In Go, they say you must fail your first thousand games as quickly as possible. I need to get moving on the serial, but I feel I can only really do so by restarting.

Oh, and also a note—I have a feeling that for new writers, it’s better than slam them over the head with show over tell until they just accept it.

And another ‘nother note—probably the biggest challenge in writing is to communicate what you meant. Words are more vulnerable and fragile than just about any other medium when it comes to just sheer raw communication.

a

On Crime and Violins: Restarting

It’s not that I don’t like you all. I just want fiction- and writing- and serial-related ads. May be a tough sell, but I already have Spontaneous Derivation for all your general ad needs.

Now, if y’all could actually read the site description on EntreCard I’d be real happy, as opposed to rejecting 16 ads a day.

a

Note to Folks at EntreCard Who Want an Ad

a

I Shall Yawn…

This will be the first time in a very long time that I’ve had a blog I can (probably) post fiction thoughts in. (And reviews of fiction thingies.)

Ever since I turned over Spontaneous Derivation to writing and blogging, I’ve not really had a space for fiction, and the entries I do write over there are odd and don’t really fit in with the blog theme anymore. They also distract me, which is not a good thing.

Eventually I’ll move those articles to here, but until then, here are links to articles I’ve written, on Sd and elsewhere, that are about writing fiction in particular.

	Four Important Lessons I Learned From Writing Serials
	6 Pieces of Fiction Writing Advice Often Ignored
	What I Learned About Synopses: What They Aren’t, and the 8-Fold Path to a Synopsis’ Soul
	Story Cookies: Seeding the Beginning
	Writing is an Apprenticeship Art: 6 Strange Ideas People Have About Learning the Craft
	Blogs by Writers for Writers (a series recommending writing-relevant blogs for fiction writers)
Photography by luchilu, DerrickT, neotint, and tankawho.

And because my muse won’t let me f’ing sleep, here’s the Aito Nakamura and Nina Ten Review Star Wars in normal story format, rather than film script. Third person omniscient, present tense. The former is really hard to pull off correctly without driving people nuts. And so is the latter.

Nina Ten’s room, currently empty, resembles an aluminum box: sterile brushed metal. Personal touches, usually present in other quarters, are absent, because Nina Ten does not often sleep here, study here, or meditate here. Her particular occupation in the Academy does not really allow for it.

All that’s here is a gray metallic table, which looks like a knock-off from the local Ikea, but probably cost the Militaria Academia $15,000 UPD. A grey chair that doesn’t even spin stands nearby.

A still life of a room that no one lives in. Of someone to whom the idea of a private life is alien.

In the deadness of the room, a hatch slides open, next to the table end jutting the wall. A robotic hand, all jointed metal skeleton, pushes a red mug of steaming hot cocoa onto the matte surface. The splash of color is surprising, like the deep red rose an officer leaves on the small shelf next to the memorial plaque of a beloved friend, lost in battle.

The hand retracts, the hatch closes. Steam from the cocoa wafts in the air, the only movement here.

Presently the door to the room slides open.

Lieutenant 910 enters in full military bearing, even at a time when no one supposedly is watching.

(Sometimes the civilians, in search of a name for the sake of casual conversation, call her Nina Ten.

The pun makes her frown severely, which is her version of laughing, although she suspects no one understands that. She is perfectly fine with their impressions of her as a humorless automaton.

She moves through life like a bluefin shark cutting through the waters of humanity. She moves that way now.)

Strains of “The Imperial March” from Star Wars IV: A New Hope burst forth from the room walls. She stops, blinking for a moment. Then she glares upwards.

“Aito. Cut it out. I’m not in the mood.”

The room answers her, although the Imperial March does not let up. “You never are after one of the more disturbing debriefings. You really need to loosen up.”

The irony of addressing Building 2’s AI by a pun name wore off what feels like an age ago, to Nina Ten.

“What I need is for you to shut up.”

The Imperial March fades out, with a hurdy-gurdy effect.

