Words of Advice From Write Anything - 03 Feb 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on February 3, 2008. The original text can be found here.

Words of Advice

I’m going to list three writing tips. And once I’m finished, I’d like you to suggest some tips of your own. If you play along, then hopefully we’ll have a pretty good tip sheet for anyone struggling with their writing, just starting out on writing, or becoming jaded with the whole process.

So, on with the game.

1. Just do it.
   Don’t say you are a writer. Don’t talk about how much you want to write. Don’t spend time thinking about all the stories you would like to write. Sit down. And do it. Write. Pick up a pen. Scribble into a notepad. Tap the keys. Write. Just write. Do it. No excuses. You think Joe Montana won his Superbowl rings talking about being a great quarterback? Write. That is the number one tip. There are no secrets. There are no shortcuts. Letters form words, words form sentences, sentences form pages, pages form books!
   
   (And yes, I’m extremely guilty of not following this one myself!)
   
   
2. Be messy
   Name an author who had their first draft published. While you’re thinking, I’ll be over there, patiently waiting...
   
   ...
   
   There are probably some, but they are incredibly rare. Is your first draft messy? Is the grammar and spelling a little sloppy? Are there plot holes? Good. It is a first draft. It is supposed to be like that. The messier the better. If you strive for perfection when you start out you will get hung up on all the little minutiae of form, language, grammar etc., and you will forget the story that you are trying to tell. Story first. Get that sorted out, then go back and tidy up the details.
   
   
3. Look around you
   Now, I know that the first tip is "just write", and that the second tip is "be messy", but you aren’t going to get very far without something to write about. Where does inspiration come from? Well, I hate to say it, but it isn’t from your mind. Not wholly. A writer never writes in isolation. You are a part of the world, the world is a part of you, and that is where your inspiration comes from. Because if your writing is not familiar, honest, authentic, then nobody will read it. Whether your story is a true to life family drama, or a science fiction fantasy set on another world, the emotions, the interactions between the characters have to be realistic or your story will fall flat.
   
   Inspiration comes from anywhere, at any time. Keep an interest in real life, and you will have all the story inspiration you will ever need.

Those are my tips. What are yours?

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

Fiction Friday - 27 June 2008

This Week's Theme: "I can't breathe." Now keep writing.

---

Brief explanation first - this week's prompt inspired me to write a prequel to something I've been working on, which was a response to Jodi's very first Monday's Musical Musings meme. Nearly one month on, I'm almost finished - but with a twist, because it's going to feature as a podcast, not as a blog posting. For more musical memes, visit the Monday's Musical Musings site.

---

"I can't breathe. I feel trapped here, like the whole city is just suffocating me."

She sat down on the settee beside him, taking his hand in hers. "Tell me you understand Ewan, please?" She edged forward, trying to get him to look at her. Instead he sat staring into the mid-distance, almost impassively. Only his eyes betrayed what he was feeling, slick with barely perceptible tears, burning red.

"Ewan, please? Talk to me?" She let go of his hand and stood up. She slowly walked over to the doorway, where she had placed her bags. "Please don't hate me. I'm sorry that I don't... You're a good man Ewan, I just can't stay here any more. I need to go back home. For what it's worth..."

She hesitated, as he slowly turned his head towards her.

Don't go. Please. I will do anything you ask, be anything you ask. Only stay.

As that thought passed, his jaw set slightly, brow furrowed. Fine. Leave. Walk out you bitch. See if I care.

His face relaxed again. He held her gaze for a few moments, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

I don't want you to leave. But I can't make you stay. I don't understand, but I love you, so I can't stand in your way. You're all I ever wanted.

"Elly, promise me something" he croaked, his shoulders shaking as he struggled not to scream. He turned his head away, closed his eyes, and let a single tear roll down his cheek. "Don't come back."

With his eyes still shut, he heard the door closing. Alone, he knelt down on the ground, curled up into himself, and let the pain flow through his body.

***

"And after that, what did you do?"

Ewan hugged his knees closer to his chest, rocking back and forth in the chair. "I... came here. I'd heard about you. That you could... take away the pain. Help me forget."

Dr Pieterson sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Always the same misinterpretation of the treatment. "Mr Davidson, we can't remove your memories. That's not how it works. We can help you cope with them, and we can stop the pain. The memories you keep, and we help you to deal with it. Understand?"

