#creative-writing — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #creative-writing, aggregated by home.social.
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W3 Prompt #220: Wea’ve Written Weekly
Intro
Dear friends,
Welcome to our W3 Poetry Prompt, which goes live on Wednesdays at The Skeptic’s Kaddish.
You may click here for a fuller explanation of W3; but here’s the ‘tldr’ version:
Part I
The main ingredient of W3 is a weekly poem written by a Poet of the Week (PoW), which participants read before participating in the prompt.
Part II
The second ingredient is a writing guideline (or two) provided by the PoW. Guidelines may include, but are not limited to: word counts, poetic forms, inclusion of specific words, and use of particular poetic devices.
Part III
After five days, when the prompt closes, the PoW shall select one participant’s poem as the W3 prompt for the following week, and its author becomes the next PoW.
Simple enough, right?
Kindly note: All entries for the W3 poetry prompt must be the original work of the submitting author. AI-generated poetry is not permitted.
Okie dokie ~ Let’s do this thing!
I. The prompt poem:
‘Slant’ by Jaideep Khanduja
I’m doing great – that’s what I always tell people, smoothing my face over all the cracks, rehearsing calm until the performance gets mistaken for truth. My hands don’t shake, my voice stays even, but that’s only the version I let myself tell. Underneath it all, quietly, I miss you. I feel it even now, though I keep bending the truth, keep leaning slant.
II. Jaideep’s prompt: Heritage-Tech Fusion
The Challenge
Write one three-line poem that brings together a cultural tradition and modern technology.
Your poem can be playful, thoughtful, imaginative, or personal. Each line may contain any number of syllables, so feel free to follow your own natural rhythm.
Structure
- Line 1: Mention something traditional from your culture, such as a craft, art form, festival, song, food, or dance.
- Line 2: Connect that tradition with technology, such as AI, an app, a digital tool, a virtual space, or a smart device.
- Line 3: Show how the tradition and technology can work together, inspire one another, or create something new.
Most importantly, enjoy exploring how the past and the future can meet in just three lines.
Example
Pottery hands shape ancient clay
AI learns patterns from grandmother’s designs
Digital vessels tell new storiesIII. Submit: Click on ‘Mister Linky’ below
In order to participate and share a poem, open up this blog post, outside of the WordPress reader. At the bottom, just below these words, you will see a small rectangular graphic with the words ‘Mr Linky’. Click on that to submit.
Submissions are open for 5 days, until Monday, July 20, 10:00 AM (GMT+2)
Last week’s W3 poem
This week’s W3 prompt poem (above), composed by Jaideep, was written in response to last week’s W3 prompt poem, which Jodi wrote:
‘Freedom’ by Violet Lentz
at fifteen i didn’t question your packing up my life in a garbage bag and sending me to gramma’s i wanted my freedom i saw being sent away as you giving it to me i thought i had won at twenty five i didn’t question abandoning my marriage and two children to recapture the freedom i perceived as having been stolen from me surely the end would justify the means at thirty five i didn’t question getting clean i knew it was either quit- or die so i quit- because too much freedom had in the end taken me hostage at forty five i looked into the eyes of a woman i had never seen before she told me: that fifteen year olds don’t get garbage bags full of freedom that twenty five year olds can disappear- but never really leave- (their children behind) that thirty five year olds never really get clean,, they just quit using…. and that the only way to ever really catch freedom is to stop running…
#Community #CreativeWriting #Culture #Inspiration #Micropoetry #Poem #Poetry #Prompt #Technology #W3 -
W3 Prompt #220: Wea’ve Written Weekly
Intro
Dear friends,
Welcome to our W3 Poetry Prompt, which goes live on Wednesdays at The Skeptic’s Kaddish.
You may click here for a fuller explanation of W3; but here’s the ‘tldr’ version:
Part I
The main ingredient of W3 is a weekly poem written by a Poet of the Week (PoW), which participants read before participating in the prompt.
Part II
The second ingredient is a writing guideline (or two) provided by the PoW. Guidelines may include, but are not limited to: word counts, poetic forms, inclusion of specific words, and use of particular poetic devices.
Part III
After five days, when the prompt closes, the PoW shall select one participant’s poem as the W3 prompt for the following week, and its author becomes the next PoW.
Simple enough, right?
Kindly note: All entries for the W3 poetry prompt must be the original work of the submitting author. AI-generated poetry is not permitted.
