Posted in Flash Fiction Friday, Prompts, Writing



My fellow colleagues and friends,

Along with this letter, I have enclosed an artifact that may very well be the pinnacle of my findings: a pocket watch, hidden beneath the floorboards of an early twentieth-century cottage in Liege, Belgium. The watch, though rusted and covered in dust, is in near perfect condition and a wonderful addition to the historic archives of the university; however, I urge you to be cautious when handling this precious artifact. In fact, I implore you not to open it but instead to quickly put it somewhere safe and far away from human contact.

Perhaps it would be better if I withheld the watch and returned it to its blanket of dust underneath rotten floorboards, but I am not strong enough to resist my natural affection of the preservation of history, no matter how dark or iniquitous that history may be. This small memento, though its impact is actually larger than some may believe, is extremely dangerous. It contains vivid memories of the “War to End All Wars,” the very first World War. These memories are filled with dark and sad emotions: the fear of the Germans as they attacked Belgium and the excruciating sorrow of one who has died in the trenches.

My friends, this artifact seems to have captured the memories of its owner or owners. I’m clueless as to how this has been accomplished, and I cannot explain it scientifically, but this pocket watch is cursed. These horrid memories have seeped into my mind and the minds of my crew, and we have all felt as if we were reliving a war that happened a century ago.

I can only ask for your trust, my logical friends. Many of you may think I’ve gone insane or sipped too much wine, but neither is impacting my words today. When the watch is opened, the memories are released into your mind. When the watch is closed, the memories vanish and only traces of the strong emotions remain until nightfall when the memories reenter your dreams. We have all felt it here in the cottage, and it has caused a few members of my team to abort our mission. Not only do the memories echo World War 1, but they also relive terrible occurrences that have happened inside the cottage where the watch was discovered. Through my extensive research, I have discovered that the cottage has been abandoned for more than fifty years.

Though I fear the pocket watch because of its power to poison my mind with horrific scenes, nothing can rebuke its value. Never have I encountered an artifact that speaks directly to the mind. Some may believe it is magic, but if anything–I believe it is cursed.

To end this letter, I again ask that you do not open the watch. It is too valuable… or too dangerous to leave here, although I fear what the consequences may be if the memories cannot be contained at the university. However, I completely trust the professors there to keep the watch preserved and safe, which I hope is enough.

I am sorry that I could not deliver this in person. I am going to remain here, researching and developing a more logical explanation to this mystery. If I should return soon, I hope the reason will be a positive one.

-Professor Iven

Posted in Prompts, Writing

The Ups and Downs of Writing

There are some days where I could write for hours on end. Those days, like the day I wrote My Burning Fire, are absolutely amazing. Words tumble out of my brain like the waterfalls of Rivendell while my excitement level overflows. I can usually spit out two or three thousand words easily in a couple of hours.

But then there are days like today where I can barely keep my eyes on the screen. For the past two hours I have scrolled through facebook, contemplated my life choices, and played all the games on my phone to avoid focusing on something that really matters to me. In fact, by writing this post I am avoiding the REAL writing that I want to do (*cough cough* finish my 300 page novel!)

But every writer must have days like these. I think, in a way, that occurences such as these really define the sheer willpower of a writer- specifically an author. We spend so much time on our books: we create them, shape them, and enhance them.

We breathe life into them.

And every life has to have ups and downs, right? Without them, there is no life.


Anyway, I wanted to share my thoughts. I hope this might help other writers out there to quench their doubts. Don’t give up if you get some serious writer’s block, no matter the circumstances. Keep going and one day it will turn out.

I think I will return to my novel, now. Wish me luck.

-Charlotte Emelia

Posted in Prompts, Writing

The Air of Silence


I felt its entrance into the atmosphere. A buzzing soundlessness filled my ears and I stood very still, tilting my head to interpret the change in the air.

I lifted my eyes to the foggy heavens where the sun was hidden beneath the clouds. Everything was an orange-gray haze, and the skies were daringly empty; not a single bird flew.

But there it was: a hot air balloon drifting towards the earth. Its silent dominance filled the air as even time itself began to freeze. The moment stood still as a tingling wave of longing, anticipation, and fatigue swept over me.

“Finally,” I whispered to the contraption in the sky. “I’ve waited long enough.”


-Charlotte Emelia

Posted in Prompts, Writing

Daily Prompt: Pillage

via Daily Prompt: Pillage

The black stallion thudded to a stop. The man swung his metal boot over the horse and jumped to the ground. He pulled out his thick, double sided blade from its sheath and studied the village.

Everything was on fire. Houses erupted in flames and collapsed, wagons and carts were burned to ashes, and soot covered everything. Women and children screamed and cried over their loved ones who were caught in the crossfire. Men with dented helmets and dull breastplates, many of whom were injured, stood guard around the outskirts of the village, protecting whatever was left of their homes.

A few of these men stood in awe of the man who just arrived. None tried to stop him as he passed through the destroyed gate leading to the ruins of the village. His eyes lay on a boy, aged 12 or 13 lying on the street. “Boy,” his low voice rumbled. “What happened here?”

“Them monsters.” The boy said, clutching his bleeding arm. “Trolls, goblins, and wolves too. They pillaged and burned everything, they took all our gold and treasure.”

The man slowly pulled his sword back into its sheath and looked around with his aged eyes. He grunted. “Where’s Analla?”

The boy was silent.

“Boy, answer me.” The man said, grunting again. “Where’s my daughter?”

The young boy lifted his dirt-streaked face. He turned towards the forest behind the smoke-filled houses. “Them monsters,” He coughed. “They took her too.”