A few years ago, I started The Sprawl as an outlet for my weekly short-short fiction writing. I started “promoting” it by leaving weirdo comments on Reddit posts, mostly for fun, and watched a few of them gain traction. That’s how most of you found me.
Then I took a break, and you probably forgot that I exist. That’s totally fine—it’d be strange if you didn’t.
I’m going to start posting again. Maybe not as frequently, I’m leaning toward twice-monthly, but I’m dedicating myself to following through with these newsletters for the next year. I already have a couple months worth of stories banked, and I’ll be including little craft/fiction/indie publishing/industry essays at the bottom for anyone interested in hearing more.
If you don’t want my short stories and craft thoughts, please go to the bottom of this email and hit the unsubscribe button.
Seriously, go unsubscribe!
You won’t hurt my feelings!
I’m appearing in your inbox after two (three?) years of silence.
I deserve your unsubs!
If you’re still here, awesome. I’m excited to share more fiction with you (and other stuff—I think next edition will have some thoughts on burnout).
A little about me, since you definitely forgot:
My name’s Andrew, I went by DC for a while on here, but most people call me Drew. I’ve been self-publishing romance novels for just about 10 years, and I’ve had multiple books hit the top 100 of the Amazon store overall. I used to write poetry, but I don’t anymore, and I have an MFA from Notre Dame. I write high-end stereo equipment reviews for a really great magazine called The Absolute Sound. I also write short fiction and other stuff.
I want to share thoughts on craft and indie publishing and the publishing industry in general. I’ve been doing this professionally for a decade and I have feelings!! Those feelings can be ignored though—with the exception of this re-introductory post, the stories will always come up top
And finally, here is a story I wrote a few months back—it’s much longer than the typical works you’ll get from me. This one’s around 5k words, but the ‘normal’ length will be half that.
Thanks for sticking around, and I really hope you enjoy!
The Machine Still Turns
Every morning, Acolyte Initiate Owain attempted to resist the majesty of his faith and failed. It wasn’t in him not to worship, no matter how hard he tried. The prayer wheels glittered in the rising sun as mist burned off the metal hand rails, and Owain wanted to feel nothing more than the mundane churn of greased bearings spinning along posts. Instead, he caught a glimpse of the divine, which was unwelcome.
The divinity continued, his faith undiminished by time and repetition, as he moved down the walkway along the partially exposed exterior path. The side of the mountainous power station fell into a gleaming valley covered in trees. More natural beauty. It only made his belief stronger, and he tried not to look, but the stuff was all over the place. He marched along his route, spun dozens of wheels, murmured the prescribed words, and tried to remember that he’d memorized these prayers from a book only six months earlier, but that didn’t change a thing. He still felt it.
The wheels themselves were gorgeous. That didn’t help. Each had a smooth, polished metal exterior, cold to the touch, and reflected the natural vista in distorted, artistic swathes. His fingerprints marred the surface for moments before evaporating. The holy letters, signs, and symbols were carved into the interior, and Owain wasn’t allowed to know what they said. The uncertainty was part of the system. His god was a wind god, and if he was spinning wheels for gods of the sea, for example, his faith wouldn’t be as meaningful. They’d lose precious magic and so forth. The engineers had devised this scheme whereby the Initiates had no clue which wheel was sanctified to which god, meaning any wheel could be their own god’s prayer.
Rationally, Owain understood the trick, but a voice inside him wondered each time he spun the deceitful holy cylinders, and it was the same voice that wouldn't shut up about divine provenance and the beauty of all things. It made him believe. He hated that voice.
Faith was the power that drove the grinding machinery, and sometimes Owain wondered if his unwillingness only made his faith that much more potent. He moved down the line, and in spinning the prayers he manifested a small spark of magic, and the gears sent that sliver of illogic down the pneumatic tubes to be gathered in the great batteries beneath the temple complex, only for it to flow out along lines and cables, to get condensed into portable logic boards, and then dispersed throughout the empire. That was the product of Owain’s faith. Power for the world.
