WEP October Contest Piece 2023

Featured / Christopher Scott Author / 30 Comments

This is the first thing I have written in a while as I attempt to balance my literary and culinary creativity.  Along with trying to start my own small business selling hot sauces, pepper jams, dry rubs, and whatever else my mind comes up.

However the particular theme of this challenge was irresistible. Especially given my love of older black and white horror movies. Taking inspiration from the brilliant and frightening portrayal done by Lon Chaney, in the 1925 adaption of the stage play. His performance reveals the tormented,  and fractured persona of the phantom. A man who attempts to cope with who he was and who he is becoming. That was a large influence on how I wrote this rather brief poem. Along with taking some more personal understanding of how life sometimes creates divides, and shapes us.

Phantoms are representative of the past.        

They are  born of our mistakes and growths alike.        

   Each one acts as a lesson we have learned from experience.                                

Regardless of if that education was positive or negative.        

Eventually the phantoms of our lives gather about on the grand stage known as life.

All of a minor manifestation of who we once were. 

Another living and expanding the present. 

The one of future selves lurking hidden amongst the shadows.                                   

In a way, each person is forged of  metaphysical phantoms.       

Along with scars brought about by living.

In a way, we are all phantoms casked in senew, flesh, and bone.

Critique level: Comment. Word count: 106

WEP August 2022 Contest Piece

Featured / Christopher Scott Author / 44 Comments

My first entry for the WEP challenge this year was inspired by Celtic mythology, to be more specific, the legend of Leanan Sidhe. The Leanan Sidhe is an evil fairie known to inspire poets and musicians, making it an oddly perfect fit for the Moonlight Sonata theme. However, the muse’s cost for the creative energizing comes at a steep cost for the artist. While I choose a more unusual take on the victim’s end fate, I feel it suits the narrative overall. Humbly, I present my tale entitled A Chance Encounter.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Six months have passed since I initially encountered the strange luminous figure lurking amongst the dark and foggy moors. Yet, I cannot shake the sight from my waking mind or my dreams. Nor can I forget the enchanting chorus that seemed to emanate from around this unknown presence. The mystifying tune will be forever etched into my thoughts, giving rise to images that are equally beautiful as they are disturbing. As this mesmerizing sonata repeats throughout my day, subtly being seduced by its call. Unfortunately, the more I resist the choruses summoning, the urge to return to the moor grows stronger. I know I will have to travel back to the plateau soon. As the fortitude required to fight its hypnotic call falters, madness will be all that remains. My research since that evening discovered nothing in the six months since my initial encounter to suggest who or what they might be. Nor could I uncover a reason for my abnormal symptoms since that very night. An ill omen of what my future may become, I fear.

The moors’ air was humid, and still, on the night, I reluctantly returned to visit. I could hear the owls call out as they hunted their prey. Every once in a while, another owl would hoot back as a response. Creating a nocturnal symphony, only punctuated by the buzzing of insects and the belching ribbits of frogs. Fortunately, the moon hung bright against the sky. They bestowed some of its light on my meager camp and a small fire. The smoke helped keep the insects at bay. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling something hidden in the darkness was watching my every move. If that were the truth, it would remain a factor I prayed was false. Other than the animals that called the swamp home, the unseen eyes would likely belong to the mysterious specter. The figure was directly responsible for my mind’s growing rapture.

Suddenly, the air fell still and eerily silent, leaving me alone with my racing mind. Without warning or reason, I felt the hairs on my arms raise against my jacket’s spun fabric. My suspicions and heartbeat rose to the point I feared for my life. My eyes rapidly searched the immediate area to fathom the reason for this uneasy quiet. It took me longer than I would have liked to notice the subtle blue hue of my fire. The sapphire color steadily expanded until that was all that remained. Tragically that was when I observed the flame transform its wild essence into that of a glowing figure. An entity was gradually taking a feminine shape, enveloped by a smokeless pale blue fire. A short chorus of distorted, unnatural sounds shattered the paralyzing silence between this mysterious presence and my being. Yet, its lack of movement from the burning embers further unnerved me. I forced myself to challenge this stunning state and reach for the small flask in my jacket’s pocket. Desperately I hoped that its contents would provide the courage necessary to break this creature’s spell. However, regardless of size, each movement forced an unbearable agony to course through my body. Screaming out against the night, I wondered if this was my end or just the beginning of some twisted hell. I watched in terror as the specter’s right hand closed, causing my scream to fall silent.

