#pockets muses IWL

[pertinax--loculos]

A lil' excerpt, cuz why not?

This is the first scene from one of our main character's POVs, essentially the start of the story. At least, at the moment I'm thinking it will be the start of the story. With this WIP anything is kinda subject to change. 😅

Approximately 500 words. Enjoy! ^_^

It's cold, the kind of miserable cold you can only get in the city, and the drizzling rain looks like ash in my torchlight.

There’s not much ambient light around here. I know the area, at least vaguely, but the ballast slips beneath my boots and I’m hyperaware of the risk of turning an ankle. The last thing I need is an injury.

The weight of the pack on my shoulders doesn’t help. I direct the torch further down, stepping over the rusted rail and onto one of the sleepers, hoping for surer footing.

It’s a mistake; the wood is more even, but it’s slippery as ice, and I curse as my leg goes out from under me. I end up sprawled awkwardly on all fours,  rocks hard beneath my hands.

I take a breath and force myself to slow down. As much as I want to get this over with, rushing isn’t going to help.

By the time I get to my destination the drizzling rain has started to soak into my hoodie. So much for the waterproof claim. By the time I get back I’m going to be soaked.

It’s fine. Not the end of the world. I spotlight my steps as I make my way over a few more rails, to the edge of the corridor and the concrete wall that borders it.

To the right a mess of tags. A couple jump out at me; WORLD, WRL, SLINK. Familiar, but not what I’m looking for. Not like the tag dominating the bottom of the wall in front of me, bold and possessive, a statement as much as a signature.

MEZH

Above his tag is a mural. It’s hard to see in the darkness, difficult to grasp the entirety of the piece, but I’ve seen it in daylight. I know the green-grey arch, the brownish streak beside it, the orange and yellows and reds that make up the majority of the building.

It’s a picture of the outside of Flechers Street Station. A stylised representation of the artist’s home base.

Of the Artists’ home base.

I shrug the pack off my shoulders and redirect my torchlight. Paw through the cans inside, red, yellow, blue, searching for a colour with more contrast.

In the end I pull out the black can. A little basic, maybe, but it’ll suit my purposes.

I pop off the lid and give the can a shake. Then I stop, torch in one hand, spraycan in the other, looking up at Mezh’s mural.

This is it. The last chance to back out. The moment on the precipice before I step out into nothingness and take my chances with the freefall.

I close my eyes for a moment and picture the signature I’ve been working on. The lines of each letter, the slant of them, the fancy twist at the end that binds them all together. I remind myself that the letters are me now. That this is who I’m going to become.

Kat, Kat, Kat.

I step up to the mural, and begin my work.

#pockets muses IWL #vibes WIP #excerpt #original writing #im still having fun with this #the other POV might be harder to share snippets of because the way i want to work it will require a bit of 'second draft' level stuff #but i also might just go 'fuck it' and tweak some of it to post #or maybe ill do some editing as i go? #who the hell knows! #with this WIP its gonna be whatever takes my fancy at any given moment #so there :D

[pertinax--loculos]

2024 Goals

So, I know, I'm a little late for this given it's a solid week (or so) into the new year, but hey, better late than never, right?

My Real Life this year will primarily involve working to pass my course in order to become fully qualified in my new job. Fortunately, from about June onwards, that's going to give me a fair bit of time to work on writing, so I figured I'd try and put down some relatively specific goals regarding the WIPs I have.

My biggest issue with writing is finishing things. Since I joined writeblr, I've gone from having no WIPs in anything approaching a complete state, to three completed first drafts (Absent That Night, The Monstrosity, and Miles To Go) and one completed zero draft (Psyche Shards). That in itself in astonishing for me, but I'd also like to continue to work towards having 'publishable' (read: clean, cohesive, comprehensible) drafts. With that in mind, this year I am going to work on four projects.

Project One is going to be the Vibes WIP. This is my 'first draft' project, ie something I'm starting without a whole lot of words down. I'm also approaching it in a novel way for me (working from vibes), so it's somewhat of an experiment in that sense as well. This is the project aiming to feed my need for discovery and chucking in cool shit that occurs to me over the course of my life.

(It's also pretty heavily linked to my new job, which is part of the reason I've decided to make it a key project this year. Any luck I'll be able to twist most new ideas/inspiration to fit within the scope of what I'm writing. Plus the actual form of the WIP is experimental enough that I can probably chuck in other random inspirations as well and deal with it later.)

Project Two is Psyche Shards. I have a (pretty much) complete zero draft for this, so I'll say the aim is to finish draft 1.5. This will be another new experience, in that I'll be writing from what amounts to a detailed outline; something I've never done before. I hope it will help me to pin down a process that allows me to finish more WIPs -- if writing from the zero draft works to keep the wordcount down to something reasonable, and is faster than my normal sort of draft one, then it will help to inform how I approach WIPs from here on out.

(I should mention, regarding wordcount, that the zero draft is 27k words. Not sure if I've mentioned this before, but I am a chronic fucking overwriter. So I'm hoping that having what I need to put down in front of me will help quell that issue. There's also issues with the climax of this WIP I still need to work out, but I think beginning to draft it in earnest will be the only thing that will fully help with that.)

Project Three is Absent That Night. 🥳 I've been saying for, like, over two years now that I'm going to write a second draft of this beast, and it's becoming my white whale, so it's about time I knuckle down and give it a go. It's intimidating as fuck because of how much I need to change, but I owe it to Latrell to sort my shit out, because it's a story I would really like to tell, and I cannot write either of the two sequels I have planned if I haven't wrangled the first installment into something coherent.

Project Four is theoretical, and a project-of-grace I'm giving myself in case I'm smacked with inspiration that just won't go away. I am going to try and make this a relatively high bar, however. I have an 'inspo' document where I can jot down notes and vague ideas, and I'm going to primarily use that for new ideas. If something does persist and develops on its own without my having to take time to sit down and think about it, then I will allow my muse to take me where it will and consider it project four.

(Ideally, I'd like to close out this year without touching a Project Four. Because, as I said, my main problem is starting things and then not finishing them, and this sort of random inspiration is a key reason why that happens.)

So there it is! Three/four key projects that I would like to work on for this year. I don't yet have any dates or deadlines regarding them, because up until March work is going to take priority and I don't want to stress myself out too much with anything else going on. However, I'm hoping to do a monthly update for the start of the year letting people know where I'm at, and if/when I get properly into working on any of these projects I'll increase the frequency of updates and sharing.