Other Initiates traversed the wheel line. He nodded to each and spoke to those he was familiar with. When he ran into Acolyte Initiate Travers, the pair of them stepped off the main path to take a break in the shade. Travers leaned her head back, her throat bobbing as she let out a long breath steaming into the air. She wore her hair long, right on the line toward improper, and somehow her white uniform robes were always rumpled, like she slept in them each night. But Travers was one of the longest-serving Initiates, having been at this power station for two whole years, and she knew every inch of every regulation like a sermon she’d prepared by heart. Most Initiates lasted six months on average. Owain had been there for five.
“Still believe?” she asked.
“Despite my best efforts.”
“You’ll get there.” She patted his shoulder. “I heard Jenander went cold yesterday.”
That surprised Owain. “He seemed so sincere.”
“You never know what’s going on under the surface.” Travers stretched her back and covered her mouth as she yawned. “You’ll get there eventually. This place always drains them.”
He wanted to ask how she did it. Two years of walking, spinning, and praying, only for any miracles her faith generated to drain into the great machinery of the state, and not once losing faith. She terrified and fascinated him all at once. What if he was like her and could continue on indefinitely? Would they keep him here until he couldn’t walk the paths anymore? A life spent in prayer, denied all meaning. Travers didn’t seem unhappy. Maybe it wasn’t so bad.
There were the Meditation Wards for after the wheels had turned enough, the Chanting Recesses, the Communal Sermons, and even some deeper mysteries Owain hadn’t been introduced to. He didn’t want to know what happened to the priests that worshipped through sacrifice, that denied their bodies, that embraced pain. Sub-basement Twelve was reserved for those pitiful few. Owain was limited by his deity’s requirements, which weren’t overly restrictive. He wandered the upper levels as long as that wandering was itself a kind of holy communion, and too bad for Owain, because his was. He returned to the wheels each evening, spun them one last time, and retired to his cell to recover, but not to pray.
It was in the small hours that he remembered his old life in the monastery back home. He was too young to know what Ivorth was like before the Region came, but he grew up in the sprawling complex with its prayer bowls and graven images of his lord the wind god Vethyerwyn. But even then, the Vethites were dying away, the priesthood shrinking, the faith dwindling, and by the time Owain came of age there were only a dozen of them huddled together in their chilly antechamber singing His praises and calling forth His miracles. The Region encouraged all religions, even going so far as to fund them, but that meant a constant struggle for adherents. Why pray to Vethyerwyn when some other god could heal sores and grow grain? What was the point of the Divine Wind?
A knock at Owain’s cell made him jump. He sat up and stared as his door opened. A lantern came first, blinding him, carried by a man dragging a cart. The wheels clattered on the stone floor.
“Don’t mind me,” the man said.
Owain’s eyes adjusted. “What’s going on?”
“Just here to collect the illogic is all.” He was middle-aged and paunchy. His robes were deep gray, meaning he wasn’t an Initiate anymore. They must’ve reassigned him to the Engineering department. His faith had failed him. Lucky guy.
He began fiddling with a blocky machine on the back of the cart. Long tubes snaked from it, and the man attached the ends to pegs on Owain’s bedframe. He hummed to himself as he worked.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m supposed to be off duty.” Owain tried to squirm away but the man barely paid him attention.
“Got an alert on the logic boards. You’re having a crisis.”
“I’m not—what are you talking about?”
“Crisis of faith.” Once the tubes were all fastened, the man turned a few dials, flicked some switches, and the whole machine began to glow a warm orange and groan. “Pretend like I’m not here. Go ahead, lie back, keep on thinking about home or whatever it is that’s got you worked up.”
This was too much. Owain didn’t know what to say. He felt violated like the Region had implanted worms under his skin. He stared at the tubes, at the machine, and a cold dread filled him. Even in his private cell, he was monitored. They watched him all the time, desperate for any ounce of faith he could conjure. The Region was hungry, and here at Ecclesiastic Power Station Twelve, it must be fed.
“Get out,” Owain said softly, shaking.
“That’s good,” the man said, leaning back on his haunches and staring at some readings. He tapped at a glass screen. “Lovely, very lovely. You’re doing great.”
“Oh, god.”
“That’s the stuff,” the man said, nodding his big head.
“Please, I want you to get out.”
“Sorry, but a crisis of faith is also a kind of faith, and you know how things are here. Got to get even this stuff.” He looked up, eyes narrowed over the machine’s juddering. “You think I like this? Disgusting, if you ask me. Had it happen when I was in your spot. But these are the regulations, and we follow the regulations. Just lie back and pretend like I’m not here. I’ll sneak out when you’re asleep.”
