mthollowell-writes

[mthollowell-writes]

WIP Intro: Reporting on Atlantis

A three-part story told through social media, news, texts and emails, Reporting on Atlantis begins in 2022, when an earthquake cracks open the sunken subcontinent Doggerland to reveal a hidden city under the waves. Atlantis, once assumed to just be something Plato made up, has been found to be real.

An archaeologist, Dr. Howard Carter partners with the corporation Atlas and several governments to lead research on it with students and scientists in 2023. Among these students is the history student Amy Lee.

Her family, including her mother Jen and her father Mark and her younger sister Michelle, see Amy off. And then, three months into the research trip, the group disappears.

The Lee family, along with several other families, are left to figure out what happened. Can they handle the truth, especially when Jen is forced into following Amy down under the waves?

Themes: family, love, discovery and the consequences, corporate greed

Genre: Horror, adventure

CW: the ocean, disregard for human life, thalassophobia, social media, discussion of sub implosion

Characters include:

Amy Lee- 20, a history major who has long held a fascination with mythical places.

Gabrielle Santiago- 21, Amy's best friend and a zoology major who has disappeared as well.

Jen Lee- 48, Amy's mother, once a star reporter who gets back into the field to find out what happened to her daughter

Mark Lee- 47, Amy's father, a search and rescue operator who first notices something up

Michelle Lee- 15, Amy's sister, a wannabe influencer who turns her social media know-how into figuring out what happened to her sister

Dr. Howard Carter- 47, an archaeologist hungry for a massive discovery like his namesake's own.

[mthollowell-writes]

Drat

Just got back from Massachusetts, Where I tried to re-invoke The Witchcraft Act Of 1662.

"Yes, your honour, I have irrefutable Spectral evidence Of defendant, Head-gnawing."

Murmurs in the courtroom:

"... probably to let the devil in."

I looked around, eagerly nodding.

"Order in the court!" — all obliged.

On the record, The judge said I had no case. I said:

"Drat."

Off the record, He clandestinely added, "No case, yet", advising me To wait a couple more years As the political wheels were turning Ever, and evermore, in favour of, 'us', Witch-burners.

So, now I gotta wait a couple of years.

Say, why don't we go to a Bistro, or watch a movie?

Just give me another chance,

Baby.

[mthollowell-writes]

[mthollowell-writes]

Fantasy trope I always love: There once was a band of heroes who wandered the land on a great quest. They destroyed the Demon King, overthrew the Overlord, sealed away an ancient evil, and carved their names into history.

That was the past. The current band of heroes walk in the shadows of their precursors, in the remnants of the great quest that shook the world, constantly measuring themselves to the heroes of legend.

[mthollowell-writes]

The way necromancy works is this: Everything in your body — meat, bones, skin, blood — has something like a memory. They remember, in their own way, what it’s like to be alive. Skin remembers the sun. Bones remember what shape they’re supposed to be in. Muscle memory is more than just an idiom.

The way necromancy works is that the caster puts a little bit of their willpower into a corpse to order it to remember how it functioned in life and obey. This is easiest to do with bones, which are easy to trick, and becomes increasingly difficult the more of the original body remains.

To reanimate a full body to your command, you have to have a lot of willpower.

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently. Then, taking the lantern off its hook, she peered over the side of the little sailboat.

There wasn't much to see. The sea was dark and still as glass, except where the lanternlight turned a patch of seawater a yellowish-green. A tiny fish flitted into the gleam, attracted to the light, and then vanished into the murk again.

The necromancer chewed the inside of her cheek. She sat down again, the boat bobbing gently with the movement, and checked the map one more time. Then she opened the little wooden case on the floor of the boat, which unfolded into a neat arrangement of drawers.

There were. Things. In the drawers. Some wriggled. Others twitched little beetly legs into the night air. A few of them made noises, which ran together into a squeaky, wheezy squeal of horror.

The necromancer twiddled her fingers over the display as she considered her options. Then she grabbed a few of the twitching, wriggling things, held them in her palm and squeezed her hand into a fist as tightly as she could with a squelching noise.

She opened her hand to inspect her work. She breathed the spell into it, and then, holding her hand over the edge of the boat, dropped the spell into the sea.