Another goal I have is perpetual, which is to be more active on here. I'm working on actionable steps to make this a reality, however, and I hope that that will bear fruit. There are far too many amazing, talented people on my dash to not spend at least some time on here every week. So I apologise to people who like numbers and deadlines (I'm one of them!), but these more ambiguous goals are the way I need to be at this point, and I'm enjoying the way they're inspiring me regardless. ^_^

What are you all's goals for the new year? Feel free to let me know! I'm way behind on what everybody is doing and would love to be updated by anybody who's managed to read this far. :D

#pockets muses IWL #long post #WIP: PS #WIP: ATN #vibes WIP #writeblr #original writing #let's hope the new year inspiration continues for a while #i like having goals though so narrowing things down i hope will work for me #i also have july off so i'm sideeyeing camp nano #we will see how things are going in march #love you all! #but in all seriousness tell me how things are going #i know i dip in and out and seem very enthusiastic and then disappear for weeks at a time #but i miss you all when i do! #i miss all your projects! #i miss being here! <3

[pertinax--loculos]

This "write a WIP with only vibes" thing is certainly a novel (ha!) experience. I'm not sure if I'm enjoying it or not. I mean, I'm thoroughly enjoying the bits I've got, but I have genuinely no idea what's happening or what's going to happen. What even is a plot? Does this character have a motivation? Does this character even exist? It's a fucking trip man, doing my head in.

#pockets muses IWL #i mean as i said #some of it is good? #but sometimes im fucking flailing #any advice from anyone whos been here? #i generally struggle with plot anyway so i dunno im open to ideas #but until then ill just keep flailing i guess 🤷

[pertinax--loculos]

Re: The Job

First of all, I have to say thank you so much to everybody who congratulated me on the new job, gave me good vibes when I was freaking out about it, all that -- basically everybody on here who took a moment to wish me luck or congratulate me, you guys give me life. <3

So I start on Friday (ahh!) and given that there's a Cert IV involved, the next 54 weeks of my life are essentially planned out (AHHHHH!). So that's not terrifying or claustrophobic or anything ahaha... ha. I'm sure I'll get used to it; this job pays a lot of money for something you can enter unskilled as a 'mature age' person, so I'm very keen to take full advantage of it.

With that being said: NaNo.

So I was planning to do NaNoWriMo this year (because I'd convinced myself I wouldn't get The Job, because the expectation of failure hurts less than hope), and I was feeling kinda keen about it because I have Psyche Shards pretty much fully zero-outlined.

(And guys, I actually think this could be a really cool story. There's this particular conceit about it that's going to be difficult to pull off, but with the planning I've done I'm pretty sure I can do it. And I think it'll make it a really engaging read with some pretty awesome reveals and whatnot at the end. I'm kinda excited about it.)

Now, I'm going to be working full time for the first time in... almost ten years (!), so I don't really wanna set up 50k as a goal. When I'm in the flow I can write that easily in a month (see: writing ~190k in just over a hundred days for ATN), but I don't know how I'm going to cope with the fulltime hours.

But, I also think it would be a good opportunity to set a writing habit with the new Job, rather than letting it fall by the wayside. So, at the moment, I'm thinking I'm gonna set a writing time per day (ie one hour), use the hype of NaNo on here to help me get into the groove, and let the wordcount fall where it may.

(I was really tempted to give @winterandwords's CalmWriMo a go, too, and I may still do that for the community feel. We'll see!)

But yes! I'm sorry this got long and rambly (no surprise there 🙄) but that is my current thoughts re: writing and everything else that's going on in my life.

If you go this far, feel free to come tell me what your plans for NaNo are! I'm trying to catch up with everybody but I'm semi-overwhelmed with everything so direct interaction will probably be the best way to get me haha.

Regardless, I hope everybody's going well, and that the words flow true and easy. ^_^

#pockets muses IWL #pockets muses IRL #rare combo post lmao #so yeah I need to think about it a little more over the next week or so #i also need to write and submit my final two assignments for uni for the year #which is a whole other thing i am putting off dealing with #because i am healthy and able to deal with more than one thing at a time :) #LOL JOKES #anyway

[pertinax--loculos]

So, just a brief addendum that's come about because of my weird posting today:

I think maybe that my problem with ATN is that I've been trying to do too much with the second draft. Like, I have all these little bits I need to incorporate, but I also need to remove a set of characters and change the pacing and add and delete scenes and looking at all of that is -- whew -- overwhelming.

But if I just think about the second draft as being okay, let's remove those characters and change those scenes? Suddenly it seems far more approachable.

And then, on the third draft and onwards, I can add the little foreshadowing pieces and the bits regarding worldbuilding and everything else.

So, esssentially, I don't need to do absolutely everything in just the second draft. I need to get words down to make another story, and then I can tweak it as necessary to make it fit my vision.

And that realisation, new as it is, is liberating as fuck. To the point where I feel like finally -- finally, after over three years -- I feel like I may be able to work on the second draft of ATN.

And that's an exciting thought.

#pockets muses IWL #WIP: ATN #sorry for the sudden deluge of posts #i'm planning to talk about stuff that isn't mine in the near future #it's just today has been a Day and i'm dealing with it in unhealthy ways #(read: alcohol) #it's alright we'll be alright #but yeah this was a revelation #so that's exciting

[pertinax--loculos]

WIP Intro: Psyche Shards

Status: zero drafting

POV: third limited, alternating

Genre: ...urban fantasy, I guess?

Themes/tropes: betrayal | capitalism | the need and the want for change | the nature of love | friends-to-enemies-to-??? | mental 'superpowers' (in a sense) | friendship | loyalty

Synopsis:

Casey is Gemeliorate's Golden Boy, mere steps away from the company's CEOs, and the obvious choice to be the face of their campaign to launch the Shard program to the public. The PR comes naturally to him; he can talk for days about the advantages of the program, and the merits of the company that he loves -- the company he owes his life to.

Ally is a reporter teetering on the brink of unemployment after her last disastrous attempt at airing a company's dirty laundry. But Gemeliorate is a soft target. There's already a whole group of people protesting the rollout of the Shard program. And she may not be able to find a way in to the insular group, but she's been assigned to do a fluff piece on Casey Ashketar, public face of Gemeliorate, and that's all the access she needs. She knows something is fishy. All she needs to do is prove it.