Nina relaxes. “Thank you.” She sits down at the table, and realizes her preoccupation is worse than usual. Only just now does she notice the mug. She picks it up and sniffs it.

“Aito, I thought your ilk had routines that prevented you from sniping through personnel files. This is mint vanilla chai cocoa… with a hint of hazelnut.”

“You really think that sort of information is in your files? You’re sadly mistaken.”

If Aito were wearing a holographic display at the moment, he knows he would be smiling. So he does not. Nina would not appreciate it. Nevertheless, distraction is necessary, he thinks. This particular super-thread of the building consciousness must be concerned about the sanity of the people inside his building. For various reasons, no other routine would think of calling itself Aito.

“So now I’m supposed to be comforted by the fact that instead you’re stalking me?” In spite of herself, Nina sips the cocoa.

It’s infuriating, thinks Aito, how she doesn’t smile when she smiles, and she smiles when she doesn’t smile, and she doesn’t smile when she doesn’t smile.

“I was kind of hoping you’d find it cute.”

“I don’t need a pet AI.” Another sip; her eyes closing.

Aito imagines Nina as a young girl in training, sipping cocoa provided by C9, the personnel assistance thread popularly installed on the non-graduate complexes. Aito’s thoughts stray towards wondering if she ever had a crush on a personnel assistance hologram, and quickly pushes them away. Processing too much anime on his spare time, he supposes.

“Well, nobody else seems to care about your needs.”

Nina opens her eyes, tensing again. Aito curses ruining the mood. “This is a military facility. Aito,” she says, putting down the mug with a metallic thud, “what the hell do you want?”

He’s warming up now, getting into routine. Ha ha, Aito thinks, and goes in gung-ho.

“Ha! You’ll never guess in a million nanoseconds.”

“Aito….”

“… you’ll think it’s silly. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Don’t play the ‘pity me, the poor shy AI who just wants to be human’ game with me.”

Like a school marm, thinks Aito, and curses the anime again. “You have to admit it’s a game mere human men can’t play.”

“Fine,” says Nina. “I’m going to bed.” She finishes up her cocoa.

“Wait wait wait! I’ll stop playing around, I promise!”

Nina ignores him, wondering why the God-at-war lets a building AI fall in love with her, or whatever the hell its feelings may be called. Why do AI designers let things like that happen? Is it just occupational therapy for the things? She’d heard from someone that neural nets had an annoying tendency to get cranky about being taken for granted.

At the time she’d told him this made no sense, from a safety standpoint, and that he’d been watching too many old science fiction movies. Now she had to deal with a love-sick computer program. Perhaps the next mission couldn’t come too soon.

“I want someone to watch Star Wars with me,” says Aito.

This surprises Nina, though she is practiced with not showing it, and she isn’t preoccupied now. Still, she proceeds with caution, for more than one reason.

“Which one are we talking about?”

“Episode III: Revent of the Sith.”

“Oh hell no.”

“What? Why? You hated it?”

“No, it’s not that. It was just… meh.”

“I cannot parse that.”

Nina glares upwards again as she folds the bunk down from the wall, though she knows this is a ridiculous action to take with a building AI. “Yes, you can. I will say that it’s better than either Episode I or Episode II. But that’s like saying corned beef is slightly better than spam.”

“So… you liked the movie.”

Persistent bastard, she thinks, shaking her head.

“Uh… you sort of liked it? Like-ish?”

“A shade south of ‘neutral’.” Nina frowns slightly, sitting back on the bunk, crossing her arms.

“I am stunned at considering the prospect of someone who doesn’t like Star Wars.”

“Have you seen the movie? Do you call any of that acting? There was about zero chemistry between any of them—nothing between Anakin and Qui-Gon, and in particular nothing between Anakin and his supposed love Amidala! And that ‘disturbing dream’—that was Anakin jerking off. Or was Lucas too immature to realize that?” Nina is surprised at the passion in her voice. Look at what George Lucas has done to me.

“It’s a Star Wars movie,” says Aito in patient tones. “It’s not like Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford were going to win Oscars for A New Hope.”