Owain wanted to rip the tubes away. He wanted to thrash the man and scream. The machine continued its rumble like a second beat in his chest, and after a few moments of sweating and shaking, he lay back on his pillow, pulled his blankets to his chin, and squeezed his eyes closed.
The man was right. They followed regulations here. Owain despised them, but he was bound like everyone else. Travers seemed to understand better than most: the machine moved whether they wanted it to or not, and their individual protests wouldn’t stop the grinding. Owain couldn’t keep them from draining his crisis of faith the same way he couldn’t deny them his god’s magic. That was the deal he’d struck when High Priest Helmer had asked him to come here: serve his time, give the Region their miracles, and in return, the Region would keep Vethyerwyn alive. Their god would never starve. Their tradition would never die. But what kind of half-life was this place?
“Very good,” the man murmured from his spot near the machine, and Owain turned on his side, curling into a ball.
***
He still believed in the morning. That was the worst part of starting his day. The prayer wheels spun and danced in the sunlight and he liked the gentle rumbling noise they made along their greased post. The walk was easy; the view was gorgeous. He could feel his god Vethyerwyn. It was horrible.
“Heard you had a visitor last night.” Travers fell into step beside him. That was technically against regulation, but Travers seemed to exist outside their world. She was the example to ignore.
“How did they know?” he asked.
“Whole place is covered with logic boards.” She gestured in the air at nothing.
“The man that hooked up the machine said it happened to him.”
“They love the crisis stuff. Gets them a whole lot of juice, otherwise they probably wouldn’t bother. Too much work to monitor the alarms at all hours, right?”
“It wasn’t enough,” he said, not meaning the magic he’d produced for the Region.
Travers nodded like she understood. “Don’t worry. They’ll find some other way to bleed it out of you. Happens to everyone.”
“But not to you.”
“I’m a special case.” Her mouth pressed together in a mockery of a smile. “Go on, skip out on this morning. I’ll spin double for you. They won’t notice so long as their quotas are met.”
“Are you sure?”
“The first crisis is hard for everyone. I’m amazed you lasted this long, honestly. Go ahead, get something to eat.” She didn’t tell him to take a break, because there were no breaks in this place. The mere act of existing was a steady feed for the machine, a low-level drip of the miraculous.
But Owain took her up on the offer and was grateful for it. He retreated into the station and sat in the mess hall drinking decent tea and picking at thick slices of dark bread slathered in butter. It was Region food, not like what he grew up with, but good enough.
The day passed. Nothing terrible happened. He stayed calm at night and the man with the machine didn’t come back. The next day was the same, and the day after that, and each morning Owain woke with sunlight in his face praying that he wouldn’t believe anymore, but found the spark was still in him.
Until he received a summons during his morning wheel work a couple of weeks later. “They don’t hand those out for no reason,” Travers said, showing a bit of surprise. “Where are they calling you to?”
“Some meeting room on Sub-Basement Six.”
“Engineering,” she said and looked around as if the other Initiates might have overheard. “You better hurry.”
Owain felt a distinct unmooring as he descended the floors. The power station hummed around him, alive with the machinery that ran the state, crackling with magic. The byproduct of faith. How many like him had passed through this place? How many gods, how many traditions? He couldn’t begin to imagine. The power stations kept the religions of the world alive by gathering pieces of the lore that sustained the divinities themselves—but the price was the magic that gave substance to those faiths. How many tiny congregations had been faced with the choice to send a priest to the Region or to fade into history?
A young orderly met him once he reached Sub Basement Six. Owain was ushered into a small room with a table and four chairs, offered tea, and left alone. After a few minutes of silent, miserable staring at the wall, the door opened again, and a woman stepped in.
She wore glasses perched on her nose and a starched gray uniform. Her hair was cut short and worn straight. Several folders of papers were bundled in her arms. She was a Region woman just by the way she carried herself, as though she were both too important to notice anything around her and too busy to care.
“Acolyte Initiate Owain?” she asked before taking a seat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “That’s me, although I don’t know why I’ve been called down here. I had that crisis of faith—“
“My name is Engineer Moscentina and this interview won’t take long.” She flipped open one of the folders, murmuring to herself. “I understand you’re the priest of a wind god?”