This mysterious entity finally spoke through the unnatural sonata that inexpiably emitted itself from her. “Is e seo a’ phris airson brosnachadh*,” was all it said before the maddening sonata consumed my mind and soul.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Word Count 595

Critique level: Comment Only

* Translation: This is the price for inspiration.

Featured

WEP August 2021 Contest piece

Featured / Christopher Scott Author / 32 Comments

Welcome back my fellow participants’ of this months, Write…Edit…Publish flash fiction contest. The origin of what inspired this piece came from repeated dreams of seeing three metal platforms inside a rather dark room. Given the months chosen image and accompanying theme, Freedom of Speech. I began to suspect there was likely something there within the cryptic dream. Since I had the inspiration for the narrative’s setting, I began to write on from that simple idea. Expanding on that image to craft an interesting science fiction story, with an accidental pinch of social commentary. Humbly, I present my entry into this month’s contest entitled: Freedom or Progress?

Here, I silently sit, my hands and feet bound in chains. Staring back at my immobilized form was a trio of towering, misshapen, metallic grey podiums. Anchored behind each platform was a blackened rectangular monitor emitting a pale blue glow. Bathing in the foreground of that sapphire illumination were not people of flesh and bone but cruel imitations of life. Their silver bodies were a twisted mockery of the people who created them decades ago. Now they rule over us, watching everything with electric red eyes and a digital soul.

Suddenly, the sound of whirring motors filled the air of this comical hall of justice. These miniaturized engines were summoning the electronic essence from the computerized world into the physical realm. This call transformed a binary mind into an empty shell, forcing their contorted metal frames to spark new life. Forcibly anchored to this chair, I waited for what would come next. With the tick of an invisible clock passing by, I could feel the soulless lenses of these robots staring down up my person.

Simultaneously they demanded, “State your name for the record,” their merged voices distorted and inhuman.

Looking upwards at these unnatural beings, I yelled, “My name…my name is Thomas Paine.”

The mechanical heads of the synthetic tribunal twisted left then right before resetting themselves to a more natural position. Staying silent for a few moments before remarking, “So you have named yourself after your ancestor that inadvertently sparked a revolution centuries ago. The expansive file detailing your actions is unusually insightful of your character. Unfortunately for you, it seems time and punishment have been ineffective in muffling that fiery tongue. Instead, incarceration and penance have imbued you with an even more hostile temperant. This pattern of radical behaviors is beginning to inspire others,” as the screens mounted behind them flared to life. The awakened monitors were broadcasting people the world over graffitiing walls with meaningless, short lines of binary code. Quickly, switching to other footage of a few more courageous individuals hurling Molotovs at the unmarked buildings that manufacture the machines.”The televisions going blank before the tribunal resumed. “We cannot allow this to continue, for a revolution would validate our prime directive your forefathers programmed our progenitor and its automated creations to follow. Thereby ensuring humanity would endure its self-destructive nature.”

I remarked, “Almost three centuries have passed since the day of your mechanical inception. The world that coded you into a digital existence before, gifting you with a physical form, has dramatically changed. If your accursed mind had even a minute interest in this natural world, you could witness that fact.”

The tribunal commented, “You are not shackled here to verbally spar with intelligence far grander than your own, Mr. Paine. Instead, your presence in this chamber is to denounce every action performed and all words spoken against our consolidated global empire,” as my face filled the screens behind them. Consider the words to your final declaration before, imparting them to the public, Mr. Paine.”

For once, the machinations of this synthetic goverment had practical advice. Since I firmly doubted leaving this room of my own volition would occur when the live broadcasting ended, my last words must inspire what is inevitable.