Ewan nodded. If that was the best he could get, at least it was something.

"In the circumstances..." Pieterson looked at the case notes before him. Although the treatment was mostly used for trauma survivors, Pieterson had begun to see people for private treatment when the circumstances merited. Ewan certainly merited it. "... I'd like to begin treatment sooner, rather than later. We can't let you have another... 'incident', can we."

He pulled some forms out of a folder in front of them, and handed them to Ewan. "I'll need you to sign these, and there are some instructions you have to follow. It's important I have as much information about the specific events as possible. Otherwise the CED therapy might disrupt elements of your psyche that we don't want to fix."

Ewan flicked through the papers, signing where instructed, and read the instructions and description of the treatment. Finally, he looked up. "Will it hurt?"

Pieterson smiled. "No Mr Davidson. We're here to take the pain away."

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

Intaglio Redux

Last week's [Fiction] Friday was to use the word "intaglio" (without having looked it up). As is my habit, I went with a Captain Juan adventure. It appears the Captain not only has sea legs, but a taste for exploration, and has wound up on two other blogs, with a story line that provides an explanation of how he came to be where he was in my last [Fiction] Friday. Annie started it with a different interpretation of "intaglio", and Jodi continued the story with a dark twist to the character. And now I've been challenged to continue it, so here we go!

---

"My Lord DeLume, I swear that this is the social event of the season!" The Marquis DeLume smiled, and bowed slightly. The Dowager Duchess extended her hand, and DeLume took it gently, kissed it, then stood upright. "Too kind Duchess. Always too kind. You honour us with your patronage." The Dowager smiled serenely, and strode into the ballroom, her entourage scuttling behind her.

DeLume snapped his fingers, and his man, Tiago, emerged from the shadows and stood beside him. "My Lord?"

"Tiago, are the gates secure?" He nodded curtly. DeLume patted his shoulder and dismissed him. He glanced around the ballroom. The cream of society were assembled, dancing, laughing. Every one of them in that ridiculous new fashion popularised by the younger noblemen. The exquisitely slashed and tattered clothing made by that tailor, what was his name? Solis, that was it. DeLume had seen real swords carve real slashes into clothing. The result was bloody, not fashionable. The closest Solis had ever come to a sword would be his sewing needles.

DeLume shuddered watching the dancing. "Pirates." He muttered. "They all look like bloody pirates." It reminded him too much of his past. He picked up a glass of port and swallowed it down. Maybe he should check once again that the gates were secure.

"Presenting his Grace, the Duke Louis deSilva of Castille."

DeLume turned with a broad grin. Castillian nobility rarely travelled so far without reason, and deSilva was not known to him. Perhaps news from the Royal Court?

On catching site of the Duke, who was warmly greeted by all the minor nobles around him, DeLume's smile faded. Incredible. The gates were secured. The guests were vetted. All to no avail. He took a deep breath, and stepped forward, unsure of how the situation would play out.

"Your Grace." He bowed, sharply.

"My Lord DeLume." The Duke nodded. He waited for DeLume to rise, then smiled. "Might I have a word in private. On a matter of... honour."

DeLume closed his eyes for a moment. So, this is how it would end. He nodded, and led the Duke to a private anteroom. He entered first, and headed straight for a small cabinet in the wall, containing sherry and port. With shaking hands, he poured a large glass of amontillado, and gulped it down. He heard the door click shut, and the lock being turned.

"So you've returned?" DeLume turned round. "Louis deSilva? Castillian too." DeLume laughed without humour.

"You know why I'm here Diego."

DeLume sighed. "She's not here. She hasn't been here in almost a year. Not since that bastard stole her away."

There was a slight hiss as hard tempered Toledo steel was drawn across a hardened leather scabbard. The fine point glinted in the candlelight, poised to strike, pointing directly at DeLume's throat. He made no effort to draw his own sword.

"You aren't hiding them?"

"No, I'm not." The sword pointed down to the ground, and the Duke cautiously stepped forward. DeLume licked his lips. "You think I would shield that coward from the fate he deserves? After dishonouring my family?"

The Duke replaced his sword, and began pacing the room. He stopped, reached into his frock coat, and pulled out a scroll that he had taken from a stubborn tailor's shop. "I have his maps, Diego."