But Casey's okay with that. It's pretty easy to assuage someone's fears when you can read them from her mind. And when you know all of the secrets a company is keeping, you know exactly what not to say.

It's not like the secrets are harmful. They're just necessary, for the good of Gemeliorate. Like keeping the secret about what his Shard can really do.

And about Joshua. And Ira.

He'll feed the reporter the same story he gives everybody else, even if her suspicions seem to have more depth than the others he's dealt with. Even with the rumblings from that crazy group of protesters. Even with whatever weird shit is going on with his Shard right now. For fuck's sake, he can read minds; nobody can surprise him.

Nobody except Ira, at least.

Because he was never supposed to come back.

#pockets muses IWL #WIP intro #WIP: PS #heeeyy i'm hoping i'm kinda sorta back #written 5k in the last two days and i'm zero drafting it so that's a fun experience #dropped two units of uni too so i will have a lot more time #and i've missed writing and i've missed writeblr #so #here i am! #Not Dead

[pertinax--loculos]

And now, because I'm feeling miserable chaotic as fuck, after just posting some banners for Vibes WIP earlier this arvo, I'm going to post a rewritten version of the first scene of Absent That Night.

Note that this is just a first pass, so even those it's technically ~draft two~ there still may be typos, etc etc.

But regardless! I hope you enjoy. ^_^ Any feedback is welcome -- particularly things like would you like to read on, does this make sense, do you have any questions that aren't plot related? (I'm super close to and familiar with this WIP, so I sometimes forget what the reader would and wouldn't know, and I'm not sure if foreshadowing etc would come across correctly.)

Anyway, it's approximately 2.5k words, so really if you read it at all I love you for it. <3

Latrell stared at the blank space on the wall, incensed. It used to host a painting. Much like the sections of wall to his left and right, in fact. Though those paintings were still there. Of course. Voices drifted down the long featureless corridor from his right. “I just don’t understand.” Shrill, piercing, unbelievably loud. A woman accustomed to getting her own way. “We pay all this money, and that is supposed to protect us from situations like these, and now you’re telling me that it doesn’t?” Latrell narrowed his eyes until the wall in front of him almost disappeared. “I understand your frustration, ma’am.” Albie’s voice was low, soothing, a stark contrast. Ever the professional. “And you are correct, your contract with LEAH does guarantee swift retrieval of all listed items. However, the item in question was not on the list. Surely you understand how that might change the situation.” Latrell smiled to himself and moved down the corridor, away from the woman’s increasingly hysterical objections.

Habitually, he dipped mental fingers into the Orn, the waterlike texture of his flow shimmering in his mind’s eye. A few signatures jumped out at him, the paintings lining the corridor. Not the one that was missing. He’d never touched that one before, never even seen it, hadn’t had a chance to familiarise himself. Absolutely no chance of tracking its location.

He blinked, moving away from the Orn and back into the physical world.

The corridor was lined on both sides, no rhyme or reason to the order of the artwork, no overarching theme. The only thing the pieces had in common was their price. The corridor was an exhibition of wealth, not of passion.

At this end it opened up into a large, airy living space, made to seem even larger by the wall of windows directly opposite. They looked out over the centre of the city, all steel and glass and whitewashed concrete. Far off in the distance, the dark line of the waterfront, the ocean stretching to the horizon.

“Nice view,” Albie said from his elbow.

Latrell glanced at her. “You manage to calm Mrs. Bishop down?”

“Calm might be too strong a word.” Albie rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve talked her down from a lawsuit. And she’s going to let us actually do our jobs, so that’s something.”

“It sure is.”

“Oh, c’mon, you know you love me.”

She patted his shoulder, the bad one, and Latrell had to hide his flinch. Albie probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway; she stepped further into the living area, spinning in a slow circle as she took it in. “Got anything yet?”

“Besides the obvious? No.” Latrell rubbed at an eye under his glasses, a headache beginning to tug at his temples. “Honestly I don’t even think there’s any point searching.”

“Naw, don’t be like that. It’s not our job. Besides, he’s gotta make a mistake eventually. Today might be our lucky day.”

Latrell seriously doubted it, but he moved next to her to examine the table.

It was an ostentatious piece of furniture if he’d ever seen one. Swirling patterns from the original tree paired with spaces of black and clear resin, sitting on legs that seemed to Latrell at best impractical and at worst dangerous for the tens of thousands of dollars he was sure the tabletop cost.

Not that it would be worth that now.

Etched directly into the resin — deep enough that it hit the centuries-old wood in some places, small shavings dusting the surface around the gouges — was a series of lines, swirling around each other. An artwork in itself, really, evocative of water, or perhaps a representation of wind. Latrell couldn’t look at it without thinking of his flow. And in the centre, a single word.

Nox

Latrell brushed his gloved fingers over the edge of the carvings. They were deep yet smooth, nothing rushed or crude about them. Each line a separate groove. Not made with anything as pedestrian as a knife. Perhaps a hammer and chisel. A specialised instrument, at the very least.

“He’s getting bolder.” Albie stalked around the table as if to view the signature from every angle. “This is bigger than anything else we’ve seen.”

“More space to work with, maybe. Not often the most expensive item in a room is a table.” Latrell traced the sharp angles of the ‘N’. “Did the Bishops tell you where they were last night?”

“Dinner at the Station House, then apparently they went to a friend’s house to kick on. No plan to stay the night, but that’s what ended up happened. Got home about three hours ago, took them an hour to discover the theft.”

Surprising it was that fast. The apartment was big enough they could’ve spent days inside without visiting every room.

“Do they often stay out all night after a dinner?”

Albie was at the head of the table, arms crossed. “Took a bit of finagling, but I reckon so, yeah. Mrs. Bishop wouldn’t admit it but the way she talked gives me the impression it’s not an uncommon occurrence.”

“So no way to be certain they wouldn’t return, but the odds were pretty good.” Latrell massaged his temple with two fingers. “Still, he wouldn’t leave anything to chance. Would’ve gotten in early. Security cameras?”

The hopeful uptick in his voice made Albie smile. “Nothing.”

“I fucking hate this guy.”

