Delicious Gears

Standing Tall

Another story I wrote this June for Worcester’s 42 spoken word night. This is a follow-up to The Creative Process from earlier, set in the same universe, also involving ESScape.

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The very second I first entered ESScape, I fell madly in love. You probably couldn’t blame me; I was only eight at the time.

Another story that I wrote for Worcester’s 42. This is a bit more futuristic than most of my other fare, but it does deal with one of my great passions: fanfiction and fan-created content. This is a look at how it might change to adapt with the technology of the future.

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Photo by Francesco Ungaro from Pexels

I’m in the lobby at the Wild Palms Suites at six sharp. I step up to the reception counter, touching a finger to the frame of my ESSpex to wake them up again. The lenses turn from dark grey to blood red as they are roused to life. In my vision, messages and notifications start to fade into view, surrounding my vision.

The receptionist opposite me smiles. “Good evening, Mr. Wyckoff.” Another notification appears: Wild Palms Studio, 18:00, Date with Sabbath. “Your suite is ready for you. We hope that you’ll have a nice time.” Another notification: Reservation completed. Your suite is number 842.

Fool’s Gold

This is a little poem that I’ve written some time ago, to go with this week’s story. It’s about the creative process, and how I personally see it:

They make it look all too easy

Like they’ve done it all their lives

They take their basic ingredients

All measured in careful amounts

And then mix it all together

In boiling water and burning flame

Until what remains is glittering gold

I ask them all how it’s done

Some laugh at me for asking

Some tell me it’s a trade secret

Some say that it comes naturally

And some even grimace and say

It still looks like lead to them

Sometimes I try to do it myself

Replicating recipes stumbled upon

Or given to me out of pity

But no matter how hard I try

It still seems to look like lead

No matter how bright it glitters

The Perfect Evening

A bit of a lighter story, this one. Just like many of my other stories, it was written for Worcester’s 42 spoken word event. This is a little story about a man who wants to have the perfect evening with his wife, only for all of his past sins to come home to roost.

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When Walter Chesterton took his wife Susan down to the old Worcestershire Inn for their fifteen anniversary, he had the whole evening planned out perfectly. He had booked the table months in advance, booked a chartered car service there, set aside a bit of his salary every week to pay for it all. He had even checked the weather reports every day for the week leading up to it, just so he could figure out if he needed to pack an umbrella or not.

It was fair to say that Walter had planned everything down to the smallest detail. And as he extended a hand to help his wife out of the car and lead her into the Worcestershire Inn, he was a hundred percent sure that nothing was going to go wrong. This night was going to be perfect.

Chainblocked

A story I wrote just last month for Worcester’s 42. A cautionary tale of discrimination, betrayal and revenge, in the dangerous world of cryptocurrencies. There’s a transphobic slur at the end, just to warn you.

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Sometimes things aren’t truly anyone’s fault. Things just happen. That’s what I believe. More or less, things get put into motion by other things, put into motion by other things, and so on and so on and so on. You might be reading this right now and thinking that this is just a way for me to deflect the truth. From a certain point of view, you might be right. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re dead wrong.

The Ballad of Ol’ Bess

This is the very first story I wrote and read for Worcester’s 42, under the prompt of “Burns Night”. A piece about artificial intelligence, and the humanity therein.

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To understand what it was about Ayrshire, you have to understand that thing all Artificial Intelligence such as myself have: The Purpose. The single, rock solid purpose, that is programmed in each of us at our inception.

The Escape

Another little thing I wrote for Worcester’s 42, my attempt at doing science fantasy in the vein of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ John Carter books. If you like this story, then please subscribe to my Patreon.

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It was three years ago to the day when Sharyn was brought into her master’s service as one of his personal slaves. Micah had shown her the marks she made on the inside wall of her cot with some chalk she smuggled out of the maintenance bays of the master’s personal dirigible.

The Castle Haunting

Another odd story that I wrote for Worcester’s 42. The prompt was about haunted castles, so I came up with a story about a town that is haunted by a castle…

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I should probably write all of this down, just to make sure that I can still remember it after it happens. Trying to tell anyone else about it would probably just invited mockery and disdain. The events of last night were so absurd, so strange that I couldn’t believe them myself. A part of me believes that something must’ve have played tricks with my mind, as if it couldn’t reconcile what happened with my usual view of the world and how it works. So now I write this, not to try and convince anyone that it actually happened, but to convince myself, instead.

The Clockwork Ballerina

Here’s one of the latest stories that I wrote for 42 in Worcester: a little story inspired by The Sandman by E. T. A. Hoffman. Of course, I had to throw in a couple of my own personal twists in the tale, though.

Photo by Beto Franklin from Pexels

I like making things that work. Clocks with gears that spin around and around. Watches that go tick-tick-tick, nestled in your pocket. Bicycles that’ll carry you everywhere. Music boxes that’ll play you a tune, or cars that’ll zip around under your feet.

After the Rain

This is one of the first stories that I wrote for 42 in Worcester way back when. It’s a story that popped into my head one evening while I was waiting for a bus home from the Raven pub, down on Claines Lane in Worcester. It was a rainy evening, so much so that the road was getting flooded. Thankfully, I was out of the way of the rain, but even so, I couldn’t help but think….

It was a rainy evening in the dead of winter, and I was waiting at the bus stop opposite the pub, after a big dinner. It was a dinner that was also longer than the usual, in order to avoid the torrential rain that came down just as I had got inside earlier. By the time the rain had let up enough for me to venture outside, the road was dark and slicked with the rain.