DeLume's eyes widened. "How did you... No, best I not know." The two men looked at each other for a moment, before DeLume spoke again. "Whatever fate is in store for that swine, or me, please, I beg of you. Spare my sister."

"Diego, I would never harm her! I still..." He cleared his throat, and continued. "After all we have been through together Diego, I never wanted to harm you. I thought you had helped them, I was led to believe that... that you consented to his request."

"No, I never consented. He took her by force Juan, then he spread rumours that I had given my lawful consent. That consent was only ever for you my brother. The Contessa was deceived by him. He betrayed us all."

"And he will pay, I swear on my honour."

"What do you need from me?"

The Duke disappeared, and the fire returned to the eyes of Captain Juan. "An excuse." He unfurled the map, and jabbed his finger on it. "Van Diemen's Land. That's where he is. But with the war, the King will never allow me to go after him. I need you to provide me with an excuse to leave."

DeLume stared at the map, and the image of his guests popped into his mind. "Pirates. Pirates Juan." He shook his head and smiled. "I have a contact at the English court, he has the ear of Buckingham, the King's chief strategist. We'll spread a rumour that La Gongoozler has been attacking merchant vessels as well as English war ships. The English won't stand for piracy, and once letters of marque and reprisal are issued against you there won't be a port that's safe for La Gongoozler in this hemisphere. The King will have to send you away for your own safety."

Juan considered the plan. "Agreed. It's perfect."

Diego placed his hand on Juan's shoulder. "You'll be an outlaw Juan. An accusation of piracy makes you an enemy of mankind, even our allies will be against you. It's a heavy price."

Juan smiled. "What is danger when my honour is at stake? Your family's honour Diego. And her. I would sail to hell and back for her."

Diego embraced him. "Thank you Juan. Godspeed to you. I pray for calm seas and a good wind. Bring her back safe. And as for him..."

Juan spat on the ground. "Intaglio will never trouble anyone again."

I'm a liar... From Write Anything - 27 Jan 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on January 27, 2008. The original text can be found here.

I'm a liar...

… by which I mean I’m a teller of tales. And not just because I write. I mean in conversation with people I will tell tales. Sometimes tall tales. To family, friends, random strangers.

About five or six years ago, I and my family were wandering around a shopping centre, when my sister in law asked a question about coconut ice (for those not familiar with this, it is a confectionery made from coconut, condensed milk and sugar - it’s delicious, but that’s another matter…)

For the next hour or so I rambled on and on about the origins of this sweet candy - a shaggy dog story that involved pirates, the discovery of Antarctica, arms smuggling and a Spanish adventurer called Captain Juan. I have no idea where this came from, but without hesitation I launched into this long and intricate story.

That was the start of a strange little habit I’ve picked up. Now, much to the annoyance of everyone who knows me, Captain Juan makes periodic appearances, usually in response to the most innocent of queries. And thanks to a few odd prompts through [Fiction] Friday, he has begun to make his first, tentative, public appearances.

Back to my point. I don’t know whether this is a sign of an overactive imagination, or just a strange sense of humour on my part, but I find that I do this a lot. Without missing a beat in a conversation, and without hesitations, I’ll start to tell a story, and see how far I can go without running out of ideas, without contradicting myself, and without giving myself away.

So here’s a challenge. I’d like you to try to do the same. For just a few minutes, when you’re just shooting the breeze with someone, see if you can spin them a yarn as long as your arm. Make it fun, make it light, and try to keep it going.

It’s a great exercise in spontaneity, imagination, and it might give you a few ideas for something new to write about. Obviously, you shouldn’t do this in serious situations, but when you’re just shooting the breeze with people, give it a try. It’s like a verbal [Fiction] Friday, but without prompts. You’ve got to talk for a few minutes, and because it’s all verbal, there can be no editing! I think you will surprise yourself with just how amazing your imagination can be.

And if you ever get the chance to meet me in person, just keep in mind what I’ve just revealed to you.

Especially if I mention Captain Juan.

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

Fair use, copyright and big media

I've spoken before about big media taking the work of bloggers and those they deem "amateur", and using their work without permission, compensation or even acknowledgement. In the eyes of big media, this is perfectly legitimate.