“Oh, I know.” Albie’s voice was teasing, but there was a note of censure behind it. Latrell kept his eyes on the table so she wouldn’t see his wince.

Fucking Nox. The man had been a thorn in Latrell’s side for nearly three years, and that thorn was quickly turning into an entire branch.

LEAH’s Artefact Recovery Division served the clients who could afford to have their most valuable pieces insured with something more than money. Every Agent assigned to the unit had an affinity for object tracking; a location on the Orn that allowed them to see, touch, familiarise themselves with a certain item, and then use the Orn to find it. Latrell had been assigned to the ARD eight years ago, a consolation prize after an on-the-job injury had caused the police to fire him. He’d met Albie about twelve months later, and they’d been partnered six months after that.

Most of the time an ARD Agent’s job was fairly simple. If a thief managed to bypass the comprehensive security systems a LEAH client could afford, they tended to know which piece would get them the most on the black market. Unfortunately for them, so did the Agents, so the pieces were already listed and a part of an Agent’s repertoire. A brief look at what item was missing and the relevant Agent briefly checking out the Orn would usually locate the piece.

Usually. Nox was a different story.

He had an uncanny ability to target only those items that Agents hadn’t yet had a chance to itemise. Generally new acquisitions, often those on the books to be added to a client’s list within the next few days. It was specific enough that there’d been talk of Nox having some inside source.

Latrell wasn’t sure that was true. But it was getting to the point that he’d have to agree or figure out a more compelling theory soon.

Because the last six pieces that Nox had stolen — the last six households where he’d taken something and then destroyed something else, picking a room and defacing the most expensive item to leave his signature and no doubt of who it was that had committed the theft — had all been on Latrell’s register.

Once was an anomaly. Twice was coincidence. Three times was a pattern. Six times got people asking questions.

The sharp trill of Latrell’s phone cut through his musing. He answered it without looking at the screen. “Latrell.”

“Good morning, Agent,” a voice purred in his ear. Male. Smooth. Smug. “Enjoying yourself, I trust?”

“Who is this?” Latrell snapped. Albie raised an eyebrow, and he held up a hand. The voice was utterly unfamiliar, which raised a host of problems, chief among which was— “How did you get this number?”

“I have resources.” The man managed to convey the wave of his hand with the tone of his voice. “I should think you would know this by now.”

“Look, whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken. You’ve clearly got the wrong number, and I’m busy right now, so—”

“Forgive me. I thought you’d pardon the intrusion, given that it’s my handiwork you’re currently admiring.”

“What?” Latrell spun. Pointless. There was no one else in the room. “Fuck off. You think I’m going to fall for that?”

A chuckle in his ear, silky and deep. Whoever it was, they had a hell of a voice for radio. “Is it really that improbable that I would contact you, Agent Latrell?”

Latrell stopped.

Forced his mind back into its box. There was any number of reason the caller would know his name. No need to get ahead of himself. No reason to let his thoughts careen out of control down paths that made no sense—

“Have you seen the Michelson, by the way? It truly is a stunning piece. They say his use of colour is unrivalled.”

Latrell’s heart tripped. Stumbled. Caught its balance at a speed that felt unhealthy. They hadn’t known which piece had been stolen until they arrived. That information hadn’t been publicised. It hadn’t even been passed along to LEAH yet.

“Latrell,” Albie said quietly.

He waved in her direction again. Turned away. “Okay, so you’ve managed to find out some information. Congrats. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna believe—”

“Agent,” the man cut in again, “If you examine the table from the end closest to the couch, I believe that will be proof enough.”

The reference to the table, the knowledge of the signature, was proof enough. Nothing that had ever been released to the press. And it was unusual, moreso than any other scene. Not a coffee machine. Not a couch. Not, perhaps most memorably, an entire sound system. Never the artworks themselves, but always an item of incredible value — generally more than Latrell’s annual paycheck — marked, dismantled, defaced. Ruined.

Latrell stepped around the table. Stared down at it for a few long seconds. Saw only swirls and whisps and curving, branching lines.

He squinted a little, tilted his head, and it jumped out at him like an optical illusion snapping into focus. Seamlessly integrated into the pattern, a series of letters, distinct and separate from the larger, blocky moniker.

Hello, Latrell

“The hell…” The words were faint.

The man on the phone chuckled again. “You’re welcome. I am quite sure your boss will be very curious as to the meaning of that.”

“What the—”

“Apologies, Agent, but I really must be going. Places to go, paintings to fence. You know how it is. Though if I may offer some advice?”

He paused. Not long enough for Latrell to formulate a response.

“You really should make an effort to leave work earlier. Eight pm every night this week? It’s a recipe for burnout.”

Latrell dropped the phone from his ear, staring at the screen. The unknown number stared back at him, stark black numbers on a too-white screen.

Implausible. Impractical. Impossible. Beyond that, beyond the logistics and the motivation and the feasibilityof it all, it was just fucking insane. If he was right, if the man on the phone was who he thought it was, then he’d done all that, found Latrell’s number, tracked his movements, knew that he’d be at this crime scene, knew enough about his life to know when he was leaving work every night, all with the ultimate goal of calling him to— what? Gloat? Provide a clue? Hear the sound of his own fucking voice?

Each possibly theory was more insane than the last. Latrell swept off his glasses and pinched at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

“Brishan!” Albie all but shoved him, and Latrell realised it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention.

“Sorry,” he said, too distracted to bother with sincerity, mind racing, whirling, unmoored. He shoved his glasses back on, tried to school his expression back into neutrality. “I was just—”

“Who was that?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. It was nothing. Nobody. A prank call.” Yeah, right.

“Who’d they say it was?”

“They didn’t, actually.” He realised the truth of the statement even as it left his mouth. Not that it mattered. The content of the conversation left very little doubt just who he’d been speaking to. As much as his brain was trying to find ways to deny it. “Never actually identified themselves. They just implied— but it wasn’t really— I mean, I’m not sure—”

He exhaled, rubbed at his eye again. Spoke without lowering his hand. “I actually— I think it was Nox.”

Beat. Then: “What?”

Latrell kept rubbing at his eye. Didn’t really think that question deserved an answer.

Albie took a few moments to realise that was his conclusion, then added, “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, no, I’m not sure!” Latrell dropped his hand in time to catch the hurt look flicker over Albie’s face, shoulders tense, spine straight. He sucked in a deep breath, tried to modulate his tone. “No, I’m not sure. But… well, he was certainly pretty convincing.”

