Post by Cy Otauna on Sept 23, 2006 8:12:06 GMT -5
Comments would be very much appreciated. I'll post chapters as people post interest.
The Plotseekers
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you...”
~Matthew 21:22
“The air in the room was so thick with dramatic clichés you could have cut it with a knife.”
~Jasper Fforde,The Well of Lost Plots
I
Rain beat down on the Miata so hard that the wipers were not fast enough to catch it, and a constant pulsating layer of water remained over the windshield.
Constantine Kipling recalled for the hundredth time how much he hated driving as he crept around another block in the gray, near-nonexistent visibility. Mailboxes with their numbers in various states of obscurity slid past, but he did not doubt being able to find the yellow police tape of a crime scene on this clean street. The young woman beside him still made him nervous.
“Lower that cowl while in the car, will you.” said he.
She shrugged the black sweatshirt’s hood to around her shoulders, revealing short blonde-brown hair and a pointed face with a thin scar running above her right eye. It made that face less attractive and more intense. Said she, “You get used to it. All movie bad guys wear them, they’re so comfortable.”
“You’re not a movie bad guy.”
She smiled, more like a smirk than a smile actually.
Constantine sighted, with difficulty, the tape around a house and section of sidewalk ahead. He drove a way past to find somewhere to not parallel park, even though three Miatas could fit in some of these spaces.
Not long after the awkward silence of their last exchange his companion said, “All this rain. It makes you think we could be in a story, that the scene’s set to match the mood.”
He said quietly, “If it is, how can we enter other books and manipulate them?”
“I’ve had this conversation before, but backwards.”
Together they crossed the street and the police tape. Only Constantine’s confidence gave them any look of belonging; other than that his neat business clothes, brown leather jacket, and messy brownish hair with loose, long tail didn’t seem to belong to any modern social setting. He obviously carried a switchblade and three duct-tape-bound softcover books. They climbed the stairs to the white, rather beat-up split level’s porch.
Before they could knock or make another sign a young, Hispanic-looking police man opened it. Constantine’s nervousness jumped a notch; he did not usually deal with authorities in the so-called Real World. Usually authors did not murder their fans for writing copious tie-in fiction.
“We’re here on special investigations for the death of Marie Shandler.” He said.
“Scene’s mostly cleared away.” replied the man. “Let me see your ID.”
Constantine’s partner spoke firmly, looking up at the cop. “This is master Constantine Kipling and I am Mourn.” She spelled it. “You will grant us entrance and wait outside until we’ve finished, keeping quiet.”
The cop nodded and walked out on to the dripping porch as Mourn stepped aside.
Constantine entered the house and went up started up the stairs. He had to shake his head and worry, but also said, “Thanks.”
To her credit Mourn only replied with, “I have a friend who watched a lot of X-Files. Police are just people.”
The living room had a pink carpet, various Catholic-theme paintings in neat formation on the walls, and no body remaining as evidence. The weapon lay just outside the spraypainted outline on the carpet, set straight beside the painted leg as if the girl had been wearing it. It was a long, European sword, silver until the red blood on the last foot of the blade, the hilt carefully styled in gold and with a wide Spanish guard.
Mourn hissed a foreign curse.
Constantine just flicked his gaze to her and then back to the outline, wondering how little he could know. “What?”
“Just the blood.” Then she knelt down beside the stained blade and gently touched the guard with the back of her hand.
So she was used to cleaner weapons? Instead he asked, “Could this be one of the swords from the book?”
“I’m not sure. I just read it. He didn’t describe them as so Spanish.”
Constantine’s cell phone trumpeted the first few tones of a techno ‘Amazing Grace’ and then he snatched it from pocket to ear. “Hello.”
His mother’s voice came over from the store. “Trouble! Get you two back here!” Then she hung up.
Constantine and Mourn traded glances and jogged out. The police officer gave a quick salute in response to the girl’s as they went by.
The Plotseekers
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you...”
~Matthew 21:22
“The air in the room was so thick with dramatic clichés you could have cut it with a knife.”
~Jasper Fforde,The Well of Lost Plots
I
Rain beat down on the Miata so hard that the wipers were not fast enough to catch it, and a constant pulsating layer of water remained over the windshield.
Constantine Kipling recalled for the hundredth time how much he hated driving as he crept around another block in the gray, near-nonexistent visibility. Mailboxes with their numbers in various states of obscurity slid past, but he did not doubt being able to find the yellow police tape of a crime scene on this clean street. The young woman beside him still made him nervous.
“Lower that cowl while in the car, will you.” said he.
She shrugged the black sweatshirt’s hood to around her shoulders, revealing short blonde-brown hair and a pointed face with a thin scar running above her right eye. It made that face less attractive and more intense. Said she, “You get used to it. All movie bad guys wear them, they’re so comfortable.”
“You’re not a movie bad guy.”
She smiled, more like a smirk than a smile actually.
Constantine sighted, with difficulty, the tape around a house and section of sidewalk ahead. He drove a way past to find somewhere to not parallel park, even though three Miatas could fit in some of these spaces.
Not long after the awkward silence of their last exchange his companion said, “All this rain. It makes you think we could be in a story, that the scene’s set to match the mood.”
He said quietly, “If it is, how can we enter other books and manipulate them?”
“I’ve had this conversation before, but backwards.”
Together they crossed the street and the police tape. Only Constantine’s confidence gave them any look of belonging; other than that his neat business clothes, brown leather jacket, and messy brownish hair with loose, long tail didn’t seem to belong to any modern social setting. He obviously carried a switchblade and three duct-tape-bound softcover books. They climbed the stairs to the white, rather beat-up split level’s porch.
Before they could knock or make another sign a young, Hispanic-looking police man opened it. Constantine’s nervousness jumped a notch; he did not usually deal with authorities in the so-called Real World. Usually authors did not murder their fans for writing copious tie-in fiction.
“We’re here on special investigations for the death of Marie Shandler.” He said.
“Scene’s mostly cleared away.” replied the man. “Let me see your ID.”
Constantine’s partner spoke firmly, looking up at the cop. “This is master Constantine Kipling and I am Mourn.” She spelled it. “You will grant us entrance and wait outside until we’ve finished, keeping quiet.”
The cop nodded and walked out on to the dripping porch as Mourn stepped aside.
Constantine entered the house and went up started up the stairs. He had to shake his head and worry, but also said, “Thanks.”
To her credit Mourn only replied with, “I have a friend who watched a lot of X-Files. Police are just people.”
The living room had a pink carpet, various Catholic-theme paintings in neat formation on the walls, and no body remaining as evidence. The weapon lay just outside the spraypainted outline on the carpet, set straight beside the painted leg as if the girl had been wearing it. It was a long, European sword, silver until the red blood on the last foot of the blade, the hilt carefully styled in gold and with a wide Spanish guard.
Mourn hissed a foreign curse.
Constantine just flicked his gaze to her and then back to the outline, wondering how little he could know. “What?”
“Just the blood.” Then she knelt down beside the stained blade and gently touched the guard with the back of her hand.
So she was used to cleaner weapons? Instead he asked, “Could this be one of the swords from the book?”
“I’m not sure. I just read it. He didn’t describe them as so Spanish.”
Constantine’s cell phone trumpeted the first few tones of a techno ‘Amazing Grace’ and then he snatched it from pocket to ear. “Hello.”
His mother’s voice came over from the store. “Trouble! Get you two back here!” Then she hung up.
Constantine and Mourn traded glances and jogged out. The police officer gave a quick salute in response to the girl’s as they went by.