There is a new writing challenge on Twitter that has come about.
A great friend of mine, Brent Millis is taking on a 30 days, minimum 300 words writing challenge, instead of NaNoWriMo (which I am participating in).
Of course I have to dive in as well. Not like I do not have enough else to do correct.
So this is the starting point for my participation in this challenge.
Main portions posted here, linked from Twitter. Once I relaunch my Patreon I will port all of this over there as a free post, the same as Brent has done with his Patreon.
Known Participants include (All Twitter Handles)
@JunkConnection @SonofSappho @sarahmvermette @wanderumination
Dead Cities and Deader Men (Operative Title)
Day 1 of 30
Droning vibrations permeated the ground vehicle. Outside
was a wash of moldy greens and bile blacks, with the incessant rain seeking
entry. The ground was plain old rock, slick with mildew and oil that pools up
in cracks and runs in streams and rivulets where possible.
Thunder cracks and shakes the interior, dimming lights,
and making for tense moments at times. The lightning reflects off the interior
control console. Glare and flash blindness is a part of the territory.
The rotation driver opens the hatchway into the steering
compartment. Plops down in the gunner seat and just stares out the main window.
“Lovely weather ehh.” Smartass. “No worse than the last month out here.”
Grunts and he looks at the various screens. Gun cameras,
tracking radars, surveillance masers with video backups.
“Nothing new, least we are over the half way mark.”
Hops into the second driver seat, “Got it.”
Get up, stretch, take a moment to double check the
screens, “Later.”
Close the hatch behind me. If something does penetrate the
glass, should be stopped with the heavy steel frame and airtight proofing. If
and should being the main thoughts.
The dozen some others of us on board are siting in the
main common space. All either ignore me or just grunt. Fine, too long stuck in
here. At least in The City you have enough room to be alone, with all the dead
space not being used inside it. Here just cooped up, no room at all. Claustrophobia
has been bred out of our species, still difficult to be this close, this long,
to this many others.
I make it to the cooking space, grab a half-eaten ration,
finish it off. Inconsequential as to who started it. Not going to waste it. Find
a spot to crash. Back up in six hours to drive again. Only three drivers, and
one of us, don’t care what their name is, is sick with something or another.
Back in isolation, sweating it out in blissful alone time, just steel walls and
recirculating air for company. Sounds good about now. Hate them, hate them all,
with their opinions and inability to be alone for days at a time.
Stuck in this recon. Stuck.
Starting Inspiration is some Pintrest posts from this
site
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