Flash Fiction Challenge - Human Found Dead

Well...

Here we are then.  I haven't actually written anything since...um...NaNoWriMo 2011. It's been a while.  I claim a combination of writer's block and getting on with life...  So, I'm out of practice.  You have my apologies for the roughness of what follows...though, since it's supposed to be hard-boiled, that might actually work in my favour...

Anyway.  Challenge was 1000 words, and after bouncing up and down, I managed 998. I'm actually intrigued enough with this to write a whole short story...first time I'd ever done a hard-boiled anything, and I think I kinda like it...

Anyway, it's a hard-boiled urban fantasy, with (hopefully) a theme of Love Demands Sacrifice, so...lemmie know how I did.

.~.~.~.

Human Found Dead

I was at Grimm's when he started running his mouth.  Normally I let drunks ramble and ignore them, but tonight I'd come to wash the blood out of my thoughts with whiskey, not listen to his whining.  So, I give him a not-too friendly warning.

“Look, friend,” I said, interrupting him.  “A little free advice:  You've got about five minutes before someone in here decides to take your hide.  I suggest you use it well.”

“They won't kill me.”

I shook my head.  Humans.  They're never willing to believe any of us wear their skin – or used to, rather.  It's been banned, though that don't stop the traditionalists, and the traditionalists drink at Grimm's.

“For your own good, tell your story and scram – before someone kills you to dye their hat.”

“I thought you guys were cracking down on the Red Cap gangs.”

He was actually giving me attitude, after the sob story he'd just been telling anyone who'd listen?  I gave him a look.  This idiot just didn't realize on whose turf he was being an ass.  I could feel the assorted eyes of the other patrons on us, staring from the shadows.  Out in mainstream society or not, the fae don't like humans drinking in their bars.  Especially the annoying humans.

“Fine, fine.”  He turned sullen and swallowed what was left of his drink.  He had a face like the backside of a barn door, grey and unloved.

In spite of myself, I was curious.  This guy was a real, true-blooded human, and you don't get a lot of those in Grimm's.  I figured he probably had an hour tops before he was somebody's dinner, and I wanted to know why he wanted to die so bad he'd risk being human in a fairy bar.  Guess I felt bad for the poor sucker, so I signaled the barman for another round.  Least I could do, if he was going die of Terminal Stupidity.

Besides, maybe it'd take my mind of my own troubles for a time.

“What happened to him?”

“Hmm?”

“This friend you've been going on about.  What happened to him?”

“I...I dunno.  We grew apart.  I grew up, and...”  He squirmed.  “There was this girl.”

I nodded.  Nothing new there.

“She...well, eventually she left me for a six foot QB who beat her and knocked her up on Prom night.”

“And your friend?”

“I tried to find the way back, but...”  He downed his drink.  “This was before the Boundaries fell, you understand.  I couldn't find it.  We used to do everything together.  Sailed up and down the coast...he was so fierce that even the pirates backed off.  Doesn't matter,” he added bitterly.  “He's coming for me now, and there's nowhere left to run.”

I didn't say anything else.  Didn't ask him how he knew. I just bought us another round of drinks.

.~.~.~.

She has hair like untouched snow and eyes so dark they go on forever, and at 3 A.M she handed me a cup of coffee to mask the scent of whiskey on my breath.  I'd only slept for an hour tops, and was still in yesterday's clothes.  I was rumpled and smelly, but she was pristine; cool and crisp like fresh linen.  Even here, surrounded by blood and filth, Aderyn smelled like flowers.

“Barman found him.”  She has a voice like a warm fire on a cold night, and is so gentle with me it hurts.  “He said you might know something about it.”

I looked around.  I hate that she sees this shit, but she chose it – gotta help those who can't help themselves – and as she told me in the beginning, I can't take that from her.

The morning paper will have few of the details, none of the gore in a story as flat and flaccid as a rentboy at noon.  They'll leave out the splashes of dark red against brown bricks and the black puddles of lifeblood on asphalt; the smell like raw steak, and the multiple chalk outlines around what was left of that poor bastard.  They'll leave out the rank stench of bile from where the rookie yacked, and the piss-and-filth-and-garbage reek of the dumpster they found him behind.  The damp air and the eye-pounding strobe lights on the marked cars.  They'll tidy it up for their readers with three words:  Human Found Dead...