Albie chewed her lower lip for a moment. “We’re gonna have to report this.”

Irritation flickered hot and fluid in Latrell’s chest. He loosened his jaw, endeavoured to keep his voice entirely level when he said, “Of course I’m going to report it.”

It still came out sharp. Too sharp, if the slight lift to Albie’s eyebrows was anything to go by.

Latrell closed his eyes for a beat. Shoved down the slow boil of annoyance licking at his insides, forced himself to inhale, exhale. Slowly. Repeated, “I’m going to report it.”

Some of her scepticism faded, though an element of obstinance remained in the jut of her chin, the wrinkle between her brows. “Good.”

Latrell’s jaw locked. He turned away from her, back towards the table. Let his eyes skip over those two horrifying words, embedded in the centre of a criminal’s signature. Abruptly wished he’d chosen something else to look at.

“It’s… weird, right?” Albie’s voice had softened. “After the last few months…”

“Yeah it fucking is.” He sucked in a deep breath, gestured towards the table. “And this doesn’t help.”

Albie stepped up next to him. He didn’t really want to show her this. Didn’t really have a choice. It wasn’t exactly something he could hide, couldn’t change the signature so those two words were no longer a part of it.

But it was okay. Most people so far believed what he thought, that he was just a random target. Believed that he had no idea why Nox was fixated on him. Believed that he was just as in the dark as the rest of them.

But things kept piling up. Coincidence upon coincidence. As a cop Latrell had been trained to believe coincidences didn’t exist. But coming up with any other theory now seemed even harder.

He knew the instant Albie saw it. Felt her tension lurch like a physical presence in the room.

“Oh,” she said, quiet, loaded.

“I know.”

Albie turned to him, her face as earnest as her voice. “You’re fucked.”

Latrell removed his glasses to pinch his eyes again. “I know.”

#pockets muses IWL #WIP: ATN #original writing #writeblr #excerpt #enjoy you guys ^_^

[pertinax--loculos]

Ten First Lines

I was tagged a little while ago by the ever-wonderful @winterandwords to share ten first lines. (Thank you!) I believe I've done this for some WIPs in the past, so I'm gonna play around with my most recent writing and share the first lines from those scenes, starting with:

'Vibes WIP' First Scene (Kat POV)

It's cold, the kind of miserable cold you can only get in the city, and the drizzling rain looks like ash in my torchlight.

2. 'Vibes WIP' First Scene (Pilate POV)

Fact: the first blow always feels like a blessing.

3. 'Vibes WIP' Unknown chapter (Pilate POV)

Bleed (real blood) for me Fact: cruelty is much subtler than mercy. People will rarely misinterpret mercy as cruelty. But that doesn't stop them mistaking cruelty for mercy.

(I know it's more than one line, but I wanted to include it because that's it. That's the entire chapter. ^_^)

4. INUNDATE, Natasha POV

Natasha nursed her fury for a solid two days, giving TJ the silent treatment the entire time.

5. INUNDATE, Flint POV

Life was light, or light was life; one or the other, he couldn’t remember which one it was anymore but that was hardly surprising because he couldn’t remember much of anything anymore.

6. Psyche Shards, Casey POV

Casey found lying to journalists as easy as breathing.

7. Psyche Shards, Ira POV

The Asshole’s name was Sidhara, and it turned out she was among the better of the bunch.

...and given the above are the only WIPs I've properly worked on recently, I'll dive into the archives for the last three, for entirely random scenes from:

8. Absent That Night

Albie was into the tail end of her second astonishingly pink cocktail, and she was indeed plastered.

9. Absent That Night

The Association’s main base of operations was called the Warren for a reason.

10. Absent That Night

Latrell took a shower and examined his injuries, mostly because it was easier than examining the intricacies of the argument when it was still so fresh.

Now, I am not at all sure who has already done this; if you have and you don't want to do it again, feel free to ignore! Or do it again with a different WIP/different rules, whatever, I'm not your Mum. :D

But I am gonna tag @kd-holloman, @artdecosupernova-writing, @inkovert, @catchingbigfish, @nanashi23, @words-after-midnight, @frostedlemonwriter and @deanwax if you would like to do it! Absolutely no pressure if not, as always. ^_^

#pockets muses IWL #tag game #WIP: INUNDATE #Vibes WIP #WIP: ATN #this was kinda fun to do #i'd love to get more into tag games #wish the whole work thing wasn't kicking my ass so hard atm -.-

[pertinax--loculos]

November

So, as it turns out, November went quite well for me.

My original goal was to do @winterandwords's CalmWriMo, with the goal of getting some words down and establishing a writing habit with my new job. The start of the month it didn't look like that was going to happen. The new job is kinda overwhelming with study (long story), and I just didn't have the brainpower to do anything else.

Then, on the 18th, I got hit with some inspiration for INUNDATE. And I decided fuck it, I'll jot down that scene, because I've lost a lot of ideas for that WIP from not writing them down when I think of them.

Then I continued jotting down scenes, and I ended November having added a total of 28,600 words to INUNDATE.

Which is fantastic. I'm not gonna lie, study did kinda fall by the wayside in favour of writing, but it's been a couple of weeks where that's not the end of the world. Going forward, I'd like to try and prioritise study a little more; probably do some writing straight after work, have a break, and then get into going over what I've learned for my job during the day.

There's also the small problem that yesterday I was fucking whacked with inspiration for a new WIP (my ultimate curse D:). So it's possible I'm gonna start writing that -- though at the moment it's all Vibes(TM) with absolutely no thought of any sort of plot. But they are, like, super cool vibes, so I'll just see what happens. I have an assessment on Monday regarding the stuff I should've been learning when I was writing rather than studying, so after a weekend of study we'll see how I go and whether or not what I've been doing is sustainable alongside the training of my new career.

(This past week has been a sorta follow-along with qualified employees; like A Week in the Life of what would happen if we pass the training. And that life is very conducive towards writing. Which is exciting. But I have to pass the damn assessments to get there, so, y'know, priorities.)

I will say that it being NaNo month definitely made a difference -- there was a few days this week where I could've not written, but knowing that I was adding words to a total I hoped would be pretty good for starting ~twelve days before the deadline was certainly motivating. I do love the NaNoWriMo energy, even if I very rarely ~technically~ participate.