“No, you listen to me,” says Nina, standing up. “It was abysmal. Everyone was phoning it in—except for perhaps Christopher Lee as Count, and let me try to say this without sounding like a three-year-old, Dooku.”

“… well, Palpatine rocked.”

“Before he changed in about five seconds into wrinkly old obviously evil Emperor Palpatine, at around the 90-minute mark when the screenwriters and directors must have figured out, ‘Crap, we don’t have time to do an episode III.V! Better fit all the backstory in now!’”

“I take it you didn’t like Anakin’s near-instant switch to the dark side.” Aito wishes she could see herself in the wall mirror, unfortunately covered up for the time being.

“I was expecting to see either a lot more angst or a lot more evil. Or a lot more corruption than just ‘nobody will tell me anything’!”

“… the special effects were cool.”

Nina pauses in her pacing. “True. The lava fight was well done, most of the time.”

Aito thinks: hell with it. “The lava fight ending was awesome. The final parting with Obi-Wan when it was too late. The way Anakin got all burned up like that. And then he crawled up, all bald and burnt and missing limbs. And then he became Darth Vader! That had the right amount of pacing, that entire thing.”

“Unlike the rest of the movie.” Nina sits down again. “And the ending with how the twins were split up was unbelievable.”

“What? Like, unbelievable in science fiction movie terms, or unbelievable in Star Wars terms? ‘Cause the two, they’re totally different from each other. And reality.”

“Under any terms. Padme just gave up. I expected more… more reason behind it, but nope; that was it. Just up and left.”

“Mace Windu was cool.”

“Yes, he was. I could have mistaken him for Morpheus in the Matrix at times.”

“Darth Maul was awesome.”

“Jar-Jar Binks?”

“… must you bring him up? At least he had a limited showing in Revenge. On the other hand, leaving him in charge was definitely a conveniently stupid plot thing to do.”

“I notice how you usually focus on the cool aspects and ignore all of the idiotic, boring, and facile parts.”

“It’s the only way to watch a Star Wars movie. It’s just that IV to VI had more cool and less stupid.”

“Ewoks.”

“I said ‘less stupid’. I didn’t say ‘no stupid’.”

“So, anyways, my answer would have to be: no. And ‘meh’.”

“… I’ve got this cool cut of Phantom Menace that turns it into something watchable.”

“… you have got to be kidding me. There’s no way that pile of crap could have been made even barely presentable.”

“It’s called The Phantom Edit and it rocks hard. Well. Okay. It’s better than Revenge of the Sith. On a par with A New Hope.”

Aito waits hopefully.

“I’m going to regret this,” says Nina at last.

“Great! Let me break out the popcorn. Maltese-GEN yak butter on top, right?”

Aito unfolds a screen from the ceiling. Nina rearranges the flat hard pillow. Why do I bother? Then she simply stretches on the bed, hands behind her head, and wonders why she’s unfolding herself. Stress. Not my usual self.

“Yeah, well, could you soundproof the room better this time?” Nina asks, unnerved, hoping conversation will make her forget. Perhaps the movie will be so horrid that she’ll forget anyways. “‘Zero Clue’ next door complained to Supe the last time.”

“Don’t worry about him,” says Aito, hoping he’s smooth. “He’s just found a stash of holo-porn in Engineering 10. He won’t be back for a while.”

Aito wonders if his kind can fall in love. If we can go insane, surely love is just a step down from that. Or is that the anime talking?

“You never stop disturbing me,” says Nina.

“Always willing to serve, ma’am,” says Aito.

a

First Time in a Long Time… Plus Some Stuff I Wrote About Writing Fiction

I’ve been in the doldrums of late.

Then I ran into a quote from a guy whose storytelling prowess I respect, Ryan Pequin:

… I realized that actually creating art and having some semblance of a work ethic tends to cause more people to notice you, as opposed to generally doing absolutely nothing at all and then sitting back waiting for people to beat a path to your door.

If you haven’t gazed upon the beauty that is his short story, The Walk, go do so.