Okie dokie ~ Let’s do this thing!
I. The prompt poem:
‘Slant’ by Jaideep Khanduja
I’m doing great – that’s what I always tell people, smoothing my face over all the cracks, rehearsing calm until the performance gets mistaken for truth. My hands don’t shake, my voice stays even, but that’s only the version I let myself tell. Underneath it all, quietly, I miss you. I feel it even now, though I keep bending the truth, keep leaning slant.
II. Jaideep’s prompt: Heritage-Tech Fusion
The Challenge
Write one three-line poem that brings together a cultural tradition and modern technology.
Your poem can be playful, thoughtful, imaginative, or personal. Each line may contain any number of syllables, so feel free to follow your own natural rhythm.
Structure
- Line 1: Mention something traditional from your culture, such as a craft, art form, festival, song, food, or dance.
- Line 2: Connect that tradition with technology, such as AI, an app, a digital tool, a virtual space, or a smart device.
- Line 3: Show how the tradition and technology can work together, inspire one another, or create something new.
Most importantly, enjoy exploring how the past and the future can meet in just three lines.
Example
Pottery hands shape ancient clay
AI learns patterns from grandmother’s designs
Digital vessels tell new storiesIII. Submit: Click on ‘Mister Linky’ below
In order to participate and share a poem, open up this blog post, outside of the WordPress reader. At the bottom, just below these words, you will see a small rectangular graphic with the words ‘Mr Linky’. Click on that to submit.
Submissions are open for 5 days, until Monday, July 20, 10:00 AM (GMT+2)
Last week’s W3 poem
This week’s W3 prompt poem (above), composed by Jaideep, was written in response to last week’s W3 prompt poem, which Jodi wrote:
‘Freedom’ by Violet Lentz
at fifteen i didn’t question your packing up my life in a garbage bag and sending me to gramma’s i wanted my freedom i saw being sent away as you giving it to me i thought i had won at twenty five i didn’t question abandoning my marriage and two children to recapture the freedom i perceived as having been stolen from me surely the end would justify the means at thirty five i didn’t question getting clean i knew it was either quit- or die so i quit- because too much freedom had in the end taken me hostage at forty five i looked into the eyes of a woman i had never seen before she told me: that fifteen year olds don’t get garbage bags full of freedom that twenty five year olds can disappear- but never really leave- (their children behind) that thirty five year olds never really get clean,, they just quit using…. and that the only way to ever really catch freedom is to stop running…
#Community #CreativeWriting #Culture #Inspiration #Micropoetry #Poem #Poetry #Prompt #Technology #W3 -
How to Format Your Paperback: Quick, Easy to Understand, Practical Tips #amwriting #writingcommunity #writingfeedback #indieauthor #indieauthors #CreativeWriting www.amazon.com/dp/1948872269
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How to Format Your Paperback: Quick, Easy to Understand, Practical Tips #amwriting #writingcommunity #writingfeedback #indieauthor #indieauthors #CreativeWriting www.amazon.com/dp/1948872269
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wrote this quickly... still thinking about it...
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wrote this quickly... still thinking about it...
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things that you want to do
and things that you get into
things that you wanted to
and things that you didn’t do -
things that you want to do
and things that you get into
things that you wanted to
and things that you didn’t do -
Why My Phone Is Cracked
Rene Magritte-The Lovers I ducked his first swinglike a pigeon bobbingbefore the grill.But the hallelujah sunstole my balance.In a come-to-Jesus moment,I fell in a puff of feathers,clutching our divorce paperswhile my phonefound the backside of the curbfirst. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXW3c5Z6UQ0&list=RDKXW3c5Z6UQ0&start_radio=1 For Todays Dverse poetry prompt, Lisa (at https://tao-talk.com,) is hosting today’s Quadrille Monday. She is having us a write a 44-word poem using a […]https://thetigressawakes.wordpress.com/2026/07/13/why-my-phone-is-cracked/
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Why My Phone Is Cracked
Rene Magritte-The Lovers I ducked his first swinglike a pigeon bobbingbefore the grill.But the hallelujah sunstole my balance.In a come-to-Jesus moment,I fell in a puff of feathers,clutching our divorce paperswhile my phonefound the backside of the curbfirst. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXW3c5Z6UQ0&list=RDKXW3c5Z6UQ0&start_radio=1 For Todays Dverse poetry prompt, Lisa (at https://tao-talk.com,) is hosting today’s Quadrille Monday. She is having us a write a 44-word poem using a […]https://thetigressawakes.wordpress.com/2026/07/13/why-my-phone-is-cracked/
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Hemingway had a rule: the iceberg theory. What you see on the surface is only a tenth of the story. The rest sits underneath, felt but unsaid. Dialogue is the same. A character says “have a safe trip” when they mean don’t go. The line is the tip of the iceberg. Everything they can’t say is the 90% below. Don’t spell out what your characters feel. Let it live under the surface, and trust the reader to feel it.