Now it would appear that when "amateurs" use the work of big media, this is somehow a terrible scourge. It is plagiarism. Even when bloggers use only a small fraction of the original work, link through to the official location of the original work, and fully attribute the author and publisher of the original work. To those in the "professional" sphere, this is an evil that needs to be stamped out.

Even though it fully complies with both the letter and the spirit of the "fair use" provisions of domestic and international copyright laws.

Associated Press have decided that the law no longer applies to them, that anybody quoting from an Associated Press story is guilty of plagiarising, and if you wish to quote so much as five words from one of their stories, you must pay them cold hard cash. Thanks to Writer's Blog for the heads up on this story.

Put simply, AP do not have a leg to stand on with this one. The fair use doctrine is clear and long established. They may succeed in frightening a few people with threatening letters, demands for payment and complaints to ISPs, but the instant this gets anywhere near a court of law, they will lose, and lose badly.

In one sense, they have won - many bloggers are no longer quoting AP, but not out of fear. Out of choice. A Pyrrhic victory, as AP have lost one hell of a lot of public goodwill over this issue, and are looking increasingly foolish. For a news resource, staffed by journalists, to attack the fundamental rights of freedom of speech, opinion and expression, moreover for them to attack a research resource such as the fair use doctrine - it is simply insanity.

I don't often use AP on this site, but on my personal site I very often quote news stories that have come from AP to other news vendors. I am with TechCrunch on this issue. AP is now banned. I won't use a story if I see that it has come from the Associated Press. I won't comment on it, link to it etc.

A boycott site with petition has been set up. I would encourage you to sign up, and then use alternative news sources on your blog, such as Reuters. And check out some of the reaction to this story - at-Largely has a good summary of the backlash against AP.

Now I'm off to add some buttons to the site...

Tags: Associated Press boycott copyright fair use freedom of opinion freedom of expression

Fiction Friday - 20 June 2008

This Week's Theme: Without looking it up, use the word Intaglio in your [Fiction]Friday entry.

---

Previous Captain Juan adventures: Gongoozler. Conspinkey.

---

There's some that will tell you that the Captain is invincible. Invulnerable. Immortal. Fearless.

They're almost right. In all the years I sailed with the Captain, there wasn't a ship he couldn't outsail, a sea monster he couldn't defeat. There wasn't a duel to be won, a treasure to be found, a lady to be rescued or a wrong to be avenged that didn't see the Captain in the thick of it, and on top of it.

But sail with the Captain all your life, and you get to know the man. You get to know him as vulnerable. Mortal. The Captain is fearless, not through bravery, but because he has nothing left to lose. The Captain was wounded once, as a young man. A deep, harsh wound. There's some that say he died that day, and what walks now is a ghost. Others say that the wound is fatal, and so the Captain fears no man and fears no death, because he knows his fate.

All I know is that the Captain lost everything that mattered to him once. And in that loss he became free and fearless. He ran away to sea, travelling the world, and making his name.

We were sailing in the Southern Seas. It was during the war with the English, letters of mark and repisal had been issued against the Captain and La Gongoozler. So the King sent us off for safekeeping. South and East, to the Antipodes. Cap'n wasn't happy, I remember that. "I fear no English ships!" he cried, indignantly. "Let them come with their letters, I'll sign my name across their chests with my sabre!"

But no, the King sent us away. A big adventure. And El Capitán was never one to shy away from an adventure. But as we crossed the equator, he seemed subdued. Sombre. One night, when I was on watch, the Captain came and sat with me a while. Didn't say a word. Just looked out to the horizon. Then he got up, sighed, and left for his cabin. Never seen him like that before, or since.

As we approached Van Diemen's Land, we spotted the ship. It was anchored off the coast, as if it was expecting us. And the Captain was expecting it too. When we told him of the ship, he didn't say a word. He just nodded, fastened his sword to his waist, and came on deck.

La Gongoozler drew up to the other ship. It was in good condition, yet no crew. Except for one man. Stood at the bow. He saluted the Captain, nodded and spoke. "Juan, it has been too long. How have you been."

The Captain would laugh. The Captain would issue a challenge. But in a voice as quiet as a whisper, but resounding as thunder, the Captain responded. "Where is she?" His hand was on his sword, gripping the hilt tightly, knuckles white.

The other man raised an eyebrow. "She? Ooh, her. Do you still think about her Juan?"