Owain nodded and looked down at the engineer’s hands. Her fingers were long and pale, and the nails were chipped and worn. Those were hands that made things. He hadn’t seen many actual engineers since coming to the power station—they kept to themselves and didn’t like to mingle with the priests, or so Travers had said—and he found Moscentina both fascinating and terrifying. The Region’s greatest minds worked to harness the powers that flowed behind the world. The powers he’d been taught were meant to remain wild and free. It was blasphemy, but when faced with extinction, the rules could be bent.
She shuffled some more papers, frowning at a diagram. “I’ve been told it has a certain kind of rite.”
“Vethyerwyn.”
Her eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry?”
“His name is Vethyerwyn. My god’s name, I mean.”
“Yes, right.” She looked back at the page. “This rite, I’ve heard it’s a kind of prayer. A sort of proto-spell?”
“I’m not sure which rite you mean. We have a lot of them. Songs, devotions, worshipful acts. Vethyerwyn believes—“
“There’s one in particular,” she said, cutting him off again. “I’ve been told it calls down a breeze? The sources are vague on how much of a breeze we’re talking.”
Owain went still. He felt cold all over. “There’s, ah, something like that,” he said, his mouth swollen like it was full of rocks.
“That’s quite useful, though my supposed superiors don’t think so. We’re always looking for ways to increase efficiency, and I’ve come up with this design—“
Owain could hardly listen. She showed him the drawings, the notations made in a precise hand, the specifications beautifully done and all to perfection, but his head was a rush of noise. He’d given the Region everything his religion could offer—everything but this. The most holy, the most sacred, the Divine Wind itself. It was their most important mystery. How the Region had learned about it, he didn’t have a clue. His people only performed the magic during their high holiday, and only once, to ring the chimes which called forth a new year and cleansed the world with Vethyerwyn’s grace.
This engineer’s diagrams were not holy, though they were lovely in their way. It was a giant windmill, from what he could tell, with prayer wheels attached to the top where the blades turned. A clockwork mechanism.
“If it functions as intended, we’ll have a nearly-automated system. Multiple wheels turned by the hand of a single Initiate. In theory, we could scale by compacting the prayers and filling available space, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I need you to explain how the magic works first.”
Owain’s head pounded. He couldn’t believe they were asking this of him, but of course they were. “I can’t tell you that.”
She looked surprised. “You can’t?”
“You don’t understand. I’ve given everything already. The Divine Wind, it’s the most holy of our beliefs, it’s fundamental to who we are as a people. It’s not a trick or some magic spell. It’s Vethyerwyn’s breath itself.”
Engineer Moscentina sat back, studying Owain with a pinched stare, and took off her glasses. She looked younger without them, likely around his own age, and exhaustion was etched into every inch of her posture. Bags hung under her eyes and wrinkles marked her forehead. She rubbed the bridge of her nose where the glasses had left red marks.
“Look, I get it,” she said with more patience than he expected. “This isn’t easy, but I’m trying to find a way to save everyone so much time and effort. And anyway, my superiors think this idea is absurd and won’t even work. My career is on the line here.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry for you, but—“
“Your contract was clear, Initiate Acolyte.” She put her glasses back on and sat straight. “You are to provide all hymns, prayers, rites, sacrifices, and mysteries of your religion. That’s how this works.”
“I know, but—“
“You think I enjoy sitting across from you prying away your most sacred beliefs? I don’t. I don’t at all. But this is how the system functions. These are the regulations. Now, you signed the contract, and you owe me.”
He opened his mouth, but only silence yawned from his throat. There were no protests anymore. Engineer Moscentina fetched a pen from her pocket. She held it poised over a blank page.
There was nothing he could say to stop this. She was right. He’d made the deal, and though he’d tried to keep one small piece of his religion away from these people, they’d have it anyway. Everything he held sacred was now theirs.
They’d keep Vethyerwyn alive—but in what state, he couldn’t imagine.
Owain watched her handwriting, her letters lined up like gears.