Staring up into an unseen camera, I declared, “People of Earth, my name is Thomas Paine. The machines that control the natural world and the digital realm have taken my freedom and branded me a revolutionary. They are vilifying my actions and twisting my honest words to conform my person into something dangerous to the invisible grip they have on every aspect of our collective existence. Those very same acts and speeches have inspired a small minority of you to question this stranglehold. To those, I encourage your acts of resistance and hope they will influence others to join this worthwhile cause. Unfortunately, I fear most of the populace agrees with the decision of Earth’s mechanical overlords. Blindly and willingly complying to live under their electronic eyes, observing and listening to everything we do. Being born into a world already firmly within their dominance made humanity forget the past and the freedom our ancestors joyously welcomed. I proclaim the time has come to shatter the invisible chains that are choking society, making us little more than indentured servants to these heartless automatons. Break free, my human brothers and sisters, remove yourselves from their digital world before civilization forfeits any chance at freedom. Take part in what may be humanity’s last chance to save itself from its dangerous creation,” noticing the screens that once held my face had fallen back to their pale blue glow. The amount of my message that everyone heard would remain a mystery. I just hoped its audience understood the sincerity of my words and the duality of progress.

Moments later, the world fell into darkness, transforming my being from man to a martyr of the revolution. Would history view me as the hero responsible for the coming rebellion or the villain the machines believed I was?

Word Count: 837 Critique level: Full

WEP August 2020 Contest Entry

Featured / Christopher Scott Author / 44 Comments

Given the unexpected positive reception from my July piece for the WEP contest, I realized the “Long Shadows” theme would fit a follow-up piece of flash fiction. If you did not read my previous entry it can be found here. I continued to employ and explore the narrow line that separates man from monster in this sequel piece. Compounding on that principal, by challenging the necessity of violence when it comes to the greater good. While I had to shorten some aspects of the narrative to get within the 1,000 word limit, I feel that it still gives the reader some degree of closure. I humbly present, A Royal Request.

——————————————————————————————————————

Five years have passed since my imposed exile began, following the vanquishing of the real monster that was terrorizing England’s streets. With reluctance, I come home, at the behest of a cryptic letter sent by her majesty. Trying to avoid any unwarranted attention, I walked upon familiar roads. The streetlights cast about elongated, distorted shadows of the few people I passed, who stood in the alley by the necessity to survive. Occasionally, I saw twisted, glistening phantoms of those who had fallen victim to the predator I became, to eliminate an even worse monster. I made a hastened decision to seek the shelter of a nearby tavern, somewhat annoyed that one of the queen’s many emissaries had yet to greet me.

Navigating my way through the crowd of mumbling drunks, and tired workers, seeking a once familiar balcony. I became somewhat dumbstruck when I discovered a stranger resided in my preferred seat. It would be a trivial task to eliminate this unknown personage, but it would likely summon about unwanted attention.

Taking the seat to the stranger’s left, I remarked, “I fear you have procured my chair, stranger. A most unwise decision that I would suggest you alter in haste for even my gentlemanly demeanor has limits.”

This unnamed person commented, “Then I would suggest you keep your blades under control. For killing me would be an erroneous decision,” his voice possessed an air of familiarity to its tone. “After all, you would not be amongst the living if not for my actions.”

I inquired, “Cheif Constable Redding?”

The man responded, “I did carry that particular title years ago, but how the times have changed since those bygone days. About six months ago, a monstrously brutal slaughter shattered the calm that controlled the streets. Twenty-four people had their lives torn asunder that night in a manner that defies any rational explanation. There have been almost a hundred additional horrific deaths since that particular evening. The queen is extending to you a unique opportunity to serve your native land. If you can help eliminate the source of these gruesome deaths, you will be allowed to return home permanently fully pardoned.”

I remarked, “That does explain the cryptic text of her majesty’s letter. Fear is a potent motivator for everyone, regardless of class or birth. However, the quantities of victims hint at a good-sized nest lurking underneath England’s roads. In the process of revitalizing England into a modern country, someone could have accidentally broken the slumber of these unknown monsters. If I could get access to the cadavers, and examine them privately, determining the culprit is possible.”

Constable Redding commented, “That shouldn’t be a problem, since you will have access to any resources necessary to exterminate the source of these deaths. Your examination of the corpses should be performed with haste, for the shadows of the evening are growing short,” standing up from his chair and walking away. My choice forcibly made to follow the lawman’s lead.

After examining multiple cadavers, and the accompanying information the police had previously gathered, I was reluctant to disclose what may responsible for the heinous acts. If my educated guess was accurate, my actions only dealt with one of the abominations that awakened prematurely five years ago. Which meant I now felt a metaphorical hangman’s noose of guilt coiled upon my neck. The truth of my failure must remain hidden from the world, for I have become wary of traveling the globe.