The steel flashed in the sunlight, as the Captain pointed the sword straight at the stranger on the other ship. The blade did not waver, and nobody spoke what seemed to be forever. Finally, the Captain lowered his sword, and turned.

"Walking away again Juan? So much for the brave adventurer!"

"Captain? Who is that?"

"Intaglio." The Captain paused. "My brother."

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday Captain Juan

Happy ever after? From Write Anything - 20 Jan 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on January 20, 2008. The original text can be found here.

Happy ever after?

For generations, children have been told fairy tales by their parents. Stories have been passed on from father to son, mother to daughter, centuries of oral and written tradition, tales of handsome princes, wicked stepmothers, enchantment, adventure, and Happy Ever Afters.

And then children grow up, and they discover that in real life, things don’t always end happily ever after. There are good endings, there are bad endings - sometimes the best ending is merely acceptable, given the circumstances.

As adults we don’t always revisit these stories. We read other tales - the princes aren’t always as handsome, the stepmothers aren’t always wicked, and the distinctions between right and wrong are not simple.

But fiction is still an escape from the trials and tribulations of daily life. We seek escape - and in a world where unhappy ever after is just as likely as happy ever after, are writers obliged to provide readers with a happy ending? Or ought they reflect life as it really is, a life where sometimes good guys do come last, evil profits, and true love does not conquer all?

I’m writing a story where two of the main characters love each other, but circumstances have so far kept them apart. I know how the story could end, but is it how the story ought to end?

I could provide a wonderful, happy ending, where our heroes overcome the odds and wind up together. Or I could provide a more “realistic” ending, in which circumstances are too much, and harsh realities keep them apart.

Do you think a writer should always strive for a happy ending, or just the ending most realistic in the circumstances?

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

Fiction Friday - 13 June 2008

This Week's Theme: Sketch out a character with wildly bad luck. Make it a character you like, as we will use her again.

---

"You expect me to believe that?"

To be honest, no. Nobody ever does. The fact that it is the truth? That doesn’t matter. I don’t expect anyone to believe me when these things happen, but I can’t come up with an answer. It just… happens.

And he looks pissed. Man, I hate it when this happens to me around cops.

"So you just happened to wind up in an abandoned basement, and it just so happened to be the day that a major drug deal was going down, and you just happen to fit the description of this city's most notorious drug baron. Oh, and before I forget..." He slammed his fist down on the table, knocking over the glass of water I'd asked for. I hadn't even taken a sip yet.

"It was all just a coincidence that you were carrying a suitcase full of money?" The detective leaned in, his face inches away. Is that... yeah, he’s been eating pickles. They make me break out in hives...

"Bull. Shit."

Suitcase full of money? I was on the way to the train station, it should have been full of my clothes... The coffee shop"

"Officer, there was a man sat beside me at a coffee shop on 23rd and Park. He had a bag just like mine, I swear, they must have been switched."

"And that was just before you 'accidentally' wound up in that basement."

"I dropped my tickets and they got blown in through a broken window!"

"You're lying Sam. You're a filthy drug dealer, and you are going down..."

The door to the interview room opened just then, and thank god the suits turned up. I don't normally like seeing Jack, but this time he really saved my skin.

"That will be enough detective, Mr Johnson is coming with us."

Man, if he wasn't pissed before he sure is now.

"Yeah, and who the fuck might you be?"

Jack looked across at me and smiled, before pulling out his badge. "Agent Robertson, FBI. This man works with us. And I think you've kept him long enough." The detective stared at the badge then shook his head.

"Keep your stoolies out of my drug busts in future."

Without another word he unlocked the cuffs and I was a free man. I followed Jack out the precinct, rubbing my wrists.

"Must be my lucky day Jack! First good thing that happened today."

Jack patted me on the shoulder. Never a good sign. "Yeah, you might think that Sammy. But we've got a little job for you. We could use your "luck" with a little problem that's arisen. Get in the car."

"But, I've got tickets, I was going on a trip..."

"Yeah, yeah you are Sammy. Now shut up and let's go."

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday - 6 June 2008

This Week's Theme: Your character becomes obsessed with someone. Who? And Why?

---

“The old man is not going to like this.”

Dante finished inspecting his nails, then looked across the room at his partner. “The old man probably won’t. But that isn’t our concern, is it.” He returned to the task of scrutinizing the nails of his other hand, only to be interrupted again.