But yeah, generally speaking, November was a success. I'm really glad I got some words down, including some plotting stuff for INUNDATE.

(INUNDATE in itself is an interesting WIP -- it's basically a romance story, but it only covers like the first two-thirds of the beats of a romance, because the other third occurs during CASCADE. So it's been a fun exercise to write, but I don't think it'll ever be properly, like, 'marketable', because it's so intertwined with another WIP/story and you don't get the conclusion until you read that (notably unfinished) WIP.)

But anyway! I hope everybody else had a good November -- whether or not you were participating in NaNoWriMo, whether or not you're in my hemisphere and enjoying the turn towards warmer weather, whether or not life is treating you well. With any luck I'll be able to be on here a little more often as we head into the new year (which, btw, it's December which is fucking terrifying). But even if I'm not, I'm always thinking of you guys, and almost always lurking to see what you're up to. ;)

#pockets muses IRL #pockets muses IWL #WIP: INUNDATE #<- i don't think i actually have that tag as of yet #and knowing me and this new fucking idea i'll use it this one time and not use it again for months #oh well #thinking of everyone #and always here in the background watching and cheering from the sidelines #love you all

[pertinax--loculos]

This WIP is involving a surprising amount of research about how businesses work. I'm not entirely happy about it.

#pockets muses IWL #WIP: PS #upside is i can just make some of it up #(aka the entire reason i write pretty much everything in low fantasy-esque worlds) #but i'd like it at least based on some form of reality #never thought i'd be brainstorming on how a character would frame a business as profitable in preparation for going public #yesterday i didn't even know what going public MEANT #is this necessary? #perhaps not #but it's solidifying some plot points so i guess it's working anyway?

[pertinax--loculos]

OOOPS. 🙃

(Approx 1200 words, if you're in the mood to read. ^_^)

NOW --- Amelia

“How do you feel about coming back?”

Ready isn’t exactly the right word. But it isn’t the wrong word, either. Progress.

I reach out and brush my fingers against Lyndon’s arm, and the buzzing inside my skin dulls and then dims, a faint echo of insects crawling along my bones.

“Good,” I say, and if it isn’t the truth, it’s not quite a lie, either. “I feel… determined.”

“Determined is good,” he says, throwing me a quick smile before he looks back to the road.

I tap my nails against the slick sheen of paint on the outside of the door. Lyndon doesn’t drive fast, but with the top down my hair flicks around my face anyway, strands catching in my eyes before they’re whipped away by the wind.

I can taste the salt on the air. It feels like home as much as it feels like a threat.

The flat fields around us started to change a while ago, and now houses start to peek out from behind the rolling hills we’re headed towards. It’s hard to make out anything but peaks for a few minutes, before we crest the last of the high land and the Beachfront spreads out in front of us.

Some of it is grass, green and manicured and cultivated. Off to the right is a cluster of buildings that makes up the main street, snaking back inland for a while before they dare to rise to more than one storey and risk blocking the view. But the scenery is dominated by the houses.

Hulking mansions and sprawling ranch-style dwellings. Squatting bungalows and a few more modern facades, perched on tiny elevations or sunken in between dunes. Too far apart to rightly be called neighbours, with gates barricading private access roads and tall poles marking out private beaches.

We head left, take a couple of turns that brings us onto an unfinished road. The wheels kick up dust and stones in our wake, and I wince at the tiny pings that each represent a chip or imperfection in the rich crimson paint.

Lyndon doesn’t care. He probably doesn’t even have to ring anyone to take care of it. They know he’s heading to the Beachfront, and they know what that entails.

We pass by a few private roads, all signed and named as though this is a real town and not a society borne only of wealth. State Street, Kingsman Drive, Fleur Boulevard. Less lies than a charade that everybody buys into.

And they do have to buy.

The house we’re headed for doesn’t look like it got the message, however.

It’s perched precariously on a series of spindly legs; noticeably smaller than every other property surrounding it, a stretched rectangle of wood weathered until it’s nearly white. Two modest storeys, with a staircase wrapping around from the front door, disappearing into coarse and persistent sand. At high tide the stairs are more than half hidden; to get out of the house you need to take the walkway that spears off a few steps down, a bridge lifted with the same long-legged stilts that curls over the dune set too many metres behind it and leads to what was once probably a small parking area.

If someone knew Lyndon, they might be surprised that he owns the house. They wouldn’t be surprised that he owns the garage.

It’s a modern behemoth, all long lines and sharp angles, stark blacks popping against stark whites. To gain entry to the perilous walkway visitors have to be buzzed through a small antechamber at the far right of the garage; it’s either that or brave the low but dense brush and reeds cluttering the dunes to either side. The alternative is to circle around wider, but to avoid the worst of it one risks entering the properties on either side, the ones pruned and fought and beaten into submission so a lone person straggling through would be noticeable at best and highly suspicious at worst.

Past the antechamber are five doors, ones that lift on hinges like the fourth one does when Lyndon brushes his fingers over his phone, sitting in its cradle on the dash.

He pulls in to the cool darkness of the garage, settling the crimson sportscar between two of its brethren, black on one side, pastel green on the other. Crouched like predators ready to spring into action. To my far left is a huge four-wheel drive that looks like it’s never seen anything other than bitumen in its life. Knowing Lyndon, it’s hard to tell whether that’s manufactured fiction or designed truth.

“You okay?” he says, when the snarl of the engine has faded to a false echo in my ears.

I turn a grin on him. “Never better.”

That gets a roll of the eyes and a brief brush of his fingers on the back of my hand, the buzz that had grown almost unnoticed in the back of my mind fading once again. He pops what passes for a trunk in this slim and flat excuse for a vehicle and hauls out a suitcase that carries close to an entire life inside it, and then he lifts out mine.

To exit the garage he flicks at something on his phone screen again. The wooden walkway creaks and groans beneath our feet and the wheels of the suitcases.

From here, the house looks quaint, antique, unprotected. But there’s a small black panel just to the right of the faux-wooden door, and when Lyndon taps his phone to it something heavy clunks inside the frame.

The security system is state-of-the-art. I should know. It took me over a day to break in the first time, and that was exploiting a loophole that has since been closed. With prejudice.

