I blew the smoke from my blunderbuss and readied chamber with gunpowder and buckshot, prepared to shoot the injured daemon should it rise.
It did not.
I jumped on to my steam-powered bike. Fired the engine–it gave a satisfied hiss as the wheels engaged with the cobblestones and the primitive power unleashed.
I rode through Byzantium, skimming the lurid fabrics, their dyes dripping to the floor making my steam-bike skid.
Then I stopped as I saw her.
I am a maker of monsters. A creator of people. A conjurer of worlds.
I am a writer of code.
It was good to play my game instead of staring at the code.
My screen is my codex. My keyboard, my lunarium. My mouse, my pippin.
I eek out my time.
Dad waits at home, with glazed eyes, dishevelled hair and shirt undone. He hasn’t worked since she passed away. I’ve been torn between living my life and caring for him.
I have started to wonder if he is beyond saving.
But Mum lives on. I paint her face on a passing character. Code fruit-stalls in the colours she loved. Write messages beneath the objects the players can’t reach.
The machine is my codex and I am the scribe.
No mention for this one, but it’s one I am very proud of and it related to me in terms of finding creative ways to honour my mum.