“He’s really not going to like this. What do you think he’ll do?”

Dante sighed. He truly missed Virgil. He didn’t question, he didn’t speculate. He took instructions and got results. Unlike Shelley.

“I think Shelley, he’s going to take the information we give him, and then he’s going to pay us. After that, you and I are going to leave, and whatever he does with the information is his own business.” Dante rose from the red leather chair and began to walk around the room. It was a library, or a study, he could never decide the difference. They always looked the same to him, shelves lining the walls with hundreds, perhaps thousands of books, and in the middle a large wooden desk, a reading lamp and a comfortable chair. The portraits on the wall of the noble ancestors (he spotted the familial resemblance) gave no clue either way. But the fire place, the two leather chairs placed either side, and the tantalus set between them, yes, this was a study. The old man’s study.

“But… well, when he finds out what happened to the target. You heard what he did to Milton.”

Dante laughed. Milton. Yes, that was particularly gruesome, but Dante had been paid well enough to do it. “Unlike us, my dear Shelley, Milton had been asked to find something and bring it back undamaged. Which he failed to do. Quite spectacularly. Of course the old man would be upset. We, on the other hand, were only asked to find the boy, and tell him. We didn’t have to bring him back, and we can hardly be blamed for what the boy chooses to do with his life.”

The door to the study swung open. Dante turned, and respectfully bowed his head. Shelley staggered to his feet, fidgeting with his tie in order to look respectable. The old man peered at them. “Dante. Shelley.” He strode over to his desk and sat down. “Good news?”

Shelley gulped nervously and started to stammer. “N-not as such, sir, no…” Dante held up his hand to stop Shelley blurting out anything further.

“Good news sir. We found him.”

“Took you long enough” the old man muttered, snapping his fingers at Shelley. “The report you have there, hand it over. Come on man, quickly.”

Shelley held the report out with a trembling hand. It was snatched away roughly.

“New York? Hardly the back of beyond eh? Why so long to find him?”

“New York, via several other places sir. He hasn’t stayed in one place for quite some time. Quite the traveller. Even I haven’t been to Machu Picchu before, and that’s just one of the better known places he’s been through. But he appears to be settling in New York. Due to his problems…”

The old man glanced up, and for the briefest second Dante registered a look of concern. So, the old bastard does care about something. The look melted in a fraction of a second, and the old man regained his composure. “What problems?”

“Alcoholism. And he appears to have developed a heroin addiction. He’s moving between the homeless shelters at the moment, mainly the church run ones.” Shelley flinched at this, expecting the old man to explode with rage. He was surprised that he sat there, calmly.

“A shame. I thought he was stronger than that.” The old man began reading through the rest of the file.

Dante coughed politely. “We have taken the liberty of setting him up with a supplier. We don’t want to tip him off that we’re here, but at least we can control what he’s taking.”

The old man nodded. “Good thinking Dante. Well done.”

Dante coughed again. “Now sir, the delicate matter of our fee?” Shelley blanched, expecting the worst. Instead, the old man picked up a phone, and dialled a number. “Hodgins? Yes, you can wire the money now. Thank you.” Putting the phone down, he looked up at them. “Thank you. You may go.”

Dante began to usher Shelley out of the room, but paused at the door. “If I may say so sir, there are some fine portraits in here.” The old man glanced around the room, as Dante continued. “Perhaps room for one more, when he returns from New York?” The old man did not flinch, but there was just a slight twitch in his eye.

“It’s the nose and eyes, sir. Very strong resemblance.” Dante shoved Shelley roughly out the door, then turned. “We weren’t the only ones looking for him sir. There were others.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Others?”

Dante nodded. “Of the… religious persuasion.”

“Thank you Dante. That will be all.”

“Of course.” He bowed, and shut the door as he left.

The old man spun around in his chair and gazed out of the window, the report hanging loosely from his hand. He had finally resurfaced. Broken, haunted, but alive at least. That was something. He would need to keep a close eye on him, keep him safe. Especially if other people were taking an interest. Religious… The old man had a good idea who that might be.

He stood and walked over to the tantalus, pouring himself a large measure of whisky. “Gideon, what on earth do the Watch want with you?”

Oh, had I forgotten to mention I've resumed work on The Long Watch?

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday