Flash Fiction: One Night in Brooklyn

Flash Fiction: One Night in Brooklyn — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the Terribleminds Flash Fiction challenge, "Sub-Genre Mash-Up with a Twist":

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Work was hard to come by after the war. It could have been easier if I didn't have a face like a mile of bad road. The rest of me was built better than a solid steel forklift, though, so I could at least work down by the docks. It wasn't much, but it paid the bills. I was at least getting by until Grace went missing. I knew it wasn't ransom they were after. They wanted me to do some dirty work for them, 'enforcing' they called it, maybe some killing on the side. Guess a veteran looking the way I do is an appealing notion for a mobster unwilling to get blood on his hands. Either way, it didn't matter to me. Answer was and always would be 'no'. So when they took Grace, I called Harry, the one other guy from our unit who made it home in one piece. Smart guy, started working for a company doing research something called 'micro-electronics', whatever that means. He had been working the radio for our lieutenant when we got shelled and the tunnel collapsed on him. I'll never forget the look on his face when I pulled him out with one hand. "They're still highly experimental," he told me. "Some of the components are rather delicate." "I promise I'll pay you back if I break any of it." The gloves were a little small for me, but I'd make do. When I made a fist, the vacuum tubes on the back of the hand lit up and crackled. "You know I'm good for it." "Just be careful, Frank. These are dangerous men." "Ain't more dangerous than a guy looking for his girl." Don't remember the real name of the guy who wouldn't shut up about how great my new job would be. Giovanni Something-or-other. Whatever. I knew him as "Johnny Moneybags" and he liked to eat and be seen at this swank joint uptown. Sure enough, that night I found him there surrounded by dames with a tripe-digit bottle of wine on the table. I can hit pretty hard, but with these gloves on and charged up, I put a me-shaped hole in the wall with just a couple punches. As folks ran screaming past me I made a mental note to tell Harry he did good. "Well, hello, Frank. Glass of wine?" "Nah. I'm a beer man." I grabbed Johnny by his tux lapels and hauled him up. "Where's the girl?" "Which girl?" "Dammit, Johnny, I hate repeating myself. Don't make me do it." He sneered at me. "Why don't you go ask her whore of a mother?" That did it. Every word I said next, I punctuated with a punch in his smug little face. "Where. Is. The. Girl." He was bleeding out of his nose and mouth and his whole body was twitching as I held him up. Apparently getting shocked and pasted in the mush at the same time messes up your nervous system. Who knew? "F-F-Fiftieth street and C-C-Cedar. S-S-Second Floor. She's g-g-g-guarded." "You think that's gonna stop me, palooka? Take a look in the mirror next time you wanna mess with someone's girl. I'd break your neck if I didn't have somewhere else to be. Enjoy your wine." I dropped him and walked out. Damn gloves barely fit in my pockets as I rounded the corner, putting distance between me and the sirens. Someone was going to have to pay big for that hole in the wall. Glad it wasn't me. Fiftieth and Cedar was a brownstone on a corner with a couple goons out front. So I found my way in the back and up to the second floor. I sent the guy outside the door flying through a window. Inside was a little girl's room, complete with bright wallpaper and furniture and dolls, the works. She was fed okay, her blonde hair in pigtails, and when she saw me she ran up and hugged my leg. "I promised your momma I'd take care of you," I told her. "Are we going away now?" "Yep. Hop up on my shoulders so's we can make with the getaway." She did. The goons out front moved to stop us but I shot them a look. Grace gave 'em a raspberry. That's my girl. We were waiting for the train when the last person I wanted to see ran up to meet me. "Frank, what in the hell are you doing?" "Taking Grace to California. Why, what's your beef?" "My 'beef' is that your name is all over the radio. You're a wanted criminal." "Rescuing a little girl in trouble is a crime, Jimmy?" "Dammit, Frank, you know she needs..." "You shut your damn mouth about that little girl's needs." I was a good head taller than my brother, and I reminded him of that fact. Harry's gloves were in my steamer trunk, and I was praying I wouldn't need them. "We'll get along just fine, may not be easy, but better we stick together and take the hard road than wait around here for another goomba to make a play for me." "You do this, Frank, and you're on your own. I'm with the Bureau, now. They tell me to hunt you, I will." I grabbed him by his tie. "Jimmy, I hate repeating myself. Don't make me." He glared at me. He got all of the looks in the family, but only a bit of my size. We'd scrapped before, coming out about even, and we'd both seen the war. I didn't want to fight him. But I would, if it meant Grace had a shot. I felt a tug on my pant leg. "Daddy, the train's here." I let Jimmy down. "We're leavin', Jim. That's that." He fixed his tie, looked at the two of us, and nodded. "Guess I better wish you luck, then." I tried not to think about never seeing my brother again, and shook his hand. "Yeah. You too."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: The Inevitable Grind