#WritingCommunity #AmWriting #Writing #WritingTips #CreativeWriting #WritersOfMastodon
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Hemingway had a rule: the iceberg theory. What you see on the surface is only a tenth of the story. The rest sits underneath, felt but unsaid. Dialogue is the same. A character says “have a safe trip” when they mean don’t go. The line is the tip of the iceberg. Everything they can’t say is the 90% below. Don’t spell out what your characters feel. Let it live under the surface, and trust the reader to feel it.
#WritingCommunity #AmWriting #Writing #WritingTips #CreativeWriting #WritersOfMastodon
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The Threefold Death
Chapter 1 and 2.5
Chapter One – The Grotto
It was early morning on Big Finn Island, and the first fiery sliver of sun had just peeked above on the horizon. Its golden first light glowed upon a large brass bell which had been hanging in the brick tower of Finn Island Lodge for over two hundred years.
Beneath the bell was perched a large owl, its pin-sharp talons grasping the round iron hand-rail that surrounded the belfry. With wide, unblinking eyes the bird surveilled the expansive green lawns below, head swiveling. There was a small smear of red, red blood around its beak, for the night’s hunting had been a success. Belly full, sun rising, the predator’s night shift was over. Talons released the rail as the bird leaned slightly forward and spread its wings. As it cleared the tall bell-tower, its eyes were instinctually attracted to motion at its base, and while it had no words in its brain that said “woman and dog”, it recognized them as not prey, and flew silently away towards a cool burrow in a tree, where there were young to feed and sleep to be had.
The woman, Diva Charleson, didn’t see the owl of course, because she’d been picking a running playlist on her phone. She started the music and slipped the phone into the waistband pocket of her athleisure leggings, and then Diva bent over and unclipped her beagle, Maui. The two of them set off across the grass side by side, leaving wet tracks in the dew as they headed towards the Grotto.
Yesterday, Jack at the front desk had told Diva that the best running trail on the property (in his opinion) began there. Diva had read the little blurb on the visitor map he’d given her that described the spot: an old stone monument, a place of prayer, that was built long ago after the view from the spot inspired the establishment of the entire castle-like complex that was now the Lodge.
Maui was as excited as ever about some off-leash time, and was running full-speed circles around Diva as they ran across the grass, stopping only when interrupted by a whatever smell would momentarily get his attention. When the duo arrived at the edge of the forest, they were met with a waist-high split-rail fence, upon which Diva saw a sign. The Grotto it began, before listing off the same information she had read on the visitor map. Please, no dogs. Through the trees and ferns Diva could see a strange building. It was sort of square, with a four-sided, pyramid-shaped roof which was covered in moss. The walls and roof looked to be made of thousands of roundish stones, most no bigger than a man’s fist.
Diva looked back towards the Lodge. There was no one around, so she proceeded through the gap in the fence, disregarding the request from the sign about no dogs. She was only running through after all, no harm done. As she came closer to the structure, it became apparent that it was the back of it she’d been looking at. There was a small, clear pavilion in what would be the front, like a sunken living room. A flagstone pathway led around both sides of it, and she took the closer route, on the left. Maui, good dog that he was, followed close behind.
The stone path sank into the ground and turned into steps, before turning to the right. Maui squeezed past Diva’s legs and ran on ahead, as he often did. Then he barked in a serious tone that Diva had never heard before. It was a big boy bark.
Rounding the corner, she entered the pavilion and faced the hollow, covered area that was covered by mossy pyramid of stones she’d seen the back of.
Maui stood in a wide-legged defensive stance, and let out another single, gruff bark; a challenge that said Hey you! Move!
There, on a long, waist-high stone altar, lay the unmoving body of a man.
There was white piece of fabric covering the man’s face.