And that seemed to be it. She sat back in the boat and closed the little wooden case. After a moment she started looking over the map again.

There were a lot of handwritten notes on the map. Each one was connected to a mark and some coordinates; some of them said, "Storm 1457," or "Struck a rock 1483." Others said "Total failure," or “Completely dissolved.”

The note the necromancer seemed most interested in was the one that read, “Battle of Salzstein, 1501.”

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently, and then she was suddenly thrown down to the floor of the boat as though a giant, invisible hand had crushed her.

Her mouth opened in a noiseless scream.

Two minds were fighting for control of the corpse; on one side was the mind of the caster, and on the other was the memories of bones, of flesh, of skin, trying to drive the caster out.

The weight of that mind was incredible.

Sweat poured off the necromancer’s brow; darkness whorled across her vision. Then slowly, every movement a bone-breaking agony, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, lungs straining.

The trick was that this mind knew how to obey.

The necromancer stood, wobbled, steadied herself and poured her willpower into the sea. She tried to make hers the full willpower the thing had obeyed in life, the will of the wind, of the sea, of the rigging and the wheel.

Because of course it had been alive. In a sense, they were all alive. Sailors talked of them like they were alive, gave them names, called them “she.”

Sailors knew they were alive.

It was the cessation of that life that interested her.

The necromancer reached out with her power, seized the mind in her hands and pulled, blood and foam flecking out the corners of her mouth as she ground her teeth together with the titanic effort and ordered it to obey.

The sea roiled, hundreds of tons of water moving fast as something deep below boiled to the surface.

A bowsprit sprouted from the water. Then a wood-rotted figurehead of a mermaid. Then inch by inch, yard by yard, the huge barnacle-encrusted bulk of silt-stained timber rose out of the deep, seawater streaming out of every gunport.

For a moment the warship hung in the air like a monstrous fish held by the gills of a colossal fisherman. It dropped into the sea with a sound like a depth charge; the little rowboat lurched in its wake.

The necromancer released the spell. Then she threw up, and passed out.

———

Later, once she had woken, gathered together the tackle box, the lantern, and the map and had scrabbled aboard, the necromancer inspected the undead ship.

There was a hole in the hull where a magazine charge had exploded. This was, admittedly, fine. Undead men could walk with a hole in their bellies; an undead ship could sail with one as well.

Really, she thought, despite the discomfort the spell had worked masterfully.

It was a perfect start.

She unfolded the map on the soggy floor of the quarterdeck, sucked the end of a pen, and next to the last marker wrote “Total success.” Then her finger began to trace down the page to the next.

And the undead ship — unbidden and obedient — shifted its sails and began to move south.

[mthollowell-writes]

sometimes a first draft really is just a list of actions that need to be taken by the characters in the worst sentences i’ve ever written :/

[mthollowell-writes]

They hunted us for a long time. Through scorched earth & continents. Time was our only advantage.

But our luck ran out under a weeping willow, the moon pregnant with light. They peeled the flesh from our bones & buried us deep for good measure.

But the joke is on them. Now our bones are entwined together, forever.

[mthollowell-writes]

You know what, fuck people who force writers to reveal their trauma in order to justify the stories they write. No consumer is owed an explanation for the content a creator creates, and no creator should feel obligated to draw from or admit to pain that may or may not be in their life in order to craft a work of fiction.

“I had an idea for a story” is all the justification you need to write one, and all anyone needs to let it be. 

[mthollowell-writes]

The Insuppressible Electra Ray: A duology.

A good villain sees themselves as the hero of their own story. THE INSUPPRESSIBLE ELECTRA RAY, a 240K upmarket duology told from four points of view, features a hero dead convinced that she’s the villain.

Electra enjoys a life of infamy from inside a prison cell, where every day of her silence brings a fresh new hot take.

Like, she’s what happens when power is left unchecked. Having magic turns normal people into maniacs; look how she ripped that poor boy’s magic right out, left him cold and dead on the forest floor. People shouldn’t be allowed to have that kind of power and she’s the perfect example. A cautionary tale.

Wait. Maybe it’s the opposite.

Surely she knows the war against magic is coming and Peter was too lily-livered to use his power against their enemies, but she isn’t. She’s a soldier. A strategist.