“He was a human drinking in a fairy bar,” I said.  It should be all the explanation anyone needs.  Not that that would make it better for the human cops, when we called them in.

“What do you make of this, then?”  I looked where she pointed, up at the words scratched with bloody efficiency into the brick.  “'Honah Lee'.  Could be a person.”

“Maybe.”  I filled her in on what I knew; it wasn't a lot.

“He have a name?”

I shook my head.  No names, not in Grimm's.

“Looks like his friend caught up to him, though.”

When they found the head, the mouth was stuffed with strings and wax, and there were two scales, emerald green and glowing, on his eyes.   Pennies for Charon.

I looked up at Aderyn as a nameless tech handed me a wallet.

“Jean Papier,” I told her, reading the name off the license, and had to hide the hitch in my breath.

Aderyn had taken the Change so she could walk upright like the rest of us, given up her life in the forests to wade hip deep into the scum of the Earth and make things a little brighter.  I'd marry her if she'd have me, but unicorns don't really go for elfin types.  Especially elfin cops with drinking problems.

She reached out, but not to pull me out of my personal darkness.

I handed her the wallet.


NB: I've fixed a few awkward phrases/grammar errors since putting this up and linking it to terribleminds.  Infinite do-overs and take-backs, yeah?  Well, I'm usin' 'em. :)

The Long Road Home

 For Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds flash fiction challenge, Death is on the Table...

Buttoncup put a paw on the rock face to steady himself. The pain in his chest was getting more intense, shooting down the length of his left arm. He considered going back—but back to what? Candy Cloud wasn't what it used to be—and he'd be damned if he was going to let them ship him off to The Cottage. No, there was one place left for him to go and he was going, come Hell or—he coughed, hard, and blood sprayed into his matted yellow fur.

He stood as straight as he could, turned and continued up the dirt path. There was a rush of cold wind and, of course, mist. There was a time when Buttoncup had liked the mist. That was before it got so cold, before the damp would seep deep into his bones and stay there for days—it was when he was young.

A task like this should have belonged to Clovershield or Copperclock; they were the warriors, but they were long gone now. He was the only one left. He started counting them in his head, as if ticking off a list. Mopwatch had died in the mines and Sweettart had gone trying to avenge him during the rebellion. Clovershield had walked this same path years ago and fallen to his death during a storm. Copperclock had hauled up in The Cottage with only gin and old books for company.

 

The Cottage: the windows were shaped like hearts and the only people who ever came to visit were naughty children in need of a lesson from a wizened elder. And soon, even they stopped coming. Buttoncup shuddered to think of Grandmother Goose, how they'd found her, and worse, how long it had taken before they did.

Nookworm had died defending the library from sugar ants and Snugboat had, eventually, rusted out.

There had been more, so many more, but Buttoncup stopped counting. He could hear thunder. He was getting close now. He allowed himself one more rest, drew one more stabbing breath, and turned the corner, mindful the sheer drop to his right. Thundercloud Castle loomed enormous, its rolling grey base flickering with the occasional crackling lightning bolt.

Security on the castle had never been great. There had been times – countless times – when Buttoncup, Sweettart, Mopwatch and Cottondandy had snuck in for a bit of mischief, just to give Unjust and the Baddies a taste of his their own medicine.

The Baddies were gone too; the sugar ants had seen to that. They had been replaced with a red velvet rope, a metal box with a slit in the top and a sign that read, Suggested Donation cc2.00. The sign was covered in cobwebs. No one came here anymore. Sooner or later, everything got forgotten. Everything and everyone.

Buttoncup was disappointed. There had been no guards to kill, trip up or outsmart. Even on this, his last heroic quest, he couldn't be bothered to step over that damned velvet rope; he had unclipped it from its brass pole and let it fall to the ground. And now, when he should be charging up the stairs, he found himself sitting on them, struggling to catch his breath. The pain was almost unbearable, it felt like someone was standing on his chest in a sauna, like any moment could be his last.