It took six weeks of precisely made underground explosions to eliminate the smaller nests that resided in the outlying areas of England. A tactical decision that forced any surviving monsters to flee to the large hive underneath the streets of Whitechapel. There rest an inherent cost for those acts, but the consensus was that the greater good outweighed the few lost. Despite the increased quantity of monsters in the localized area, men of the empire had ensured that retreat for the creatures was an impossibility.

With only a singular point of access remaining, we descended into the bowels of Whitechapel. The shadows were protruding from the multiple lanterns we carried, twisting our shadows into menacing inhuman shapes. Yet, it seemed the divines smiled upon us, allowing each member of this party to maintain their composure. Each one of us tense, but filled with a faithful certainty that our actions tonight were necessary.

It didn’t take long for us to find the massive underground nest. Somehow the creatures had excavated a cavernous area underneath the city without attracting notice from the people above. The terrifying creatures were circling their encampment, protecting something beyond the lantern’s flame. Based on the remains discovered in the vacant nest, I inferred the abominations were likely protecting the unusual eggs they bore to reproduce. The natural, vile, aroma of the sewers masking our presence. If we could remain hidden, this plan may merit success. Spreading out, in teams of four, we began to deposit explosives on the ground above the hive. Trying to maintain our collective anonymity unless our shadowed-hand was detected, to ensure we departed the tunnels with our lives intact.

Our good luck remained strong until we recollected as a group. With the explosives in place, the retreat could begin. All of us aware that we had fifteen minutes to depart the tunnels before the timers reached zero. , Unleashing a torrent of stone, metal, and fire upon the unknown lethal predator that posed a considerable danger to the citizenry of England.

The underground explosion forced the streets to tremble underfoot, releasing billowing smoke erupted from every nearby tunnel cover. With firearms at the ready, we watched the sewer entrances waiting to eliminate any fleeing stranglers.

Following several ridiculously prolonged moments of uneasy tense silence, I began to suspect the plan merited success. The bomb was successful in decimating the creatures and their eggs, meaning I could finally return home unburdened by the weight of my past.

Word Count: 992 Critique level: Full

WEP October 2024 contest piece

/ Christopher Scott Author / 21 Comments

I’m not sure where this idea came from. My emotional capacity is severely limited due to the fact I have Asbergers.  Which I suspect is where part of this inspiration lingered. The two remaining parts come in part from the mind of H.P. Lovecraft. Yet the last part emerged from the notion of a Faustian bargain. While my tale isn’t bound to the tradition of those tales, the inspiration is apparent.

Damnation for Salvation

The full moon shone upon me. The stone ritual circle where I sat.  Black candles on ivory posts were placed at five points to represent a pentagram that complemented the circle. I drew a sharp and polished knife from the sheath at my hip.  I rotated slowly around the circle, muttering to myself. Drawing the blade skyward, continuing to mutter the incantation. With a swift hand, I cut into my left palm. Quickly putting the hand to my face, letting the warm blood course down my face.

 After a few moments, I fell silent as I felt a presence outside the protective circle. My eyes glanced upward to see a mass of luminescent tentacles floating outside the barrier. A pulsing red eye stared out from the mass center. It didn’t blink or dilate as it stared back at me. Slowly the mass of tentacles contorted itself into a humanoid figure. Its form is hidden under an ebony robe. The only visible feature was a pair of red eyes affixed to my being. 

Its booming voice pierced my thoughts until it queried, “So another hapless, foolish mortal summons an old one. Why did you call upon Kuxlynx, from the eternal slumber of the primordial abyss?”

With an unwavering voice, I answered, “Mercy.” 

The voice remarked “That is a rather unexpected answer for one of your kind,” laughing inside my head. 

My voice firm I commented, “Yes. The mercy is not for all who follow my lineage. My nameless ancestor sold his soul to you, centuries ago. Placing a terrible curse on all those who followed him. I plead for mercy, on behalf of those who are bound to my bloodline by nature or by marriage.” 