He was a guest of the hotel perhaps, some guy who’d drank too much on the company dime and fallen asleep in the unlikeliest of places.
There was blood, and there was something sticking out of the middle of his chest.
Maui looked back at Diva as she stepped forward to put the leash back on him. It was time to get out of here.
Maui trotted forward towards the obviously dead man, braver now, and sniffed in his direction, then barked again. Diva watched, transfixed. The body didn’t flinch, not even the tiniest bit.
There were thorny vines wrapped tightly around the man’s neck. Maui was licking something on the ground.
Jesus Christ.
“Maui! Come now!” she called, concern and firmness in her voice.
The dog looked back at her, and she beckoned to him with a hand signal. His nose went back to what looked like a pile of puke on the ground.
“Damnit,” Diva whispered to herself as she moved quickly and decisively forward. She saw it was puke on the ground as she swooped the dog up in her arms. She stepped back quickly and then she glanced quickly up at the man on the altar again, only for a second, but closer now. The bloody mess of his torso and neck was worse than a movie. It was real. It was wood that was sticking out of his chest
Diva clipped the leash back onto her dog, then turned and walked back the way she came. Once she was back at the split-rail fence, she pulled her phone from her hip and called 911. Her call was answered after the second ring.
“911, do you need Fire, Police, or Ambulance?”Chapter Two – Lincoln
To an outside observer, it might have looked like Lincoln was sitting in stasis, waiting for his next case. What he was really doing was meditating, or at least trying to. His therapist had suggested it to him as a way to mitigate certain aspects of his mental make-up, and as a method by which he could more reliably control and soften his responses and reactions in real time. So, he sat comfortably in his nice room, eyes closed, and he calibrated
Lincoln was rotating his attention through all of his sensory inputs minus vision, since his eyes were closed. He could hear the gurgle of the coffeemaker as it pulled the last of the water from its reservoir and dropped it over the grounds, and he could smell the nutty, chocolatey scent of the dark hot liquid in the pot. He could also hear the birds off to his left through the open screened window, chirping and pecking at the feeder, which he had noticed earlier would probably need refilling before the day was through. He could feel the clothing on his skin and his hands on his knees, and the pressure of his legs on each other and on the thin mat beneath him. He could feel his breath, going in and out.
Awareness was the focus of this exercise; environmental, physical, mental. The human body is a sensory machine, and consciousness is its passenger, he’d heard somewhere. He liked the sound of that, even if it did sound like canned social media wisdom. His therapist had told him that meditation would possibly sharpen his already keen senses, along with helping him to deal with the challenges that had led him to seek the practice in the first place.
Noticing his mind had wandered, he inhaled deeply and went back to his breath. Then he heard the gentle ping of an incoming audio call.
“Answer.” He said into the quiet.
A velveteen female voice responded from the desk speaker across the room.
“Good morning Lincoln. Quite sorry to interrupt your meditation, but there’s a DAIS-One contract coming through. It’s in your neighborhood, so you’re up.”
“Acknowledged, Zee. One moment.” Lincoln replied, getting up from his cross-legged position. He’d had enough of meditating anyways.
‘DAIS-one’ was the internal code for a homicide. Murder. King county often contracted these out, as it was only slightly more expensive and if the case didn’t get solved it had no effect on their numbers. Lincoln was incentivized for quick resolution by a pay bonus from DAIS if the case was solved within a week. Quick solves for the county were always touted in the numbers, which meant secure funding, which in a roundabout way meant continued pay for Lincoln. The local politicians may have defunded the police to the point of near-impotence, but polite society still wanted justice for the murdered, which meant it was time to get to work.
Lincoln reached his desk and put on his smart-glasses, which turned on automatically. He put himself in the zone; inhaled, held for three, then exhaled for three.
“Good morning Zeno, go ahead.” He said as he walked to the stovetop.
“Good morning, Agent Strive. There was a 911 call at seven-o-one this morning, placed by a lone woman walking her dog. Dramatic homicide, one known victim, adult male. City patrol has secured the scene, and the forensic team has been alerted. Initial scene photos by patrol are in the case file now.”
“Location?” Lincoln asked Zeno, while pouring a cup of coffee into a mug that read:
if (need_coffee) {
brew();
} else {
debug();
}“The call originated from a location close to you, Finn Island Lodge.”
Lincoln walked casually over to the large sliding door and looked out over the water, taking a first hot sip.
“I’ve heard of it, been meaning to go there, I understand their restaurant is good. No ID on the victim yet?” Lincoln asked, taking another sip of coffee.
“Negative. His face is covered, and patrol hasn’t touched him.”
“Show me the pictures please.”
The first picture was displayed on the inside of his lenses. He blinked to flip through the pics of the approach and surroundings, until he got to the victim. Man on altar, cloth over face, some kind of stone structure around him. The next pic was up close, centered on a stick protruding from the guy’s chest. The next one was of what appeared to be blackberry vines, wrapped around the neck.
“Ouch. Okay, thanks. What’s the forensics team’s ETA?” Lincoln said, as the pictures disappeared from his vision.
“They’ll be arriving in ten minutes.”
“Is the caller still on scene?”
“Negative, but she’s still on property, She’s a guest at the Lodge and is booked for two more nights, with no plans to leave. Patrol took her statement and cut her loose. ”
“I’ll get ready and leave immediately. Thanks Zee.”
“My pleasure, Agent Strive.”
His glasses bleeped a soft tone via the bone-conductive emitters in the temple tips, indicating the call was closed. It was a white lie though, Link knew the call was never really closed. While he wore the glasses, everything he heard, saw, and said was monitored by Zeno. She was his controller, his partner, and if truth be told, his therapist. Zee kept him on the straight-and-narrow, or at least she tried. Lincoln did his part too, because he liked his job and he wanted to get paid. He wanted to blend in and have a life. He was a psychopath, so it was tricky.He went to his bedroom garage and finished his coffee as he changed. His dad’s old saying popped through his mind, making a small alteration
Spectacles, weapon, wallet-and-watch.
It wasn’t the original version, but he’d not forgotten his testicles yet.
#book #books #creativeWriting #debutAuthor #dougWright #douglasWright #GenrreFiction #MurderMystery #mystery #mysteryWritersOfAmerica #noAi #novel #serialized #Substack
Thinking of his late father, he lowered the glasses on his nose and looked into the scanner on the safe. Once it was open, he looked over his arsenal and chose the beautiful Korth revolver that had been left to him. He hefted the heavy gun in his hand. ‘If eight rounds of .357 couldn’t get the job done, you’d better reload’ his dad had often said. Lincoln donned the matching shoulder holster and threw his smart blazer overtop. He holstered the gun and checked himself in the mirror to confirm everything was in order. He was a handsome man; blue-gray eyes, a tanned, lean face with a nordic jaw, all framed by russet curls over wide, muscular shoulders. He turned to his gun side, checking that it wasn’t printing through his jacket, which it was not.
Pleased with what he saw, he headed to the garage. -
The Threefold Death
Chapter 1 and 2.5
Chapter One – The Grotto
It was early morning on Big Finn Island, and the first fiery sliver of sun had just peeked above on the horizon. Its golden first light glowed upon a large brass bell which had been hanging in the brick tower of Finn Island Lodge for over two hundred years.
Beneath the bell was perched a large owl, its pin-sharp talons grasping the round iron hand-rail that surrounded the belfry. With wide, unblinking eyes the bird surveilled the expansive green lawns below, head swiveling. There was a small smear of red, red blood around its beak, for the night’s hunting had been a success. Belly full, sun rising, the predator’s night shift was over. Talons released the rail as the bird leaned slightly forward and spread its wings. As it cleared the tall bell-tower, its eyes were instinctually attracted to motion at its base, and while it had no words in its brain that said “woman and dog”, it recognized them as not prey, and flew silently away towards a cool burrow in a tree, where there were young to feed and sleep to be had.
The woman, Diva Charleson, didn’t see the owl of course, because she’d been picking a running playlist on her phone. She started the music and slipped the phone into the waistband pocket of her athleisure leggings, and then Diva bent over and unclipped her beagle, Maui. The two of them set off across the grass side by side, leaving wet tracks in the dew as they headed towards the Grotto.
Yesterday, Jack at the front desk had told Diva that the best running trail on the property (in his opinion) began there. Diva had read the little blurb on the visitor map he’d given her that described the spot: an old stone monument, a place of prayer, that was built long ago after the view from the spot inspired the establishment of the entire castle-like complex that was now the Lodge.