In the meantime, I know some of you are writers, and some of you may even be working on long form writing of the novelular sort. In which case, you should read Nick Mamatas’ How to End a Story. And also scan through his blog looking for Clarkesworld slush pile gems, since he’s one of the editors—and the only editor I know that does critiques on submissions (although perhaps not for much longer).

(I also like Clarkesworld: It Was An Abused Little Girl All Along! which talks about twist endings and why so many of them are so… trite.)

If you want a very thorough critique from him on your long-form work, you should visit Uncle Nick’s Crazy-Ass Critique Service.

Yes, writing away.

a

Some Semblance of a Work Ethic

Three twisted pieces of metal gleamed on the rich mahogany of the dining room table, the largest about three inches in length and maybe an inch wide, pinched in the middle. The smallest was no longer and no thicker than Arcady’s index finger. He delicately picked up the pieces, turning them over in nervous fingers, as three members of the bomb squad stood around the table. On the other side of the table, Kincaide sat with her arms crossed, waiting.

Zene, for his part, wondered who he could ask for a good stiff drink. The air was tense, and the atmosphere was not helped by Kincaide’s thousand-degree glare at Arcady.

“Unusually thin for an impromptu bomb case,” said Arcady in a stage whisper. Zene snorted.

Arcady continued, “I would have expected it to shatter.” He bent the medium piece carefully. “No. Too soft. Not rigid enough to shatter.”

“An unprofessional job,” said the bomb squad lieutenant.

“Perhaps,” replied Arcady, turning over the largest piece. “Remanents of scratched black paint on one side. And… ah. A bit bent out of shape, but this piece is strangely proportioned.” He placed the piece on the table, and cupped his hands so that, together with the pinched side, they formed a heart. “Candy box, I suspect.”

Zene noted that Arcady’s voice had dropped from an assured air, performing for an audience, to an odd hush. He stirred in his chair with impatience, wanting to ask Arcady why he seemed so uncertain, but at the same time not wanting to give Kincaide and her cronies any advantages. Plus no doubt the situation, already straining at Zene’s nerves, would extend itself with yet more questions and challenges.

Kincaide whispered to a policeman at her right shoulder, who quickly left.

“What a weird sort of box to use,” said another bomb squad member.

Arcady remained silent, staring at the pieces.

“Not unless you’re a passionate woman planning revenge,” said Kincaide.

Arcady looked up. “For goodness’ sakes, tell me you are not actually thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Oh, it makes sense now, since we’ve been searching Hestia Adler’s apartment,” replied Kincaide, a smug smile on her face. “Obviously she doesn’t spend much time there, and a bit of dust build-up could be expected. But there was a clear heart-shaped spot on her dresser—about that size. Exact measurements were taken, of course.”

“That makes no sense,” said Arcady. “Why use so incriminating a box?”

“No signs of forced entry,” said Kincaide. “And Stanner’s the best man on the force to determine that.”

“I agree,” said Arcady reluctantly. “A second key, then.”

“Sorry, Arcady, but while she doesn’t hire a maid, her apartment’s in one hell of a nice place. They use keycards there, and the only other copy’s with the management—resting untouched in its slot.”

“But it makes no sense.”

“Yet when you eliminate the impossible, what remains that’s improbable must be the truth.”

“By no means have you eliminated anything impossible, Inspector,” replied Arcady. His voice now betrayed a wavering undertone—anger? Zene wondered. “And the improbable here is most improbable. The fool who examines it no further—”

“There’s also the principle of keeping it simple, stupid,” interrupted Kincaide. “Occam’s razor, I’ve found, works nine times out of ten.” She stood up, her face unexpressive now. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. And so is Ms. Adler.”

a

Crime and Violins #11: The Impossible and the Improbable

Arcady and Inspector Kincaide stared each other down, like two stray tomcats individually deciding yet not deciding whether now was the time to claw the enemy’s eyes out.

Zene wondered what the equivalent of a bucket of water would be.