Or maybe she’s nothing but an apex predator. The monster under the bed. Pure, simple evil.

It’s all a bunch of bullshit, and when a fellow prisoner whispers of an arcane artifact lying deep in the caves below Delaney School for Magicians, it sounds like it just might be the perfect time to start making some noise.

Breaking out won’t be easy; they’ve stuffed her full of enough magic suppressants to kill an ox. But she also happens to be the only magician alive who can burn that garbage off like carbs. Plus, Delaney was Electra’s childhood home, so she knows every inch of the castle; every flickering enclave, nautilus staircase, and ivory-carved constellation in its soaring ceilings.

And before you go mistaking that for nostalgia or anything so saccharine and unproductive, know that she’d raze it to the ground to get that artifact and the power it holds into her unrepentant hands – the power to reshape reality in her own viciously exquisite image.

Because if Electra Ray is anything, she’s the fucking end.

The Insuppressible Electra Ray mixes parallel redemption and corruption arcs, enemies-to-friends slow burns, twisted queer feelings, cinematic magic fights, and unapologetically bombastic dialogue into a steaming cauldron that’s been stirred long enough to form a thick, spicy two-book series, not for the faint of heart. 

Peter Silver’s best friend, Simon Bell: A magician who grew up with Peter, just as strong, but a telepath. A genuinely decent guy who never thinks he’s trying hard enough. Cinnamon roll. 🗝

Peter Silver’s sister, Eve Silver: A medium. Can speak to the dead but does everything she can to avoid it. Cares deeply for Peter but if you’re not Peter you wouldn’t know it. Geneticist. Stoic as a marble statue but simmering under the surface. 🔬

Peter Silver’s .. ?? .., Electra Ray. Your worst nightmare. The best night of your life. Fireworks on legs; nice legs. Dumpster queen. 👠

magic // castlecore // women with deep, deep issues // queerness // diverse cast // found family // WHY don’t you hate me? // the chaotic one and the stoic one // roaring fires // snow // genetics // deep interpersonal drama without a sniff of romance // begrudging fondness // telepathy // angst and fluff in damn near equal measure // spirituality // childhood trauma can take many forms // I hate you but I’ll work with you for this very specific purpose and I won’t like it // empathy // dialogue out the wazoo // what the fuck does being a good person look like? // enemies-to-besties // slow-burn everything

Book one: Finished

Book two: Final drafting!

💋 the insuppressible electra ray tag list

@avrablake​ @adie-dee​ @dontjudgemeimawriter​

@ryorine​ @thelaughingstag​ @winterandwords​ 

@afoolandathief​​ @asomeoneperson​ @cedar-west 

@diphthongsfordays​ @lowslore​ @poetinprose​ 

@cilly-the-writer​​​​​​​​ @harps-for-days @space-writes​

Comment to be added or removed :)

[mthollowell-writes]

sunday snippet

Edited today and am never over how much I love this scene, how much I adore Simon and how much of a shit Adrian is and how much I enjoy the atmosphere 💙

This chapter and the next are amongst my favorite in the entire piece and I dunno, if anyone is interested I might post them in their entirety because I am just a proud book mom.

--

Simon

The arcane language that ran over the archways and through the cracks in the floor throughout the castle was etched into the edge of each stair. It ran down the stone bannisters and snaked the edges of the tiles in concentric circles around the room’s singular focal point. The walls surrounding this strange chamber were stacked with barren book shelves and the obelisk pulsed brightly in the center, a fat python in an empty rat cage. 

He approached it, or rather, allowed himself to be drawn in by it, and saw up close it was lit from within in every color imaginable. He could make out vivid, individual hues if he squinted: streaks of reptilian blue and honeyed butterscotch, popping sparks of amethyst and acidic pink. Allowing his eyes to unfocus turned the whole thing back to a turbulent white; a discordant light that beat like a heart. 

“What is it?” he asked Adrian, who lingered a few steps behind him.

“What would you say,” Adrian asked gravely, “if I told you it was the source of all magic?” 

He turned to look back at the man. The violent light of the obelisk cast sharp shadows across his face. “I’d say you were full of it.” 