Maui was as excited as ever about some off-leash time, and was running full-speed circles around Diva as they ran across the grass, stopping only when interrupted by a whatever smell would momentarily get his attention. When the duo arrived at the edge of the forest, they were met with a waist-high split-rail fence, upon which Diva saw a sign. The Grotto it began, before listing off the same information she had read on the visitor map. Please, no dogs. Through the trees and ferns Diva could see a strange building. It was sort of square, with a four-sided, pyramid-shaped roof which was covered in moss. The walls and roof looked to be made of thousands of roundish stones, most no bigger than a man’s fist.
Diva looked back towards the Lodge. There was no one around, so she proceeded through the gap in the fence, disregarding the request from the sign about no dogs. She was only running through after all, no harm done. As she came closer to the structure, it became apparent that it was the back of it she’d been looking at. There was a small, clear pavilion in what would be the front, like a sunken living room. A flagstone pathway led around both sides of it, and she took the closer route, on the left. Maui, good dog that he was, followed close behind.
The stone path sank into the ground and turned into steps, before turning to the right. Maui squeezed past Diva’s legs and ran on ahead, as he often did. Then he barked in a serious tone that Diva had never heard before. It was a big boy bark.
Rounding the corner, she entered the pavilion and faced the hollow, covered area that was covered by mossy pyramid of stones she’d seen the back of.
Maui stood in a wide-legged defensive stance, and let out another single, gruff bark; a challenge that said Hey you! Move!
There, on a long, waist-high stone altar, lay the unmoving body of a man.
There was white piece of fabric covering the man’s face.
He was a guest of the hotel perhaps, some guy who’d drank too much on the company dime and fallen asleep in the unlikeliest of places.
There was blood, and there was something sticking out of the middle of his chest.
Maui looked back at Diva as she stepped forward to put the leash back on him. It was time to get out of here.
Maui trotted forward towards the obviously dead man, braver now, and sniffed in his direction, then barked again. Diva watched, transfixed. The body didn’t flinch, not even the tiniest bit.
There were thorny vines wrapped tightly around the man’s neck. Maui was licking something on the ground.
Jesus Christ.
“Maui! Come now!” she called, concern and firmness in her voice.
The dog looked back at her, and she beckoned to him with a hand signal. His nose went back to what looked like a pile of puke on the ground.
“Damnit,” Diva whispered to herself as she moved quickly and decisively forward. She saw it was puke on the ground as she swooped the dog up in her arms. She stepped back quickly and then she glanced quickly up at the man on the altar again, only for a second, but closer now. The bloody mess of his torso and neck was worse than a movie. It was real. It was wood that was sticking out of his chest
Diva clipped the leash back onto her dog, then turned and walked back the way she came. Once she was back at the split-rail fence, she pulled her phone from her hip and called 911. Her call was answered after the second ring.
“911, do you need Fire, Police, or Ambulance?”Chapter Two – Lincoln
To an outside observer, it might have looked like Lincoln was sitting in stasis, waiting for his next case. What he was really doing was meditating, or at least trying to. His therapist had suggested it to him as a way to mitigate certain aspects of his mental make-up, and as a method by which he could more reliably control and soften his responses and reactions in real time. So, he sat comfortably in his nice room, eyes closed, and he calibrated
Lincoln was rotating his attention through all of his sensory inputs minus vision, since his eyes were closed. He could hear the gurgle of the coffeemaker as it pulled the last of the water from its reservoir and dropped it over the grounds, and he could smell the nutty, chocolatey scent of the dark hot liquid in the pot. He could also hear the birds off to his left through the open screened window, chirping and pecking at the feeder, which he had noticed earlier would probably need refilling before the day was through. He could feel the clothing on his skin and his hands on his knees, and the pressure of his legs on each other and on the thin mat beneath him. He could feel his breath, going in and out.
Awareness was the focus of this exercise; environmental, physical, mental. The human body is a sensory machine, and consciousness is its passenger, he’d heard somewhere. He liked the sound of that, even if it did sound like canned social media wisdom. His therapist had told him that meditation would possibly sharpen his already keen senses, along with helping him to deal with the challenges that had led him to seek the practice in the first place.
Noticing his mind had wandered, he inhaled deeply and went back to his breath. Then he heard the gentle ping of an incoming audio call.
“Answer.” He said into the quiet.
A velveteen female voice responded from the desk speaker across the room.