"Your phone is on the security system,” Lyndon says as he steps through the doorway.

I glance at the panel. The light turns red when I step through, until Lyndon acknowledges some notification on his phone.

“Do I get visitors?” I say.

He sends me a grin. “You’re approved for three. If you wanna hold any raging keggers, just let me know in advance.”

My second eye roll is lost as he turns back and sweeps into the centre of the room.

The interior of the house looks like someone went to an interior decorator and said make it look like a proper beach house, which is probably exactly what happened. Though I’m not complaining. Black and white photographs on the wall, seashells and other beach-themed accoutrements aplenty, and an off-white couch with crocheted blankets brightening its arms placed a few feet from the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire wall that looks towards the ocean.

Even if it’s synthetic, it’s cozy.

Lyndon abandons his suitcase in the middle of the room, somewhere between the couch and the door to the kitchen and laundry room. His eyes are on his phone as he makes his way to the staircase leading to the upper level.

He hesitates at the foot, throws a smirk over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

He disappears upstairs, and I leave my suitcase by his and flop down on the couch. Scan the horizon, the creeping waves, and revel in the carefully preserved illusion that we’re a million miles from civilisation.

I let my head drop back and close my eyes. The swell of the ocean fills my ears.

Summer has started.

It’s time to find a murderer.

#pockets muses IWL #is this an unedited first draft? #why yes yes it is #fucking new WIP brainrot #told myself i would post nothing about this #but apparently i have no self control #so here we are 🤷

[pertinax--loculos]

Some Random Lines

In lieu of any real substantial activity, have some out-of-context lines I liked from the thing I'm currently working on (a prequel to AAH, featuring Flack and Verreynne):

“You really think it wouldn’t be an advantage, having me on your side for once?” That depended. Verreynne’d seen the aftermath of Flack’s conversations, and it weren’t often that the other party were much one for doing anything else when he were finished.

Flack took a single step towards him, and it were all Verreynne needed to remember that he was unarmed and high and in far too small a room with the still-cooling bodies of the five people the fuck’d slaughtered in a matter of minutes. Flack must’ve seen it on his face, or in his tension, or some fucking how, because the step were all he took before he stopped and smiled.

He knew better than to take it personally. Flack got frustrated, Flack wanted to destroy something. Don’t matter if it were furniture or a room or a vehicle or a person. Really, he should be grateful that he stopped at a couple cuts. Situation could damn easy have been a helluva lot worse.

Flack POV The main advantage he had was that the bounty on his head dropped precipitously if he was delivered as a body, rather than a living prisoner.

Verreynne screamed, a rough, raw sound wrenched reluctant from his throat, not quite trapped behind his teeth. Satisfaction slid fluid-slick down Flack’s spine. Hand still wrapped around Verreynne’s wrist, he said, “Don’t fuck with me. I know you were in on the ambush. What the hell else do you have planned?”

#pockets muses IWL #is this thing gonna go anywhere? #probably not #am i having fun fucking around with it? #yeah #struggling to get back into a writing habit atm #work's kinda intense and there's RL stuff and you know how it is #so i'll take what i can get

[pertinax--loculos]

Can I Wrest This 100k WIP From 2008 Into Something Coherent: An Epic Saga

#pockets muses IWL #look theres a LOT of good in it #theres also a fuckton of rambling #it contains some of my all-time favourite lines/moments #and also is surprisingly well written? #which i dunno maybe says something about my development as a writer 😅 #(ie its nonexistent) #but i dunno #can it be done? #im curious if nothing else

[pertinax--loculos]

Monthly(ish) Writing Update

In the spirit of my (perpetual) quest to be more active, I thought of this today so figured I'd chuck my thoughts out there in case anyone's interested. ^_^

There wasn't a whole lot of movement on the writing front this month. Honestly, that's probably going to be the case until at least the end of March, given what work is -- I'm hoping after that things will settle down, and I'll be able to get into something of a routine (as much of a routine as one can get into with shift work, anyway 🙄). That said, the month was somewhat productive!

Vibes WIP So, for this WIP, I can definitely say I have a lot of vibes. 😅 Not a whole lot else, unfortunately, though I do have about 14k of notes, scenes, and snippets written. There's definitely something to this WIP -- I'm just not sure that vibing it out is going to be the best way to make the most of it. I'll continue to think on it, anyway.

Other WIP So, in my start-of-the-year post, I wrote that I was giving myself grace to create one other project this year -- I think (unfortunately, given how early in the year it is) that this is going to be it. Talk about brainrot. 😆 This WIP hit me like a sledgehammer and so far it hasn't let me go. It has only been a week, however; I'm thinking about giving myself another week and if it hasn't gone away I'll dedicate some proper time to it over the next little while.

It's essentially a low-fantasy thriller, a la ATN -- and also the only thrillers I can really write, because I hate the idea of researching shit like real world police and being constrained by the actual modern day. It is a distinct world from the Orn-iverse, and I'm quite liking the worldbuilding, but as for all most of my WIPs, it's basically our-world-but-to-the-left.

The (proposed) first chapter can be read here. If you're interested I do suggest reading to the end (I promise there's a hook! ;)).

And that's about it for January! ^_^ Thanks for reading, if you're so inclined; and as always, feel free to tell me how your WIPs are going. I'm always interested, even if my activity doesn't suggest it. 😅

#pockets muses IWL #monthly update #<- now there's an optimistic tag lmao #but we'll see #hope everyone's doing well #i'm still hardcore lurking so i suppose there's that :D

[pertinax--loculos]

Vibes WIP

So, primarily because why the hell not, I figured I'd chuck this up. Just a little half-scene from the Vibes WIP I'm currently working on, something that came to me on my lunchbreak the other day.

Approx 1100 words.

Kat POV:

There's three of them, I realise; the one in the front, but there's also two flanking him. They're not small men. People. It's hard to tell gender through the darkness and their baggy clothing.

I turn my head towards Mezh. He's lying beside me, breathing slowly, eyes fixed on the scene playing out beneath us.

"Aren't you going to help him?" I hiss.

Mezh laughs, a low rumble that's nevertheless genuinely amused. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't give any indication he's planning to move.

I scan the shadows by the fence, looking for Quay. Maybe he's there, waiting, ready to launch himself into the fray.