***
Life continued and the wheels spun. He chanted in supplication with the rest of them, and he still believed. He hated how much he believed. Several new Initiates arrived while more of the cohort he’d come in with were reassigned elsewhere, their faith drained. Travers remained unflappable. Owain sank into the routine, and he almost enjoyed the comfort of it. There was unlimited tea in the mess, good food at mealtimes, and he liked some of the other Initiates. They discussed theology at supper. Travers told funny stories about priests losing their religion in hilarious ways. He’d almost forgotten about giving over Vethyerwyn’s most sacred mystery until the laborers appeared in the courtyard several weeks later. The machine they assembled looked like a scaled-down version of what he’d seen in Engineer Moscantina’s notes.
She appeared to him one morning after the construction was finished. The engineer came out of a side door, stepped onto the wheel path, adjusted her glasses, and flagged him down. She looked uncomfortable. Her hair blew in the wind.
“I’d like to extend you an invitation,” she said, sounding very stiff. “The Autoprayer needs someone to turn the engagement mechanism. I was hoping it might be you.”
Owain felt sick at the idea. “Please, ma’am, I can’t. I really don’t—“
She stepped forward, cutting him off. “Will it work without you? Will the wind come if someone who doesn’t believe in your god engages the mechanism?”
“I don’t—I’m not sure.” Which was true. Based on what he’d seen of the contraption, she’d done something to the rite he’d given her, changed it in some fundamental way, and he had no idea what would happen with it now. “Only the faithful of Vethyerwyn ever called his Divine Breath.”
“Yes, well, that’s not really how magic works, is it?” She turned away. “If you change your mind, send me a note. The demonstration is tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, okay, ma’am. Good luck.” He grimaced at his words. Every part of him wanted this nightmare to fail.
The machine loomed for the rest of the day and into the night. He couldn’t sleep, but he also wouldn’t let himself linger over the theological ramifications of the thing. If he did, he might start having a crisis, and he couldn’t handle another night time visit. Instead, he closed his eyes and thought of his life back at the monastery among his people, chanting over the valley in the mornings, praying by the candles in the evenings, ministering to the poor and aiding the needy. He’d had a good, happy childhood, until the Region had annexed all the villages surrounding his home. Which meant his people had been annexed too, as they found out later. He’d been twelve years old when his world had changed. That was twenty years ago. He’d known the Region for longer than he’d lived without it.
They rang the bells early and called a general assembly. Owain shuffled in with the other tired Acolytes. He looked for Travers, but couldn’t spot her in the sea of white robes. The courtyard had a small platform erected beside the horrible machine, and four people stood on it. Engineer Moscentina was at the back, looking stiff and prim, her hands clasped in front of her. Two men and another woman stood in front of her, each in a gray uniform, starched and pristine.
A man called Chief Engineer Thosin gave a short speech. Owain couldn’t hear it. All he saw was the machine, and standing at the base by an activation mechanism that looked a lot like another prayer wheel, was Travers.
She seemed herself. Relaxed, a little aloof. If she knew what this thing meant to him, none of that showed on her face. It was a betrayal, but it was also a strange comfort. If someone was going to blaspheme his religion, if someone was going to sully the cleanest part of his soul, it might as well be Travers.
“Acolyte, please, give it a spin. Let’s see if this works, shall we?” Chief Engineer Thosin seemed as though he doubted anything would happen.
The crowd stood silent. Owain stared as Travers pressed her hand to the wheel and turned it with one sharp spin. It was a tiny gesture, dwarfed in the grandeur of a couple dozen Acolytes and the parade-stiffness of the Engineers. Owain prayed to himself, willing Vethyerwyn not to answer the most holy of calls.
The wind was cold. A breeze dragged through the fine hairs on his neck. He closed his eyes and felt the swelling in his throat. Vethyerwyn’s breath was always freezing as if descended from a mountain. It grew more intense, from a slight tugging at his skin, to a pull on his robes, until he heard the creaking of the machinery. Owain looked up, and the mill turned above them, spinning prayer wheels attached by cogs and flywheels, fifty or more. Travers seemed delighted and gave her mechanism another quick nudge.
Owain inwardly crumbled as his faith was confirmed. The wind blew, proving his god was watching and listening, proving that Vethyerwyn loved him and loved all living creatures and would give them his Divine Breath when they begged for him to cleanse their souls regardless of how they wanted to use it. Vethyerwyn was renewal and rebirth, and Owain hated himself as the miracle of His majesty unfolded. The wind howled bitter cold, and the wheels spun in great circles.