“Good morning Lincoln. Quite sorry to interrupt your meditation, but there’s a DAIS-One contract coming through. It’s in your neighborhood, so you’re up.”
“Acknowledged, Zee. One moment.” Lincoln replied, getting up from his cross-legged position. He’d had enough of meditating anyways.
‘DAIS-one’ was the internal code for a homicide. Murder. King county often contracted these out, as it was only slightly more expensive and if the case didn’t get solved it had no effect on their numbers. Lincoln was incentivized for quick resolution by a pay bonus from DAIS if the case was solved within a week. Quick solves for the county were always touted in the numbers, which meant secure funding, which in a roundabout way meant continued pay for Lincoln. The local politicians may have defunded the police to the point of near-impotence, but polite society still wanted justice for the murdered, which meant it was time to get to work.
Lincoln reached his desk and put on his smart-glasses, which turned on automatically. He put himself in the zone; inhaled, held for three, then exhaled for three.
“Good morning Zeno, go ahead.” He said as he walked to the stovetop.
“Good morning, Agent Strive. There was a 911 call at seven-o-one this morning, placed by a lone woman walking her dog. Dramatic homicide, one known victim, adult male. City patrol has secured the scene, and the forensic team has been alerted. Initial scene photos by patrol are in the case file now.”
“Location?” Lincoln asked Zeno, while pouring a cup of coffee into a mug that read:
if (need_coffee) {
brew();
} else {
debug();
}“The call originated from a location close to you, Finn Island Lodge.”
Lincoln walked casually over to the large sliding door and looked out over the water, taking a first hot sip.
“I’ve heard of it, been meaning to go there, I understand their restaurant is good. No ID on the victim yet?” Lincoln asked, taking another sip of coffee.
“Negative. His face is covered, and patrol hasn’t touched him.”
“Show me the pictures please.”
The first picture was displayed on the inside of his lenses. He blinked to flip through the pics of the approach and surroundings, until he got to the victim. Man on altar, cloth over face, some kind of stone structure around him. The next pic was up close, centered on a stick protruding from the guy’s chest. The next one was of what appeared to be blackberry vines, wrapped around the neck.
“Ouch. Okay, thanks. What’s the forensics team’s ETA?” Lincoln said, as the pictures disappeared from his vision.
“They’ll be arriving in ten minutes.”
“Is the caller still on scene?”
“Negative, but she’s still on property, She’s a guest at the Lodge and is booked for two more nights, with no plans to leave. Patrol took her statement and cut her loose. ”
“I’ll get ready and leave immediately. Thanks Zee.”
“My pleasure, Agent Strive.”
His glasses bleeped a soft tone via the bone-conductive emitters in the temple tips, indicating the call was closed. It was a white lie though, Link knew the call was never really closed. While he wore the glasses, everything he heard, saw, and said was monitored by Zeno. She was his controller, his partner, and if truth be told, his therapist. Zee kept him on the straight-and-narrow, or at least she tried. Lincoln did his part too, because he liked his job and he wanted to get paid. He wanted to blend in and have a life. He was a psychopath, so it was tricky.He went to his bedroom garage and finished his coffee as he changed. His dad’s old saying popped through his mind, making a small alteration
Spectacles, weapon, wallet-and-watch.
It wasn’t the original version, but he’d not forgotten his testicles yet.
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Thinking of his late father, he lowered the glasses on his nose and looked into the scanner on the safe. Once it was open, he looked over his arsenal and chose the beautiful Korth revolver that had been left to him. He hefted the heavy gun in his hand. ‘If eight rounds of .357 couldn’t get the job done, you’d better reload’ his dad had often said. Lincoln donned the matching shoulder holster and threw his smart blazer overtop. He holstered the gun and checked himself in the mirror to confirm everything was in order. He was a handsome man; blue-gray eyes, a tanned, lean face with a nordic jaw, all framed by russet curls over wide, muscular shoulders. He turned to his gun side, checking that it wasn’t printing through his jacket, which it was not.
Pleased with what he saw, he headed to the garage. -
This right here. I thought I'd share it.
Link: https://www.tumblr.com/agoodtuckering/822026065641979904?source=share
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-
This right here. I thought I'd share it.
Link: https://www.tumblr.com/agoodtuckering/822026065641979904?source=share
#PennedPossibilities #Writer #Author #WritingcCommunity #WritersOfMastodon #AmWriting #CreativeWriting #Fiction