It takes a few moments to pick out Quay's outline. Hard to see much else, with him pressed up against the side of a building, sunk into the deeper shadows thrown by the overhang. But I can see the way he's leaning, shoulder propped against the brick building, hands shoved into his pockets.

I glance back at the rails, at Pilate pinned against the fence with the three hulking thugs looming closer. He isn't even looking at them. Instead he's rolling up a sleeve, exposing pale skin lined with paler scars and banded with dark tattoos. He takes a final drag on his cigarette, tosses it down into the ballast by his feet, and starts rolling up the other sleeve.

"I've seen him fight." There's a sliver of desperation, more than a bit of disbelief in my voice as I whisper at Mezh again. "Three on one? There's no way he's walking away from that."

"You haven't seen him fight," Mezh says, a mere breath on the still night air. "You've seen him lose."

I'm not sure it's much of a distinction when it comes to Pilate and his altercations, but before I can say as much the first thug lunges.

He's pulled an extendable baton from somewhere, launches forward with it lifted high, and Pilate raises an arm to his ear in a block and lashes out with the other fist and then I lose track of the movements. Lose track of the movements except for the fact that Pilate is still standing, moving forward in fact, with the thug on the back foot and the baton in his hand.

Whatever he did to get it off the thug I didn't even see. Just like how I don't really follow what he does with it, just that suddenly the thug is groaning on the ground.

The second one lurches forward but Pilate's focus is on the third, stepping neatly around the second and delivering a blow to the other guy's face that cracks through the air like dropping steak on concrete. The third guy crumples. I've heard the phrase but it's the first time I've seen it in real life; the way his knees go out from under him, the way his arms stay slack by his sides, like someone's cut his strings.

My heart is in my mouth. Or my throat. Something's fighting its way up there.

The second guy takes a beat but then comes at Pilate anyway, and Pilate goes low but ineffective with the baton, striking him across his thigh. A stinging blow, but not particularly incapacitating. I think it's a mistake until the second thug whirls towards Pilate and then stops dead.

A moment, a movement, and the sound the guy makes will be stuck in my head forever. A wet gurgle, something like choking but as if the throat's not cooperating, as if there's something in it.

Blood spills black down his neck and spreads across his chest in a weeping, creeping shadow.

It glistens darkly on the blade in Pilate's hand. It's curved, wickedly hooked at the end, and I know without knowing how that he's plunged it into the side of the thug's throat and then yanked it across, the keen inside blade tearing through skin and flesh and sinew and windpipe.

I lurch to the side, almost to the edge of the roof, and gag. There's not enough in my stomach to vomit, but bile coats my tongue and drips bitter and acidic from my lips. I don't want to look back. I can't not look back.

The first thug's got his wind back, got his feet back, and if the certain death of his colleague worries him he doesn't let it show. Pilate doesn't give him a chance, anyway. He ducks under the clumsy right hook and slams the end of the baton into the thug's stomach. The baton clatters to the rocks but Pilate's only dropped it so he can get a handful of the thug's hair, so he can push his face down as he brings his knee up and the sound of shattering cartilage precedes the choked, nasally yelp from the thug's broken face. Pilate keeps a hold of his hair, guiding the his fall, and I'm not sure why until I see the position of the railhead, see it line up with his throat before Pilate drops him and stomps quickly, brutally, efficiently on the back of the guy's neck.

Something cracks. Deeper, more final than the first.

Pilate doesn't stop. He's still got the blade in his hand as he steps across to the third guy, the one he put down with the baton to his face. He crouches beside him, blocking my view of wherever he's doing. I'm grateful. I've seen enough.

Mezh's eyes glimmer when they dart towards me. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. "C'mon."

I shimmy after him off the roof. My limbs are shaky, like the drain after adrenaline. Maybe it is. My heart's still racing, nausea churning my stomach, bile burning the back of my throat. We circle the building we were on and emerge into the rail corridor through the gap in the fence.

Quay is already there. His hand is clasped around the back of Pilate's neck, and I duck through the fence in time to see Pilate clasp his shoulder, touch there and gone in a moment. Quay ducks his head, pressing their foreheads together, then straightens, fingers sliding across Pilate's shoulder and down his chest before the space between them widens and Quay steps away.

Pilate pulls a rag from his pocket and starts wiping the blade of the knife. It's smaller than I expected, up close. Too small to have done such catastrophic damage.

I can't look at the bodies. They're right there, Mezh steps over one to stand on the same track as Pilate, but I can't look at them. I've seen enough. I'll be having nightmares for months.

I can't not look.

#pockets muses IWL #vibes WIP #original writing #excerpt #snippet

[pertinax--loculos]

Popping in after what amounts to an unplanned hiatus just to say;

MTG is ~finished~.

Final stats: Wordcount: 116,190 Days to draft: 102 Average wordcount per day: 1139

Not a bad go of it! Honestly I’m kinda impressed with myself because 99% of this was drafted during the uni semester. I wanted to finish it before the semester ended (missed that deadline by just over a week, bah) but yeah, turns out ‘exam’ season kicked my ass a little.

Anyway, I’m happy with how it went! I’m... less happy with the ending of this, to be honest, and I’m not 100% I’ll ever be able to salvage it into a readable draft (plotting problems, and also the style of writing; it was a bit of an experiment, and I like the start a lot more than I like the ending) but who cares. One of my goals this year was to write a complete draft (of anything), so it’s nice to be able to tick that off!

Also nice to do it on the first day of NaNo. 🤔 I don’t think I’ll be participating in any official capacity, but I currently have two WIPs circling the inside of my head; OOC (which I’ve mentioned before and love) and another brand-new one that occurred to me a few days ago (inspired by my current read, actually). Thinking I’ll play with drafting those until the end of the year, and then try and give ATN a major editing pass over January/February.

All of this also depends on both my second job and whatever the fuck is going on with my housing situation, but this is a place to escape real life responsibilities so fuck that.

But yes! Another WIP actually written beginning-end, which is nice to be able to say. ^_^ Hope everyone else is loving life and good luck to all NaNo participants! (And, fuck it, non-participants as well. :P)

#pockets muses IWL #WIP: MTG #writing update #of a kind #god i really haven't been here for a while have i #miss everyone #just Real Life getting in the way y'know? #but i miss all of you and all of your WIPs #mayhaps i will try to be more active over the coming months #we will see #^_^