Adrian burst into bright laughter. “Well, I’m glad to find your naiveté has an upper limit.” He approached the thing reverently and ran his fingertips over its crystalline surface. “Books can fall into the wrong hands. They can be destroyed, copied, read by unfriendly eyes. This, friend, is the most secure library in the world.” 

It connected then, why he could hear voices inside the thing — why Adrian, with his power, could control it. “These are memories,” he breathed. “Whole lives, like books.” 

“Precisely,” Adrian said. “Since Lyonall was founded, every headmaster has been charged with protecting and maintaining it. You’re aware of our roots; you’ve made that clear.” 

“You’re saying Nauxial’s followers made this thing?” 

“As a safe space to store everything they knew about him, and all the things they planned to do to further his agenda, to make magicians the ruling race.” 

Terrible, the way such things rolled off his tongue with ease. “What makes you think I’d want to see something like that?” 

“Because it’s knowledge,” Adrian said simply. “You want to understand everybody, Simon, even people you disagree with. I thought... well, I suppose I thought you’d want to understand what you were up against. Maybe I’m off the mark.” 

He considered it, and he had admit that Adrian was right. He did need to understand. He couldn’t expect to bring vastly different people together if he only ever looked into mirrors.  

“What do I do?” 

--

💋 the insuppressible electra ray tag list

@avrablake​ @adie-dee​ @dontjudgemeimawriter​

@ryorine​ @thelaughingstag​ @winterandwords​ 

@afoolandathief​​ @asomeoneperson​ @cedar-west 

@diphthongsfordays​ @lowslore​ @poetinprose​ 

@cilly-the-writer​​​​​​​​ @harps-for-days @space-writes​

Comment to be added or removed :)

[mthollowell-writes]

setting up a tiny detail in one chapter to pay it off in the next few chapters feels sooo devious like oooh i can't wait to write the small little reference here that 70% of readers will miss but 30% of readers will cheer for

[mthollowell-writes]

i have such a love for characters who descend into madness or villainy out of deep, deep empathy. characters who fundamentally cannot cope with the cruel realities they find themselves in and blow up about it in spectacular fashion. fallen angel type characters with tears of outrage in their eyes. characters who break before they bend, and break so badly they splatter blood all over their noble ideals. every variation on it gets me so good

[mthollowell-writes]

[mthollowell-writes]

Oh! I think I found the hook in that new short story idea.

[mthollowell-writes]

I’m between stories.

I’ve gotten into the habit of letting a story rest for a couple of weeks before tackling it again for revision. Though I’m also pushing myself to produce an outline for a new project. Rather than, you know, editing those stories now ready for revision. Or better yet, other stories started but never finished

[mthollowell-writes]

Oh god its tuesday - i still want to post writing even though i missed snippet sunday oops

*

Snippet #26

Aeraki Castle: The Infirmary

Mavis is recovering from aspiration pneumonia. Alma watches over him and sees... Two old friends catch up.

-⚕️-

The reflector lantern at the doctors workstation illuminated the room, its light only rivaled by the light from the halls outside the cracked open infirmary door.

The doctor across the room adjusted the intake of air into the oil lamp then moved the mirror to better light his pill former.

He seemed to enjoy this simple apothecary work. While Alma had never seen the blonde man smile since he began working at Aeraki castle, the prickly energy about him seemed to simmer down at these repetitive tasks that didn't involve anyone but himself.

Alma could admit, it was hypnotizing watching it all come together. He formed the clay-like roll with a liquid glucose, colourant and ground down, pre-processed medicine. The smell was astringent and herbal and made Alma’s nose wrinkle and tickle.

Once the dough laid upon the moulding machine he put his weight down on the block and rolled it across to cut and form the little balls. He marked a tally on a paper for every 14 doses and then pressed each with a stamp containing two parts: one, the name of the medicine and two, his family crest. He put them with the others to dry.

Alma was sat by her sleeping Prince, arm on the bed and her head rested upon it. It was an uncomfortable twist but it was better than sitting up. Earlier Seane plainly offered an open bed but Alma declined, reasoning that she wanted to be by Prince Mavis to watch his breathing.

