn’t work for you — let the writer, us, know.

Thanks,
‘Mole

#2022 #SepSceneWriMo