Writer Report: The Inevitable Grind — Blue Ink Alchemy

As we recover from the recent stress of moving, the dayjob workload ramps up, and everything else competes for what attention I have left, it can be difficult to keep in mind that writing can and should be the foremost area of my interests. I don't attend university for 4 years to design advertisements, after all. I did it, at first, to teach others about stories, and then decided I'd be happier telling stories myself. And some of the stories I've told since then have gone over pretty well. Sales of Cold Iron have been very slow. I feel I need to do more promotional work, as nobody else is going to do it for me, and that means getting more people to review it, sending out more tweets, talking it up in person to people, and so on. I guess my reluctance to do so comes from the fact that I hate annoying people. I know how it feels to me when I get annoyed by someone talking at length about something of interest to them to the exclusion of all other subjects, and the last thing I want to do is inflict that on others. But I guess I need to suck it up and deal with it if I want to move copies of the book. Progress on Cold Streets is, unfortunately, also slow. I've tried to unstick myself a couple of times in the last few weeks with moderate success. I'm not writing in the huge chunks I need to meet my end-of-year deadline, at least not yet. Time is running out for me and I really want to get another novella out there. I can't get this thing to pick up if I don't write, dammit! Between some historical insights and inspiration from the likes of Martin and Kay, ideas keep rolling around in the back of my mind for attention regarding Godslayer. As much as good chunks of the plot are unlikely to change in their basic structure, so much of Acradea will be different in this new story that these ideas (which tend to crop up after I go to bed and the lights are out) will need to be laid out and sorted so I don't get tripped up when I start writing the damn thing in earnest next year. Maybe it's time to buy Scrivener and start cork-boarding things? The jury is out on that one. More on this as things develop. And if you get annoyed when I start tweeting every day about Cold Iron and its sequels, I apologize.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Historical Narratives

Historical Narratives — Blue Ink Alchemy

Winter is not only coming, it is just about here, and as the weather turns colder, my thoughts turn to A Song of Ice and Fire, specifically House Stark. But it isn't just the austere, wary words of the house, nor its nobles and vassals, that I'm considering. I'm considering the ties it and the other parts of George RR Martin's world have to our own world. Specifically, Martin eschews the traditional bastions of so-called 'high fantasy' tales, with rather flashy magic and exotic creatures and races, opting for a more grounded backdrop for his narrative, characters, and intrigues. In this way, he hews much closer to historical events and themes such as the War of the Roses, the specter of nomadic marauders, and the roles of international relations and gender politics. It may not be as high-octane as some other tales, but it makes for more concrete and interesting characters involved in situations with high stakes and deadly consequences. The lack of magic and proximity to history also means that there's no easy way out for our heroes. Any line that you could draw between "good" and "evil" almost immediately becomes blurred as characters who appear virtuous either to us or to their contemporaries undertake actions to survive or prevail that, normally, they would otherwise shun or dismiss as 'beneath them'. It focuses tightly on the nature of these characters, showing them not as archetypes or ciphers, but human beings first and foremost. While genre fiction doesn't necessarily need to hew away from the fantastical or the far-fetched in order to do this, it certainly never hurts to establish some concreteness in the story, in order to add context and depth. "Hard" science-fiction does this by extrapolating from existing scientific research, rather than creating wonders that basically run on magic. This is not to say that such narratives are superior; there's still fun and character exploration to be had in more fantastical settings. It just seems to me that if characters don't have an easy way out, if they can't wave a magic wand or spout some technobabble to fix their problems, they need to work harder, and in doing so they reveal more of their character to the audience. Do you have a favorite historical narrative? Or a hard sci-fi story that does this in an exemplary way?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Cordite, Acid, and Febreeze

Flash Fiction: Cordite, Acid, and Febreeze — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the Terribleminds Flash Fiction challenge, The Body.