Old images flickered across his memory. He wondered if Mopwatch had ever known—certainly Sweettart had known—how Copperclock felt about her, how her choosing Mopwatch had eaten him up inside—but had Mopwatch known? And Cottondandy. Buttoncup had known he wasn't her first choice, or even her second. But he thanked his lucky stars every day that Copperclock and Clovershield were beyond her reach. She did, too, in the end. That was the last thing she said to him – I'm glad it was you. Buttoncup closed his eyes. He could almost see her, almost pick out her sweet, sugary scent.

Thunder always sounded louder from inside the castle. It jerked Buttoncup out of his revelry, forced him to his feet. He climbed, wheezing, to the top of the staircase. With every step, every stab of pain that felt like a red hot poker being rammed through his chest, Buttoncup reminded himself, it was Unjust's fault. Unjust had ruined everything, made Skyland unstable—and when the sugar ants came, the Snugglebuns had been desperate. They'd given up Candy Cloud, they'd worked in the sugar mines, they'd watched their home be carried away, one grain at a time. They'd sold their souls. Someone had to pay.

At the top of the stairs was the throne room. Buttoncup knew that once he entered, he wouldn't be coming out; in fact, he had every chance of being struck by horizontal lightning as he entered – and he accepted this with perfect unconcern. But he also knew—he was determined—that if he died in Thundercloud Castle, Unjust would die with him. Buttoncup was the last of the Snugglebuns; this was his duty.

The door squeaked open – a sound more tragic than ominous. He steeled himself, stepped over the threshold. The room was deserted. Buttoncup clutched his chest and hit the ground with a thud.

“Who's there?” Unjust limped out of the shadows, his steps as slow and unsteady as the voice from beneath his cowl. “I know there's someone there. There's nothing worth taking.”

“I've come to kill you,” Buttoncup groaned, trying to pull himself forward.

Unjust chuckled. “Buttoncup? It's nice to hear a familiar voice. Forgive me, I can't see anything now.”

“You're blind?” It wasn't fair. Unjust could have at least tried to be threatening.

“As a bat.” Unjust shuffled forward. “I was hoping someone would come. You know, before the end.”

Suddenly, the past didn't matter. They were mortal enemies and they would die together.

“When they find our bones,” Buttoncup ventured, “do you suppose they'll think—”

“One can hope,” Unjust answered. “One can hope.”

Another 25 Things from Chuck

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NaNoWriMo, You Hurt Me

I was going to try really hard to shut up about NaNoWriMo for October.  I was, because we all know that anything I find time to post on here in November is likely going to be NaNo-related graphs or complaints that I have writer's block.

But.

I was reading Chuck Wendig's 25 Things You Should Know About NaNoWriMo (which you should check out) and came across some text off the NaNo website.  I honestly thought Mr. Wendig was using hyperbole, but I went and looked and it turns out that, in fact, the following is a direct quote from the NaNo in a Nutshell page of the site.

What: Writing one 50,000-word novel from scratch in a month's time.
Who: You! We can't do this unless we have some other people trying it as well. Let's write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together.
Why: The reasons are endless! To actively participate in one of our era's most enchanting art forms! To write without having to obsess over quality. To be able to make obscure references to passages from our novels at parties. To be able to mock real novelists who dawdle on and on, taking far longer than 30 days to produce their work.

This hurts me. I mean, I get that it's supposed to be glib, but really.

... laughably awful yet lengthy... Yes, I agree that NaNoWriMo does not inspire the best writing an author can produce, yes, it forces one to rush things a bit  - but even rushed prose should at least attempt to be decent - otherwise what's the point?  If you're planning to write something awful, your time could probably be better spent.  And no, 50,000 words is not lengthy, not when you're talking about novels.

To be able to make obscure references to passages from our novels at parties. Translation: To give us an excuse to act like pompous douchebags.

