Kogan threw a heavy velvet cloth over the retort, a gesture that strangled the light and the visual connection. “Dredge wasn’t moving ordinary stolen goods for the Johnson who hired him, Locke. Not by a long shot.”
He walked to the door and worked the locks with the practiced care of a man who didn’t want unexpected company. The deadbolt slid home with a weary sigh. The second lock clicked like a rat trap. Then the heavy iron bar dropped into place with a definitive, bone-jarring clank. He flipped the sign in the grime-stained, chickenwire-reinforced shop window to “Closed,” turning the world outside into a dull rumor, and dimmed the lights, making the room a cave of shadows and secrets.
“Jesus, Viv. You don’t have to be some bitchy dame about it. Sure sure, I’ll help you out. Always have, haven’t I?” he grumbled, grinding his cigarette in a graveyard of butts in the overflowing ashtray. He muttered something low and ugly and, with a wave of his hand, coaxed the frost to slink back into the frost-encrusted case like a beaten dog.
“First things first,” he added, his voice a low gravel. “Let’s get that little bit of nasty into containment.”
The walk away from a fresh corpse is always longer than the walk toward one.
The rain spat its static-kissed venom onto my trench coat, a thousand tiny drumbeats dancing off my shoulders before dissolving into the crackling cobalt-spark of the alley puddles at my feet. I slipped from the streetlight to shadow, leaving the spreading chalk outline of a problem for the boys in blue. That’s when it caught my eye — a sickly green stain creeping across my glove. The corrosion from the dead man’s identification coin had left its signature, thin, poisonous tendrils still foaming where they’d kissed the laminated identification papers. A dirty reminder of a dirtier business.
Whatever happened down the street had a sound that scraped against the soul, even for this blighted patch of the city. More than my exposed skin prickled in the charged rain, thick with the scent of ozone and something fouler. Even a magically-disinclined Hollow like me didn’t need a gifted psychic to tell them that shriek was tied to the recent bagboy, not someone thrilled to be boosting a sports car. For one thing, no rubber burned to drown out the wee-hour drone. For another, the sound was less ‘joyride’ and more ‘soul-flaying’. Had that same sound clawed its way out of some window over The Red Door down in The Tenderloin District, my assessment might have shifted. I might have even paused long enough to offer a slow, dark clap of appreciation.
AI-generated image by Gemini, with direction by Michael Raven
It takes a lot of nerve to slide uninvited into my booth when I’m halfway through a bad week and a worse cup of coffee — it could have just as likely dishwater as coffee by the sheen reflecting my mug in the surface. Usually, I’d just tell the stray to take a hike. But the guy smelled like burnt ozone and sheer panic, and before I could even complain about the static-charged puddle he was leaving on the seat across from me, he slammed a frost-encrusted attaché down on the cracked and stained laminate.
The last few prompts that have intrigued me enough to write about have a wee bit of a problem when it comes to the stated goals of including more prose fiction to this site.
As I work on the barebones outlines and start making headway into the actual writing of the stories based on the prompts, I discover that they are regularly exceeding the length of what folks normally consider to be flash fiction (<1000-1500 words by most standards; my personal limit being <2000 words).
With only the beginning scene for the occult noir story the prompt handed me last week, I am already at 1000 words, which makes it hard to have a middle and end in the next 1000 words. To complicate matters I only have the vaguest notion of where the story might end up, so it could easily be quite a bit longer by the time I’m finished.
But I’m enjoying this world that’s coming into shape and I don’t want to rush the story just to fit in with an arbitrary limit that no one but myself is imposing on me.
So, first-off, I will stop calling those prompts “flash-fiction prompts” and just call them “fiction prompts”.
Secondly, due to the added length, I’m going to post fiction offerings longer than flash-fiction lengths in episodic format to keep the posts within the average attention span. Plus, this particular story will benefit from the technique of employing mild cliff-hangers. I probably won’t post an episode daily when I do this, but I will try not to let it go longer than a week between episodes (I’m also taking additional editing steps that are not common to my posted fiction).
I also have a rough outline of a story that I may pursue for Jolene’s prompts, and that will likely also exceed my original limits (if I share it at all, it depends on if my take on the humorous tale feels right when it is done).
Just letting everyone know where my head it at and explaining my thought processes. The first episode from the files of Vivian Locke will post later today. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
AI-generated image with refinements by Michael Raven using Gemini agent
Erza trudged up the muddy two-wheel track leading to the Vane cabin, making sure to cover his bound notebook under his slicker to keep it dry. The rough path was greasy with the steady drizzle of rain that had arrived at Wormwood the same day as he had. He had despaired of driving the last quarter-mile to the cabin immediately upon seeing the conditions from the two-lane, shoulder-less county road that passed by the homestead. When choosing his rental car, he had emphasized economy over practicality. He regretted, not the first time on this expedition, that he had not rented something with four-wheel drive for a trek into the heart of Appalachia.
Okay, I’ll admit. I’m still working on the prompt from 12 February, and it might not be done until tomorrow. And, I’ll probably break my target limit for length on this one. You can’t win them all.
Unlike most of the prompts that I’ve worked on that feel like they fit nicely into the <2000 word limit, this one feels like it needs to breathe and be allowed more space to be told. I don’t think I’ll exceed 3000 words, but it may get to that if I need to. Three hours of brainstorming and researching elements of the story and two hours into writing, I am 1600 words into it. I think this feels beefier than the other tales because it fits into my wheelhouse a little better. Appalachian Gothic vibes very close to the pulp horror that I’ve always found to be a big influence in my writing (when not swooning over Kafka or Salinger). This story has more elements of the atmospheric to it, which take up more space.
I’m still plugging away and hope to have something posted by tomorrow (at the latest), earlier if possible.
But now, I need coffee and to start making dinner soon.
Seattle, South of Pioneer Square Station ruins; 73 years after The Fall
Kit Keyes could just see the daylight at the end of the tunnel from where she stood on the rusted, flaking remains of light rail tracks. There was not much sun to set the the end of the tunnel alight, as the perpetual twilight of the monsoons filtered out most of it before it even had a chance to get to the ground. It was pervasive gloom that came with the winter months around November and sometimes lasted until as late as May. She half-disbelieved the elders when they said that it had not always been this way; she had known nothing but the winter monsoons for her twenty years of age.
She watched for shadows in that twilight. Patrols regularly cleared out the tunnels of the dwindling population of raiders and ne’er-do-well types that tested the clan’s defenses on a perennial basis north of The Square, only to discover the defenses had only hardened since their last attempt. A few hundred meter south, on the other hand — that section had never been properly secured. Something about that open mouth bothered her this morning. She could not put her finger on what, something that bothered her more than the empty space itself.
It just so happened that south of the Square was some of the best fungus forage on the Line.
Rin looked out over the Land of Mists from the tower she kept her watch from, a tower built entirely of unmarked rice paper and bamboo where she slept when she needed rest, and where she ate when she was given offerings by visitors coming to pay their respect to the memories of the ancestors — those memories captured in the paper of the lands proper. True to the name, the mists and clouds flowed through the city with only a single living resident, that being Rin. The white fog snaked through the streets inked with the stories of ancestors, often obscuring the memories unless someone were to stand before them.