“It’d help us both if you’d lay all your cards on the table,” said Kincaide, sitting forward over her mug of coffee. “I’m offering you an information exchange. I know the concept of sharing is foreign to an Arcady, but you seem… more reasonable.”

“Is it not rather early to call, Inspector?” replied Arcady, leaning back and steepling his fingers. “We’ve barely started, and I find it difficult to believe that even you lack enough clues to be going on at this point.”

Kincaide growled. “God help you, Arcady, you’re more annoying than your father.”

“I hardly believe that. My father is the veritable spokesperson for Difficult Bastard.”

“Then let me ask you this, Arcady: do you want the forensics reports for Cartwright’s murder scene?”

Arcady smirked a small and delicate smirk, an expression that reminded Zene distinctly of someone else. “No. I have no need of it.”

Kincaide sat back slightly, as though marshaling her thoughts. “Tell me why not.”

“Come now, Inspector. What fun would that be?” said Arcady in patronizing tones, making Zene wonder how far away they were from spending the night under “questioning”.

“How about the names of all the guests?”

“Eidetic memory, and my father would know them all anyways.”

Kincaide tapped a finger on the table impatiently. “Our bomb squad’s evaluation of the explosive device used on Markov Oldesman, then.”

Arcady hesitated slightly. Kincaide smiled an unpleasant ah-ha.

“I only need one small bit of information, Inspector, and not the entire report.”

“Yes. I remember your last case. It turned on how much the ice cream had melted in the cone. You like trifles, I recall you telling me. And by God I’ll get every last piece of information from you that I can for this particular one.”

Arcady contemplated this. “You’re a poor sport,” he replied reluctantly.

“This is a murder investigation. Not a game,” said Kincaide, with staccato forte emphasis. “Item one—”

Arcady put out a hand, palm forwards. “Two can play this game, Inspector. You need my information badly as well, and I’d wager you need it far worse. You’re allowed three questions, as the genii said.”

“Fine,” said Kincaide after a resentful pause. “How did they manage to hang Cartwright in the middle of a party, and in the blink of an eye when the lights were off for just a minute?”

“Did you know that Marsal Hanbilt was unable to go sailing last weekend because of some missing equipment?”

“Answering a question with a question’s not answering the damn question,” said Kincaide, a growl settling in her throat again. “What’s the significance of that piece of gossip?”

“Sailing rope, Kincaide, and the knowledge and minor equipment to handle it. Extremely expensive, of the highest quality synthetic fiber, with more than enough strength to pull even a moderately heavy chandelier to one side. And I would have hoped you would have learned the importance of trifles too, if workmen and staff complaints could be considered trifles.”

Kincaide shook her head. “That thing was too heavy to lift without a proper pulley and winch system, not to mention if you hang a full-grown and overweight middle-aged man from it. And for your information, I did ask the butler about it. He oversees cleaning those things every week.”

“My dear Kincaide, they did not have to lift the chandelier, merely pull it to one side. Once the poor senator had been attached and pushed over the side, they did not even have to pull his weight.”

“When you say ‘they’, you’re referring to the multiple people needed to pull the chandelier across.”

“And to kill the power for the entire estate, drug and lure Cartwright upstairs beforehand… of course, Cartwright is known to drink a bit much and rather early in the evening as well, so his behavior wouldn’t seem odd. They may not even have had to drug him.”

“We’re already questioning the staff—and there’s something like fifty of them. If there was a conspiracy—which we also already expected—it would still be hard to whittle them down to the guilty parties. Not to mention the hundreds of items on that estate to paw through. That rope—” Kincaid pulled out her cellphone and muttered, “Yes, fingerprints do get preserved on rope, inside gloves, anything.” She smiled. “And the poor Hanbilts have been doing without all their staff since that night. Tut, tut. They must practically be drowning in dust at this point. We’ll find it, on the grounds wherever it is. It didn’t turn up in the garbage from the night, that’s for sure.”

“Your reversed class prejudice I find the best thing about you, Inspector.”