He didn't say a word to that, he simply gave a nod and turned towards his work. It must've been a couple hours now. Occasionally that miserable doctor would stand up and check Mavis’ pulse with a couple fingers to his wrist, and then brushing the back of his hand over Mavs head. She figured he was checking his temperature before leaving him to rest.

At some point in the night the doctor's older son stepped out of the office. He looked a lot like a teen version of his father. It kind of reminded her of how a pup doesn't quite look right yet, too skinny and hasn't grown into its paws.

He was light on his feet, silent as he stepped across the office.

He caught Alma's eye for a long moment, stopped like a spooked animal, before slipping away quicker and out the door.

The knight outside made a soft grunt but said nothing to the young man.

She could feel sleep slowly beginning to take her when footsteps much heavier than the young McCullough boy broke the white-noise of the room. The door opened, more light spilling inside the infirmary.

Her eyes fluttered open to the sight of a large, older man in black robes stepping inside. His shadow stretched inside, fading into the light of Seane’s workstation.

The Midonian priest. Alma recognized him after a moment of tired blinking.

He had shown up only that morning with Saria’s brother. Josef Philips-Bishop was an important man, as was her brother, Xavier Cane.

Alma did not know much of Father Josef other than that he was the previous High Priest of Midonia before Lord Xavier lost his throne.

Their arrival was supposedly a gift from Crown Skalono. He put out a call for a Midonian priest, and what better than *THE* Midonian Priest?

It seemed the Crown hit several birds with one stone as well. He needed a new advisor and a retired Xavier answered the call.

Advisor Davyd was quitting soon and who better to advise a king then another king?... Alma figured the help of a tyrant who lost his title would be the last thing Skalono would need or want- but It was not her place to question her Crown.

With them they brought Lady Saria’s eldest half-brother, Lord Azaiah Cane. He was the advisor to his brother before the turn of power. Skalono chirped something about needing a something-or-other coordinator.

The Priest’s voice growled as he spoke. Gravelly and commanding, it snapped Alma from her train of thought. He addressed the doctor with a hint of familiarity but… there was something behind it. Alma decided to call it warm hostility

“McCullough.”

She watched as the doctor turned his head slowly, blinking in the dimness of the infirmary.

“Father”

“You never came to say hello, did nobody tell you I arrived, old friend?”

He adjusted his chair and stood, holding onto the wooden back and reaching to hold the cross at his throat. He didn't reply for a long, drawn out few seconds.

Josef raised his chin, expecting an answer.

“Today was a chaotic one, Father. I expected to come see you as my day ended, but the sun had well set before I had a chance. I felt I shouldn't bother you until morning. You must be tired.”

Josef stepped inside, squinting down at the doctor. Seeing him closer to the doctor really put his size into context. He was as tall as Seane but his silhouette was almost twice as big.

“Hm. I see…”

His attention didn't linger on Seane. It flicked to the bed with Mavis and he made his way over quite casually.

“The Prince?...” He looked back to Seane and he nodded. He looked back at the sick boy.

“Poor thing… his mother came right to me after that little incident. I have to wonder how she managed- no, any of you Midonians managed without me?”

“So you understand I was busy?”

“Of course,” he hummed, his tone shifting into cheer, “Only the best care for the heir. I will pray he recovers well.”

Josef glanced back to Seane when he didn't reply. The cheer drained from his voice, returning to a command.

"It's best you come pray as well tomorrow morning, Seane. I don't suppose you’ve properly connected with God for almost 5 years now.”

Alma could've sworn there was a threat behind those innocuous words.

Seane still didn't reply but Josef continued anyway without giving him another glance. He focused down on Mavis, head tilting as he examined the sick lump under its blankets.

“How you could stand to live in this Godless land is beyond me.” He hissed through gritted teeth suddenly, “Though, I suppose it's nowhere as bad as the hell I had to endure at the hands of those Ishidan witches. It's a shame you didn't accompany me, Seane. A real damn shame.”

[mthollowell-writes]

When I last saw you, we were young. Reckless. We whispered dreams of eternity in passionate embraces with declarations of everything & the world to each other.

Then the war came. Time & distance & blood shed changed us. When you return to me, scars deep yet hidden, your touch is wary but each kiss a careful promise made.