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He was assaulted by scents when the door opened. The undercurrent of cheap booze and sweat was nearly overwhelmed by the acrid tang of cordite. He set his kit down inside the door and began to remove his coat. "Oh man, thank God you're here, I don't know what to do..." He looked at the young man speaking to him. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and the gun was still in his hand. "You can start by putting safety on and putting the gun down." The kid looked down at the gun. "Oh, Jesus..." The gun was placed on the ground very slowly, and he could see the safety was, in fact, engaged. Once it was on the floor, he picked it up and placed it in his kit. "Now, tell me what happened." "Man, we were just sitting around drinking and talking, and Tommy, he... he said he had never seen a gun before, so I pulled it out to show him, and..." "Okay. Stop right there. You were drunk and handling a loaded gun. You're aware of how your father is going to react, aren't you?" The kid turned pale. "Oh, God, did you..." "No. After we are done here I will take you to see him personally. But you have to realize, if the neighbors heard the shot and called the cops, we have maybe three minutes before we start smelling bacon. Do you understand?" This got an eager nod. "Good. Now let's get a look at Tommy." He was lead into the apartment, where the bedroom was now a shambles. The smell of weed was contained here, as was the stink of Tommy's body which had voided itself after the gun had gone off. The target pistol, a gift from the young man's father, was a .22 and therefore not terribly powerful. There was no exit wound and no bullet to dig out of the wall. Tommy seemed to be laying on a pile of laundry, the head wound oozing blood and brain into some designer clothes. "Help me with the body." They picked Tommy up and carried him into the bathroom. Once the corpse was in the tub, he retrieved his kit. "Gather up any clothes Tommy bled on. Make sure his blood didn't reach the carpet. Get the clothes in garbage bags. Understood?" "Yes, sir." "And shut the door." With that, he was alone with Tommy. He put his smock on over his suit, strapped on the mask, and pulled on the latex gloves. From the kit he pulled out the first jug of acid, turning on the bathroom fan. He started with the face, then the hands, just in case they had to leave in a hurry. He had to be careful when pouring it - splashes were bad, and he didn't want it eating anything but the body in front of him. It was slow going, arduous at times, but between the hissing and the stench, he managed to keep the mess in the tub without destroying anything in the bathroom. He checked his watch as the acid worked on the bones of Tommy's rib cage. No cops yet; this was good news. He only poured as much acid as he needed, and still ended up going through a jug and a half. After a few more minutes, the powerful stuff had reduced poor Tommy and his clothes to a slurry of reddish sludge. A few pours from the jug of basic acid neutralizer stopped any remaining hissing. He opened up the cold water tap in the tub, pulled the steel rod out of his kit, and started stirring. He hated this part the most, truth be told. It was tedious and getting this close to what had recently been active acid never exactly sat well with him. At length, the tub was empty. He turned off the tap, shed his smock and gloves, and pulled one more thing out of his kit. A few liberal sprays of Febreeze within the confines of the bathroom cut the smells considerably. He opened the door and walked around the apartment, spraying as he went. The kid was sitting on his bed, two large black can liners full of clothes by his feet. "Did Tommy have family?" "His parents are in another state. He was here for college." "So it will be a few days before they become seriously concerned. Did they ever meet you?" "No." "And did Tommy ever mention you to them?" "I don't know. I don't think so." He nodded. "Well, come on, then. Let's get out of here." They walked out of the Febreezed apartment. He had the kid put his bags of laundry in the trunk of his Lincoln, and then placed his kit beside them. They left the parking lot and he considered their route as he pulled onto the main boulevard. "Is he gonna be mad?" He knew the answer to the young man's question already. Yes, he's mad, and if I hadn't shown up and you were talking to the cops you certainly wouldn't live through the night. He had worked for powerful men before, in many cities, but this one saw his son as more of an embarrassment than anything else. Hence the instructions he was to follow if the kid proved inconsolable or confrontational. The gun was heavy under his suit coat. The docks were nearby. He knew it was the most surefire way to resolve this. Yet the young man beside him had been cooperative, relatively calm, and seemed legitimately apologetic for the accident. No blustering, no panic, nothing embarrassing at all. And the kid was someone's son. He had met the kid's mother, too, a lovely woman with a big heart who loved her family more than anything. And unlike the cops, there was no way in the world he would lie to her about what happened to her son. His hands never left the steering wheel. "Yeah. But you'll be okay. I promise."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Complete, Total, Utter Exhaustion