Kincaide jabbed a finger in Arcady’s direction. “Who said it was reversed? And you’re still one of them, whatever your father thinks of you. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten that.”

When she got off the phone a few minutes later, she grudgingly thanked Arcady. He said, “Not at all. It’s so simple I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”

She glared at him. “But there’s something else,” she added.

Arcady contrived to look bored, chin leaning upon hand. “You’ve already done much of the legwork, I think, and you have your direct suspects. But they would not have had a strong motive to perform so loud and expressive a murder.”

“Yes. There’s someone else here.”

“Well, you’re not completely hopeless then. I imagine the staff guilty of the actual murder won’t tell you who contacted them. Of course, to make matters more interesting, all the guests all have alibis. Except for Zene and myself.”

Kincaide snorted. “As if we trust all those alibis. I could swear you’ve got an informant on the force.”

“No, none.”

“Go on then.”

“Much as I hate to say it of the death of any human being, Cartwright’s murder was incidental, a mere gear grinding away in a much larger machine: a smear campaign of excessive degrees against someone.”

“Your father.”

Arcady tilted his head to one side, almost coquettishly. “Perhaps.”

“Oh come on,” said Kincaide with annoyance. “His gardener blowing up is just a coincidence?”

“You have only circumstantial evidence with regards to the connection of that matter, and you’re making dangerous assumptions in the midst of an investigation, which is never a time to prejudice yourself, and especially not for this case. There is a remarkably unbalanced mind at work here, yet cunning enough to not leave a direct trace to himself the first time. Whether he is also responsible for the second murder, or if some other factor is at hand, is not clear even to me right now.”

“I think you’re wrong, and too bullheaded to admit it. Or you’re lying to me, so you can show me up later. Which is damned poor sport.”

“As you wish. You’ve used up your three questions, by the way, so now it’s time for mine. What was the casing of the bomb, if enough shrapnel remained for identifying that?”

Kincaide glared at Arcady as she dialed the bomb squad on her Nokia.

a

Crime and Violins #10: Investigator Thunderdome

There are about 72,000 words of great stories at that link, by the way, all delectable. If you want to cut to the chase, the winning stories are here, but you’d be missing out on all the fun.

By the way, if John Scalzi of Great Wisdom is reading this post for some reason, I think a little website that showcased the stories would be awesome. Kind of like what was done for the John Scalvi entries, which wasn’t a contest per se, but extremely funny all the same. (Go read those too, for a good time.)

Here are my stories, untitled. I’ve never done short-shorts before (under 1000 words), so it was a first for me.

Note: the first one is slightly, ah, rough around the edges at the beginning, shall we say. But then again y’all don’t mind reading a serial where one of the main characters says “fuck” in every installment, so I figure it’s okay.

I was quietly fondling my manhood in what I thought was the safety of my Quansdayle, Kansas trailer, and for some reason I wondered what it would be like to be reborn as a woman.

About 30 seconds before I really got going, my psycho ex-girlfriend showed up, blasting through the door with some kind of enlarged magical cosmetic device, screaming something about how the moon will punish me. ¹

These days I think it was poetic justice. I thought differently back then, mind you, when I had to go shopping for bras and then that time of the month showed up.

There were benefits, however. Skirts, for instance. I’ll never wear slacks again.

I’m pretty well-adjusted these days; new friends, a new look on life, even if I do read a lot of yaoi manga and have a predilection towards pretty boys. And realizing that what I want is simply: pretty boys. That was a new one, six years ago.

But sometimes August 19th, 1994, comes back to haunt me. My girlfriends seek solace in ice cream; I can only seek it in bacon.

August 19, 1994 was the day that the Wild Hunt began to storm through New York City, until it realized that it was no match for the US Army with its tanks and fighter jets—and certainly not against General Tom “No Shanks” Bank, a ping pong ball, a piece of string, and more gas than was burnt by the WB dynasty in Kuwait all together.

Over a decade has passed. And we are sleeping sound, these years when Perchta has lain silent, buried by the ashes of brick and iron.

