Fiction writer- www.celiewells.com www.inkitt.com/CelieWells Accountant, Software Nut, Traveler, People Watcher

What I get when I ask the universe to tell me a story.

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Image by Kellepics, pixabay via Canva

I put up a post about automatic writing, explaining my process for meditating to begin a raw fiction writing session. I use this process when I sleep to allow me to remember my dreams.

A few readers sent emails asking what type of stories I get from this process. Thinking about the question, I considered posting one of my working dreams to see if people enjoyed reading one.

On the Rails, an excerpt I posted here, is one of my dreams. This particular raw personality finds me every few months while I sleep. I added the dream to my fictional character Pax, a greater prince of hell pretending to be a common demon soul collector in my novel Onus Angelorum. …


And why I won’t use their service again.

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Image by DAPA images, via Canva

I fell for a writing scam. It’s embarrassing, and I feel quite stupid.

While I’ve spent more money for the booze tab on a cruise, I still feel the dollars were flushed down the proverbial toilet. I learned an expensive lesson. Hopefully, sharing my experience will help someone else avoid the profound regret I feel today.

For those of you who haven’t used Writer’s Relief, they offer services to help with the agent query process, self-publishing, and author websites. I found them through a web search for the agent query process.

I chose to participate in one round of agent querying for a short YA novel titled Daughters of the Mayflower Universe, a dystopian romance series I’m using as a guinea pig for my journey through the publishing meat grinder. …


Her reasons for marriage were vastly different from yours.

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Image by Elnur, Canva

In decades past, marriage was a financial necessity for women. Many of our foremothers married to ensure their security and safety in a world that was anti-female at best and physically hostile at worst. The political and economic landscape was significantly different fifty or sixty years ago.

The tribe didn’t allow for very many deviations in your personal lifestyle. You could be a wife and mother, or a plaything and a whore, or a pitied unmarried creature doomed to walk the earth alone — a clowder trailing behind you.

For men, marriage was status based as well as an everyday necessity. A married man was seen as more reliable and trustworthy in business settings. There was a little real stigma to his lack of marital status other than pity. Everyone’s collective tribal duty kicked in to help the unfortunate creature find a spouse to cook and clean for him. …


Finding life in the dismal summer of 1987.

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I earned an audition for a company in San Francisco a month earlier when I was a solid B cup. Now, after losing three more pounds, I was still pushing a full C. My genetics were pulling me away from the only dream I knew existed. A woman with a flat chest and a thick blonde mustache asked me to give my audition spot to another physically better-suited girl.

I should give up my barre for a pole if I wanted to pursue a career in dancing. Perhaps a drama team might be an artful use of my talents. I was shocked to the point of mutism. …


Twenty-four years, two devices, zero problems.

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Image by stock_colors, Getty via Canva

I went in for a checkup with a new practitioner, and she asked how long I had my IUD (intrauterine device) in place. Old records from my previous doctor’s office didn’t show the insertion date. When I explained, I’d had it since my only child was born, and that child was graduating high school soon she lost her professional mask of calm.

I had zero problems with my IUD. Literature for the device boasts a ten to twelve-year lifespan for the product. The doctor strongly advised I get a new one. …


Two single days marred my childhood. The day my mother disappeared, and the day my father was arrested.

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My annual visit to the Riverbend maximum security prison pulls out memories I keep neatly tucked away. I make a point to visit my father every year on my mother’s birthday.

January rolls around and I start planning for my trip. February begins, and besides valentine’s day concerns, I dream of my last days with her. My thoughts are scattered by the middle of March.

Preoccupied with the trip — I know not to schedule any specialized jobs. Regardless of whatever else is happening in my life. I see my father on the seventeenth.

Everyone thinks my father killed my mother, but no evidence exists either way. I would like to believe he couldn’t hurt her — this one woman would be beyond his sickness. That would be a good thing for me. It would give me some hope. There have been times I felt a real bloodlust rush in my veins. Deep in my core, I know he killed her. I know it’s what broke him. I don’t get too familiar with my women. I suppose I use this yearly visit to remind myself not to break that rule. …


Heavy energy filled the house that morning. I dismissed the strange feeling as nerves.

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image by Ksenila Perminova, Canva

I was leaving and I wasn’t coming back. I planned to go quietly, postponing the inevitable nasty confrontation. My husband was busy with a new job site in town. Our son was at school until noon. An early morning car swap with my sister made me feel powerful — I was retaking control of my life.

Wade was sloppy. He left a bracelet in his work truck. Pink, sparkly crystals peeked out from under the floor mat. It looked like something a teenage girl would wear. I hid it under the lining of my jewelry box. It was the first of his lies I could touch. …


Not just for tree-hugging hippies.

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I know it sounds very odd. Automatic writing does involve meditation and a fair bit of letting your mind run wild but it’s really quite fun.

I sat for nine hours once and typed out a novel called Switch. Not the BDSM kind of switch but it is a dark romance. The whole thing was a channeled trance that gave me a serious case of mouse shoulder. Editing the fat unruly thing was a bitch. My half alert brain spells phonetically and the scenes are usually out of order much like getting directions from an over-caffeinated teenager. …


It was not exactly as I remembered.

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Image by kishore kumar, Getty Images via Canva

As a child, I had pneumonia. Ice baths and pink antibiotics weren’t curing me. After days of a high fever, I stopped breathing. My mother asked what I saw while I slipped away. The only word I knew to describe the experience was white.

A hidden voice asked me questions. Nothing noteworthy was discussed until it asked if I wanted to stay. I answered, no.

A happy colored light peeked out from the white. Blues, greens, oranges, and pinks danced in a thin glow. A small candy appeared in my hand. …


Flash poetry from Onus Angelorum

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Image by sciencefreak via Pixabay

Into the golden light, you shall step with none but your fate.

The bodies of your guard lay upon a bounty of goodwill. Await the march of the dark soldier into the arms of the dawn. From destruction shall spring peaceful respite.

The sins of the devout prick deeply at the eyes of God. Their atonements made all the more painful to witness from above and all the more delightful from below.

Bathed in the golden light of the Grove, the fallen shall witness peace eternal.

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© Celie Wells 2020

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