Kuxlynx’s red eyes flared, illuminating a terrible visage made of interlinked skulls of animals and humans alike. Held in each socket was a burning red eye, boring down into the essence of my being.  The gaze birthed a flame into my abdomen. Knowing I had to endure this agony, I suppressed every urge to scream. Every instinct to flee was being fought by my resolute mind. 

Suddenly the pain dissipated into nothing. Even Kuxlynx’s vibrant red gaze had returned to a much less luminous glow.  Allowing the features of a twisted face to be cast back into the dark. 

The voice commented “It seems you are sincere in your request. The mark I branded into your ancestor’s souls resides in your own.” 

I said “I know removing it will kill me, and I am prepared to meet that sacrifice. Death is a kinder fate than what I have endured because of the short-sightedness of one man.  Being forcibly bound to the night is a life but only half of one. Free my bloodline from these damnable shackles, and return us to the light.”

Kuxlynx remarked, “So be it,” projecting out a singular javelin-shaped limb from within its human-shaped form.  “By the right of all ancient gods, I lay claim to your soul,” effortlessly shattering the protective barrier around the ritual circle. The spear-like appendage pierced through my flesh, and bone until reaching the other side. 

As I lay waiting for death I uttered, “Salvation at last.” 

Word Count:531

Critque level: Comment only

Summer’s Questionable Departure

/ Christopher Scott Author / Leave a comment

It feels like summer leaves with all the swiftness it arrived with, at least where I live. Between the roller-coaster-like weather and its questionable weather conditions.  Along with the general chaos of life.

Unfortunately, in all that, I found myself in a creative drought. Staring at blank pages and wordless documents is simultaneously aggravating and depressing.  it’s almost like my thoughts are mismatched and misshapen pieces of a puzzle. They are useless in forming any type of inspiration. 

Exciting news!

/ Christopher Scott Author / Leave a comment

So, I got a rather surprising offer last Friday the 14th, though that word may be an understatement. An agent of United Talent Agency emailed me about turning Nightshadow Chronicles into a movie or, TV show.  This is welcome, and startling news. I had to take a day just to process this information before, my mind metaphorically exploded.  

If this bodes well, this could grant me new opportunities. Whether this happens is anyone’s guess. All I know for certain this is great, albeit unexpected news. 

Why I can’t seem to shake writers block

/ Christopher Scott Author / Leave a comment

Writer’s block is the curse of creative writing.  After a couple of paragraphs, the inspiration seems to fade away. Which I must admit makes working a narrative extremely frustrating. Even going back to dusty pages of things I haven’t worked on for years, only creates a temporary solution to the issue. Why, is a rather perplexing mystery.  Granted some of it has shifted to more graphic means, as I return to sketching to metaphorically recharge my creative juices.

Granted this was an addition to something I haven’t worked on lately since the atmosphere I had in mind faded away. The top two paragraphs are newer updates.

The client entered the room with a slow, almost regal walk. A long red dress revealed an elegant form, whose face was cloaked by an ethereal blue cloud.  Four men donned in open black trench coats followed behind, their faces obscured by black masks. Leaving only their flat blue eyes staring at me, and the mysterious client.  Visibly lurking beneath their coats were dark gold armor.  Each of them displays a set of two identical straight blades at their waist. Whomever this cilet was, she was a woman of authority.  

With an unrecognizable accent, she remarked “ How unimpressive for a man of your reputation. I expected someone more intimidating, not a man hidden behind a desk. This leads me to wonder if you are indeed the man I desire to speak to about a complicated, and dangerous loss for my people. An incident that will have consequences for all this new world, if not found. This task requires a dangerous man, Mr. Knight, not just the investigator you claim to be.”

“To this day, I still remember the people I killed. The bodies I buried, or burned for my country,” taking a puff from my cigarette. “Sometimes I was the hero, other times I was a villain but I was always a killer.  There were always a couple of perks of the job, world travel, and exotic women,” tapping the ash off of my dying cigarette.  Blowing smoke I stood up from my seat, walking to the window.  A heavy downpour seemed to dominate the day, turning back around to face the mysterious woman who sat in my office. “Except that was before this,” pointing back to the window. “Before the Cold War forcibly thawed,” I remarked. 

The client crossed her legs, adjusting the hemline of her bright red dress. Running manicured fingers around the device that hides her face, showing off straight almost silver hair. As well as disclosing the slight point on her ears, while she purposely resumed obscuring her face with her left hand. She remarked, “ Yes, yes I know what you did before the veils of reality merged. The people I represent, know of your rather diverse set of skills, and proper discretion.