Complete, Total, Utter Exhaustion — Blue Ink Alchemy

I really wanted to be done with these little filler post. Honest and true. But today turned out to be a very long one. Since I couldn't raise UPS before they delivered our new bedframe, I had to drive all the way out to the old place to get it. Then, upon returning, I picked up my wife from the transportation center and we ended up driving around for most of the evening. Suffice it to say that in the end, the bedframe did get assembled, my new desk is halfway done, my main PC is still bricked until that desk is completed, and I am completely, totally, and utterly exhausted. I have an idea in mind for this week's Flash Fiction challenge, I want to get more work done on Cold Streets, and sooner or later I'm going to need to start writing down all the ideas for the Acradea rewrite. But in addition to the non-work items on today's daunting-in-retrospect to-done list, I was reminded yet again that Q4 is happening, and I need to put in as many hours as I can as much as I can so we don't end up getting smacked around by deadlines, clients, and each other. I can't even muster up the literary wherewithal to lay out a reference to V in honor of yesterday's Guy Fawkes day or put together a rundown of all the reasons why, if you live in the United States and are of age, you should carve a bloody chunk out of your time today to go and vote. That is, in fact, the first thing I'm doing in the morning, and why I'm taking the time to write up this entry the night before. That said, it's time for me to go pass out. Get out there, vote if you can, and as John Green would say, don't forget to be awesome.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Settling In

Settling In — Blue Ink Alchemy

The weekend was a lot more complicated than even I thought it would be. Despite the promise of free beer and pizza, only one of my friends arrived on Saturday morning to help us move all of our possessions from the old place into the truck. Ancient bibliophile that I am, I have an inordinate amount of books - I donated around 120 to the Lansdale library - in addition to the heavy sectional couch and loveseat set and ungainly things like bookshelves. My friend, bless him, busted his behind along with me to get things onto the truck as promptly as possible. Even so, it was evening by the time we arrived at our new place. Another friend of mine was able to come by towards the end of the evening, but as she has severe arthritis in both knees, I felt terrible asking too much of her. So the rented truck and about a third of our remaining possessions sat in the lot overnight. Sunday morning was an extra-credit trip for my wife to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and after seeing some exhibits and taking on the famous stairs both of us were exhausted. So it was at this point that I broke down and called a service. Two strapping young men arrived and not only emptied the truck but helped us get the more fiddly bits of furniture assembled. So while the apartment is in serious disarray, we have finally officially moved. I've learned two things over the course of the weekend. The first is that hiring professional movers is the way to go. The guys that helped us were courteous, prompt, skilled, and willing to help with just about anything. I'm sure my friends would be as well, but with so many of them being in so many different places, it's silly of me to expect they can simply arrive when summoned. The other is that I'm past the point I should be buying furniture from Ikea. At least, if I expect to be moving it. There are still things to do - our new bedframe was delivered to the old address - and items to pick up - we need new desk chairs and waste bins. But the hard part is over. And my commute to and from work, ideally, will now be much shorter.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Can't Talk. Moving.

Can't Talk. Moving. — Blue Ink Alchemy

As I write this, more and more boxes are appearing in the homestead as books disappear from shelves. After three years in Lansdale, we're moving closer to my dayjob. There are things I will miss about living here - easy access to mass transit, many shops close by, the rustic charm of the house - and things I won't - the traffic noises, the lack of privacy, the illusion of space. I'm still going through and throwing out things from the basement, something that's been a long time in coming. I picked up a habit of hoarding, and removing a good deal of dead weight from among the boxes beneath me has been liberating. However, there's still a great deal of packing to do, and a few loose ends to tie up, especially since the house from which we rented this apartment got sold out from under us and the new owners have been relatively silent. Today will be a long day at the dayjob, and moving day is tomorrow. For those that care, I don't foresee a major disruption in the schedule. And, hopefully, once things are set up and settled in I can focus more on Cold Streets and try to meet my self-imposed deadline of "end of 2012" for some form of workable draft. One would think I would have outgrown my tendency to procrastinate by now. But I seem to keep putting it off.

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Blue Ink Alchemy