...mock real novelists... My issues with this one are twofold.  One, why would you mock anyone who is making a career out of something they love? - and two, who the f--k told you I'm not a real novelist? NaNoWriMo isn't just a waste of a month for me; I actually plan on doing something with what I write during November.  A lot of us do.*

I really do like NaNoWriMo.  I like the basic idea and I'm in awe of the amount of time and effort that the administrative staff put in every year.  The philanthropic aspects of NaNoWriMo are wonderful and so is the sense of community you get from joining hundreds of thousands of writers, all working toward the same goal.

NaNoWriMo's own description of itself really got to me.  I guess I don't like the idea that the same people who make it possible are encouraging people not to care what kind of writing it produces.

Of course I still plan to participate this year, but I'd be lying if I said that a little of the magic hasn't been lost.

*I don't think there's anything wrong with doing NaNo just for fun, but I don't like the assumption that that's the only reason anyone would want to participate.

Unknown ♥

There are so many people out there who will tell you that you can't. What you've got to do is turn around and say "watch me." --Unknown

It's a little corny, I know, but I like it.  Having just read Chuck Wendig's post about self doubt, the idea of losing confidence has been on my mind lately.

Last night, I got into a... not an argument, exactly.  More of a discussion... about self-publishing and why I should have sought out an agent and not self-published Aigaion Girl.  And for a second, I thought, Shit.  What if I went the wrong route? Maybe I shouldn't have done what I did.  Maybe-- and then I realized that despite his good intentions, the person I was talking to is not a writer, has not spent the last eight or nine years researching this and knows a lot less about the way the publishing industry works than I do*.  In short, I realized that I actually know what I'm talking about.

So this morning, I woke up early and started to plan my writing for the next few months.  Not a day-to-day plan, but something fairly rigid which includes reminders about important marketing-type stuff, like posting something on Twitter and my Facebook fan page at least four times throughout each month.  It, of course, also includes bigger writing projects like writing and editing fiction (for example, November is blocked off for NaNoWriMo).

I'm hoping I can stick to it and actually get some decent writing done this fall. I'm going to write some amazing things this fall and I am going to seriously boost my readership.  Watch me.

*He had some very nice things to say about the story, though. 
P.S. If you're wondering why I captioned the image with the same quote, it's because I hot linked the picture.

Don't Get Me Wrong; I Love the NaNo Peptalks

I think they're fantastic (I was especially fond of the one today from Lemony Snicket). But with a only week to go until the end of November, I thought some of us (me) could use some motivation that's a little more... agressive. Rhiannon deserves the credit for finding this; I'm just passing along the joy of her discovery. It actually applies to all writers at all times, but I think it's especially apt right now. So, without further adieu, a snippet of the Writer's Prayer by Chuck Wendig:

I am a writer, and I will finish the shit that I started.

I will not whine. I will not blubber. I will not make mewling whimpering cryface pissypants boo-hoo noises. I will not sing lamentations to my weakness.

If you want to read the whole thing (and you should, because it is both motivational and incredibly hillarious), you can do so here, on Terrible Minds.

Now I'm off to actually start working at my day(night)-job

Woot

I've signed up for NaNoWriMo, have picked the story I want to do, and I'm halfway done the horror story for Terrible Minds.

I feel accomplished. Except my NaNo story doesn't have a title yet.

Bah. I'll think of one.

Anyway, I'm still Elvish Kitty (don't ask) on the NaNo boards, so feel free to add me.

Speaking of Chuck Wendig...

Well, we weren't, but I was poking around on his blog to day (it's awesome...I'm putting it in the links to the left because he's hilarious and brilliant and a free-lance writer and a figure worth learning from)...

Anyway, he's doing a Flash Fiction thing. Details HERE, but basically, he wants 1000 or less words of vacation-oriented horror stories...by which I mean, monsters and shite, not "my plane was THREE HOURS LATE and all I had to eat was these horrible peanuts and then the kid next to me wee'd himself and rolled in it". Whole other genre, that.

I figured it was right up our collective alley. We should all do it. He wants them by the 11th of Feb-October.

Best part: He's going to put them on his blog, as is, which means (you guessed it): Exposure! Fame! Fortune! Someone in "The Business" might read it!

Also, prizes may be involved. But, apparently, us Canucks will have to pay the shipping if we win.