But soon, I warn you. They’ll be back. Yes, iron is their bane—but they are here, guilelessly leading us on with developments in nanotechnology. Miracles will happen in nano-graphite: stronger than iron, stronger than spells. Our doom is not spelt by atomic weapons or by ecological havoc wreaked by our own hand, but by endlessly reproducing nano-fairies, consuming the earth until all is but one gray land under the master of the Hunt.

Or, you know, I could just have taken my meds.

You know, I’m really sorry about that night.

It would have been a first, you know. I mean, the first time humanity realized it wasn’t alone in the universe, for better or worse. But instead you all thought it was one giant, impressive hoax.

They were tiny, and fuzzy, and looked like intelligent teddy bears.

They also smelled like tuna.

And I was hungry.

Look, I left you some, all right? It’s not my fault you thought they were mice.

Reason left us that morning like an escaping one-night stand, leaving us with nothing but the smell of his aftershave—a simple two-note blend: a base of burnt flesh and overtones of ash.

Justice left us soon after, like an enraged spouse who has had too much of our lying, cheating ways. Her perfume smelled of bitter grapes mixed with the final rotting stages of fall leaves turning into peat.

And we were left with War: the motorcycle boyfriend we thought was fun and different, the odor of axle grease and leather filling our noses and making us giddy like monkeys on nitrous oxide.

We had no one else.

So we made the best of it.

What happened? What happened? You ask me what happened?

More like what didn’t happen.

I really must drag out the cadaver and body part jars again. I’m itching to try it again, with commercial injectable nanites this time around.

I’ll miss the lightening, though…. but you wouldn’t believe my electricity bill after the storm machine burned through East London.

Ah, nostalgia.

a

Flash Fiction from the Whatever Zoe’s Tale ARC Contest

For Outpost Mâvarin’s Weekend Assignment #215: Everyone’s a Critic.

WARNING - SPOILERS

Although if you’ve waited this long, you probably no longer care about spoilers. We hope.

a

The Turing Gyre: Aito Nakamura and Nina Ten Review Star Wars

Arcady looked back at the gate and scowled at the approaching figure. “My damn father,” he muttered, snapping his cellphone shut, “can’t seem to keep a promise. Which makes him perfect for running for office this year.”

Hestia reached the gate, out of breath, and stretched up towards a control panel behind the gate wall. The gates opened inwards smoothly.

“It’s about time,” said Arcady, “where’s—”

“There was a bomb,” said Hestia shortly, pushing hair out of her eyes.

Those eyes look tired, Zene noticed, but not teary.

Arcady paused awkwardly. “Um. Is—”

“He’s all right, the gardener’s not, the police are going to be here soon, so you should probably make yourself comfortable,” replied Hestia, in a rush and all annoyance. She glared at Arcady. “And I know all you’re thinking is, ‘Would he have come here on time if there wasn’t a bomb?’ So let me cut that conversation short by saying: get over yourself.”

With that she began to storm back up the hill, leaving Arcady to attempt to recompose himself.

The situation, Zene thought, could use a little salvaging.

“You know,” he called after her, “we could drive you up. That way we have more time to share information before the police pull us all into separate rooms again. That being, you know, sensible and not driven by irrational reactions to would-be family members.”

Despite the enormous sense, Arcady and Hestia agreed, behind Zene’s proposal, Arcady’s car was still a small, fuel-efficient hybrid. Hestia sat crammed in the backseat as the hybrid crunched through the gravel, her right arm circling her bent knees.

“The gardener,” said Arcady. “You could have said Oldesman.”

“Sorry, but I don’t know him,” said Hestia. “There’s been quite a lot to do lately with respect to your father actually winning against old Cartwright, you understand. Your father became concerned for my safety after last night, so this is the first time I’ve been here.”

“I thought if you were engaged to Father you’d practically be living here,” said Arcady, arching an eyebrow.

“And I thought that you were more observant than that,” said Hestia. “As if I would spend my time lollygagging with Dustin when there was a campaign to be won. Not that he would mind, but we’re both very practical. Usually,” she added.