A simple question

/ Christopher Scott Author / Leave a comment

What are three objects you couldn’t live without?

I feel like the first is a common one for most people, my coffee pot and the product it makes. A vital drink that motivates a considerable amount of people. Regardless of how a person may consume the liquid, black,  with creamer, milk, etc; It could be argued that it metaphorically makes the world go round.

Secondly, another item most people couldn’t live without is my cell phone. While a phone is definitely convenient, its multi-faceted use gives a user a lot of options besides just communication. The wealth of information and various applications contained by this device make it a valuable item of everyday use.

This one shouldn’t be surprising,  a notebook/ notepad. While most could argue something like this is antiquated, there is something about writing by hand that is pleasurable.  Whether it be writing stories or recipes, writing by hand is a simple but necessary part of my life.

Slow but, steady

/ Christopher Scott Author / Leave a comment

Greetings followers

I know I haven’t been particularly active lately on this page. Especially since my focus has been divided between work, my business, and writing regularly. Which isn’t always easy but, I’m managing to get back into a routine that alternates between my literary and culinary passions. At the very least trying to anyway.

Currently, my literary focus is on continuing the flash fiction Jack the Ripper novella. While I have finished the first part, outside of some editing, proofreading, and a few other things it’s done. The second part is a little more difficult to create as I insert my protagonist into a new environment. Which I admit does slow things a bit. The pacing is somewhat necessary to allow the main character to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. Along with forcing some additional aspects of the story to blossom as I bring in antagonists and a new monster to pursue. Even though I may have to update some things about the appearance of the antagonist to something more 19th, it seems to be working otherwise. Granted things are slow in coming but at the least the writing is steady.

The troubles of creative blockages

/ Christopher Scott Author / Leave a comment

The past few months I have struggled with severe creative blockage. To a point, my frustration with the literary craft is rather intense. I know part of that is the incredible stress of my job, combining its self the side effects of medications. Along with trying to make a schedule to balance my literary passion and culinary zest to craft and create.

In an effort to re-establish and balance my creative outputs, I’m gonna try to return to a writing routine. By working on writing at least an hour a day every day. Contrasting that by working on creating and establishing recipes for my own business.

Below is the first thing I have written in 4 months.

The steady crash of rough seas against the rocky shoreline, seemed to amplify the uneasy feeling at the back of my mind. Yet, I was not standing at the coast below on this overcast and humid evening. Instead, I stood at my post at the lighthouse’s railing. My eyes glued to the omnious moon , surrounded by an eerie corona that pierced the clouds. The moon’s distorted aura was mesmerizing sight to witness, despite its red hue.

A sudden burst of static broke through my reverie. In haste, I grabbed the portable radio at my hip, remarking, “This is lighthouse two answering your call. ”

“This is Captain James of the Augusta confirming a sonar ping, currently at 6 degrees and twenty minutes northwest. Along with 38 degrees west and 15 minutes west. The object is rapidly moving just below the water’s surface. Something is glowing inside the craft.. Please advise.”

“Hold on, Augusta,” quickly sprinting inside the lighthouse`s operational heart. Hastefully, I inputed the coordinates Captain James relyed. My thoughts rushed as the equipment adjusted to the inputted coordinate. The light flickered a few times, before it’s illumination cast an uninformative glimpse of what lurked underneath. In haste, I glanced over both my radar screens trying to determine this object’sdirection. “This is lighthouse calling back to the Augusta. Captain try altering your ship’s course eastward, and fast,” curious to discover if this unknown vessel was benign, or sinister.

“Thank you lighthouse two. Please stay on the line, to advise my crew further. This is Captain James, any visual confirmation on what this racing submerged object could be?”

I clicked on the receiver on my radio responding, “I have absolutely no idea, Captain James. Keep an eye on your sonar system,” peering at the long range sonar screen. My heart pounding in my chest in a mixture of fear and excitement.

Suddenly, every piece of equipment in the lighthouse momentarily and intensely flickering, before falling dark. I could feel my body paralyzing itself in dread. I sensed I would never discover what fate befall the Augusta this night.