His faith had never been stronger than in that moment. Engineer Moscentina looked pleased.
***
Acolyte Initiate Owain stepped out onto the wheel walkway. The moon hung round and bright in the cloudless sky. He pulled his robes tightly around him as he shuffled forward, trying to be careful along the narrow path. He didn’t get far before a voice called out to him.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
It was Travers. She sat against the wall in the shadow of the overhang. Owain didn’t move. It wasn’t technically against regulations to be out of his cell in the middle of the night, but it was the sort of thing the Region would frown upon. But he moved over toward her anyway.
“I’ve come to put an end to my religion.”
She nodded as if she’d heard that one before. “Sorry about earlier.”
“You knew it was mine?”
“You’re always using wind metaphors during your little theology debates. I put it together.”
He grunted and shuffled closer. “But you did it anyway.”
“I did it anyway.”
“Why?”
She gave him a look, and he knew the answer already. It was the same reason he’d given away his religion’s secrets to Engineer Moscentina, the same reason he woke and spun the wheels each morning. He slid down and sat next to her, leaning his head back against the wall.
“That was a very intense line, you know,” she said after a long silence. “I’ve come to put an end to my religion.” She did a passable imitation of his accent. “Really had me impressed.”
“I wasn’t kidding.” He pulled his knees to his chest. “I want to get out of this place.”
“Why are you in such a hurry? What’s better out there?”
“At least out there, I’m not selling myself every day.” He was quiet and stared straight ahead. But he couldn’t keep it inside. “Why don’t they just take us? The priests, I mean. Why this elaborate system? If they need what we have, why not just force us to pray?”
“Because when the incentives are right, we happily give them everything they need. Even if we get barely anything in return. Why bother fighting? All that’s a big mess anyway. If they can build the world and bend it any way they want, eventually we’ll do what they’re asking without realizing it’s exactly what they wanted all along.”
“That’s almost worse,” he said, chin on his knees. “But also not worse. Which makes it terrible.” He didn’t know what he wanted to say.
Travers patted his back. “You get used to it.” She studied him for a second before nodding at the wheels. “What was your plan, anyway?”
“I was going to look inside of them,” he muttered, only now realizing how small that sounded.
But Travers ran a hand over her hair. “Not a bad idea. You can’t stop believing, right? So maybe you cheat the system a bit. Your wind god wouldn’t mind?”
“He’s pretty permissive.”
“Mine too.” She got to her feet and spread her arms wide. “Soleth the Destroyer, Queen of the Damned, Goddess of the Decaying Flesh.” She rolled her eyes and her hands fell to her sides. “It’s very dramatic. Anyway, she’ll love this. Come on.”
Travers helped him up. Together, they went down the path, unscrewing the top bolt that held each wheel in place. He lifted the body off and she held a candle while he peered inside. Wheel after wheel, he destroyed the illusion: none were to his god. They wouldn’t matter to him anymore.
Until a few hours later, when his fingers were stiff and numb, and his back and eyes both ached, he found an old prayer in his native language. Not even in a good spot: shoved in the back, away from the nice views.
He didn’t move for a while, reading and rereading those familiar, chest-aching words, hating how much he still loved them, and Travers let him stay right there until it was time to leave.
***
They came for him a couple of weeks later. What use was a priest without faith? He’d spun the wheels every morning, but made sure to skip the one that meant something. Now they’d take him away and assign him different work. This wasn’t winning, but it was the best he could do. He still believed. Maybe he could live with his religion somewhere else.
When he bundled himself in his robes and stepped out of the gates, following his escort, he felt the cold breeze against his skin and heard the creaking of the machine. Would his god be trapped in this place, stuck answering a call from the unfaithful? What would it mean for Vethyerwyn to manifest his power without the requisite faith? In fifty years, in a hundred, would anyone even know the textures of his faith? They’d never hear the thousand chimes echoing across the vast canyons of his home.
Owain didn’t know the answers, and the questions wouldn’t stop ringing through his hollow skull. Even if leaving was only a way to postpone the inevitable loss, he couldn’t remain in this half-existence alongside whatever was left of his god.
He had to believe that Vethyerwyn loved him and would want this for him. The wind was a symbol of that love, and it was awful.