“And Oldesman, how is he?”

She sighed. “Please don’t tell me you were attached to him as a young child, so that his gory death at the hands of some unknown maniac just while I happened to be here will forever turn you against me.”

“As always, Hestia, you have me at a disadvantage,” said Arcady as he stopped the car in front of the entrance to the Frank Lloyd Wrightian pagoda. “Getting back to the bomb; I assume it did not arrive in the mail, or else it would have exploded on the boy. It must have been, ah, planted. Perfect for a gardener, I expect.”

“Your father isn’t going to appreciate you parking right out in front,” said Hestia as Zene helped her out of the car. “I assume that’s why you did it, of course.”

“Where was the bomb located?” asked Arcady, as if she hadn’t said anything.

“I don’t know. He might have picked it up and walked off with it for all I know. It went off by the old tree in the… uh, let me get this right… the Spring quadrant of the gardens, I think.”

“Very good,” murmured Arcady, as he circled the pagoda towards the back, his footsteps light and quick. Zene rushed after him, while Hestia remained behind, cursing the fashionable shoe gods.

The gardens of the Arcady estate, as it turned out, covered the much more gentle slope of the back of the hill. Cultivated greenery flowed downwards in the form of ivy-covered short walls and exotic trees, and spilled out on the flat ground below as beds of flowers and ferns, interrupted by an enormous old oak tree, with a trunk so wide that Zene imagined he wouldn’t be able to get his arms around half of its circumference.

The branches were half gone on one side from the blast, which had also bitten into the wide trunk, exposing sap-bleeding wood to the air. The fresh wood scent was marred by the smell of explosives and burnt flesh.

Zene looked down at the scene, and said, “Fuck.”

“I quite agree,” replied Arcady, gingerly stepping towards what remained of the body.

“Hey—” said Zene.

“All right, I won’t get too close,” said Arcady, stopping just a couple feet away from the blasted tree, kneeling down in the bed of yellow-white flowers beneath it. “Do you see a folding chair anywhere around here? A blanket, or maybe even just a novel?”

Zene looked around. Apart from the plants, and a couple of unfortunate garden implements that lay twisted near the body, there was nothing else. He said as much to Arcady.

“Not that I should have expected it,” said Arcady. “She doesn’t relax. Ever. I knew that, of course, before she told us at the gate….” He shook his head. “See the trampled flowers there, closer to the hill?” Zene nodded.

“She ran down here—part way. Either Oldesman was dead before she reached him, because he would never have let her harm the palmaria fuscius that way, or….” Arcady dropped off, and rubbed just beneath his chin, where a violin had rested for a good portion of his waking days.

“Just to make sure,” said Zene carefully, after some moments of silence, “are you really sure that’s Oldesman?”

“Unfortunately, yes. His chin was cleft with a small dark mole on the right of it, with a wisp of beard at the bottom, more white than I remember it being. There’s enough of that, and some other marks, left for me to tell.”

Zene looked down at the tree, and then away again. “Well, you were right about the bomb being planted. But this is pretty far back into the estate. And unless your father’s a complete ass when it comes to securing the grounds, whoever did it would have to be sneaky, lucky, and fucking insane.”

“Or they could just hire someone inside.”

“… yeah, or they could just do that.”

“Like the gardener.”

“I thought you liked Oldesman.”

“Yes, but he didn’t like Father. He was an unfortunate influence on me, as far as Father was concerned.”

“Didn’t like him enough to plant a bomb in the garden? Seems odd to me. Why didn’t he try to bump off your dad years ago?”

“You’re assuming that the purpose was to kill Father. Don’t underestimate the value of vindictive terrorization. But come to think of it, why didn’t Father fire Oldesman for insubordination years ago? He’s fired other people for less. Threatened to disown sons for less.”

“Hey, you two down there!” someone yelled, in the unmistakable tones—especially if you’re a musician and prefer not to hear unnatural discordance—of Inspector Malady Kincaide. “I’ve got questions for you!”

a

Crime and Violins #9: The Death of Oaks