Archive for the 'Writing' Category

Love is a cold kiss goodbye

Published
by
cdeagle
on September 20, 2009
in Writing
. 1 Comment

This vignette has been settled firmly in the back of my mind for several months, but I didn’t have the will to write it.  I figured I should take some time to set it down so I could stop thinking about it.

–

He flipped backwards through the photo album in his lap, mind elsewhere.  Paper pages mounted with pictures couldn’t hold his thoughts, which flickered off and away to some distant where.  A nervous habit, he triggered the screen on his phone.  Three minutes had elapsed since the last time, and he had not missed any communications.  His hands stopped at the first page of the album, the first picture of her, sitting at a street side cafe, smoking a cigarette.  He’d taken it a year ago, before he knew her name.

He rose slowly, his diaphragm opened and oxygen flooded his lungs, doing nothing to alleviate the pain in his chest.  The album fell from his hands to the floor and he walked away from it.  He spent some time walking through his apartment, back held straight, eyes roaming over objects which he couldn’t hold in his mind.  He drew books down from high shelves and grasped them firmly, like talismans against the emptiness growing in him, but when he tried to read them they were incomprehensible.

He found himself at the sink, a glass of water in his hands, with no desire to drink it.  Moments or hours later he rose from the bathroom floor, legs shaking, throat raw.  He heard her coming with the first light.  In the mirror he saw himself, a horror.  He splashed water on his face, raked his fingers through his hair.  Time dilated and he heard her footsteps in the kitchen, his hand surrounded the cold brushed metal of the doorknob, it siphoned his heat, warming.  He twisted, ever so slowly, and in the eternity between two heartbeats the latch disengaged and the door swung towards him.

There were books and cushions everywhere, a glass of water lay on its side, liquid pooled on the glossy concrete floor, creating endless reflections.  He stepped over this.  If she heard his approach she made no indication.  The counters were covered with plates and bowls, pots and pans.  She was efficiently emptying each cabinet until finally, she found what she was looking for.  She lifted out a small metal pail, unlocked it, and placed its contents in the pockets of her duster.  Quick movements, sharp and precise.  Not delicate, but beautiful in their perfection, she wasted no energy, she was not superfluous.  She had always been this way, in speech and movement, thought and emotion.  This characterized her.

He swallowed and cleared his throat, then winced.  His hands felt alien, the appendages of some other man, grafted onto his arms but not entirely under his control.  He slid them into his pockets as she turned toward him.

“You’re going.” he said, surprised, as always by her simple beauty.  She said nothing, and he knew this was the only answer he’d get.  She didn’t waste words.

“You don’t have to do that.  You can stay.” his voice trailed off, hopelessness coiling around him.

“I told you I would leave.” she said, her face perfectly impassive.  A fact, devoid of emotion.  She had made that statement.  He remembered it.  They’d just made love, he was talking about their future, whispering his dreams to the dark room, and she turned to him…he closed his eyes.

“Yes” he said, his voice faltering, “but I love you.  I’m in love with you.”

Eyes opening he found her back, her shoulders, and followed the line of her coat down to her calves.  Her heels clacked on the concrete with each step she took towards the door.  Pain shot through his body and he realized he was on his knees.

“Please.” he said, “Please.  Don’t leave me like this.”

She stopped, turned slowly and looked at him.  He felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and as she approached he tried to wipe his eyes.  Her hand went to the back of his head and she pulled his face into her.  He held on, sobbing quietly into her stomach.

She brushed her fingers through his hair, then slid six inches of cold steel past his ribs, into his right ventricle.

He gasped, his  eyes suddenly level with her pumps, and watched as his life poured out over the concrete floor.  She stepped away from the advancing pool of blood and his vision flickered.  A photograph of her sitting at a street side cafe smoking, blossomed in his mind, and was gone.

She walked to the door, resting her hand on the knob.  She opened it slowly, then stopped and turned.

“I love you.” she said to the empty room.

Pivotal

Published
by
cdeagle
on March 30, 2009
in Writing
. 2 Comments

This is part of a larger story, a slice from a wider dialogue, without any context.  I banged it out over lunch, and plan to edit it into the larger work.  Anyway, this should prove that, no matter how crazy life is, you can find time to write.  You just have to not have anyone to go to lunch with. 

 

 

The bench was perched atop a hill, all covered in heather, swathed in snow.  The flowers were impossibly vibrant, defying winters bite.  Tomas was proud of this, it had taken a considerable amount of work and energy to accomplish the feat, and it had made her smile, which was more.

They sat, side by side, looking out over the city.  Their bodies touched more than was necessary, neither making any effort to withdraw, both quietly enjoying the closeness as a knee or an arm brushed against each other.

“What do you call it?” she asked, her eyes roving across the surface of the hill, taking in the patches of snow and the purple flowers.

He tilted his head and thought for a moment, then said, “I hadn’t named it.”

She looked at him finally, her deep brown eyes knocking the wind from his chest.

“You made it for me.” she said, her mouth turned down in a frown.

He stared back at her, saying nothing, and then felt her shift, breaking the contact between them.

“You can’t, Tomas.  You can’t do things like this.” her voice trailed off, and her last words were hardly more than a whisper “It’s dangerous.”

“I was careful,” he replied, looking down at his creation, at what he had wrought. “I did it in small patches, I didn’t overextend myself, I…I listen, Sarah.  I’m not one of your first years, I’m responsible.”

“I know what you are,” she said, her voice growing cool, “but this kind of thing draws a lot of attention.  You know that.  We could be in danger, Tomas.  They could be coming here, right now.”

A small smile crept onto his face and he shook his head, lifting his arm to point to a series of high rise towers, barely visible on the horizon. London’s Financial district.

“I did it from there.” he said, making no effort to hide his pride.

Sarah remained composed, though she wanted to gape.  She shook her head, and steeled her voice.

“That was incredibly dangerous.  You will not attempt anything like that again.  Do you understand the dilemma of distance and dispersion?  Forget your own life, if you’d missed you could’ve killed someone!  How could you risk that?” 

His arm dropped and he met her eyes, and her accusation, with fire of his own.

“I didn’t miss.” he growled. “I made sure-”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand and said, “I’m very disappointed in you.  When we get back, you’re to write an essay on Distance, and one on Ethics.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Always the instructor, never the woman.  You know what this is, Sarah.” his voice softened, and he said “I’m sorry I got angry, but you keep pushing.  The closer we get, the more you push.”  His hand dropped down to lightly rub the side of hers, and he frowned. “Please, if you love me, let go.  Stop pushing.”

She swallowed, her jaw clenched and she said, “If it seems like I’m pushing, it’s because you are getting more and more inappropriate, and I’m trying to keep our student teacher relationship intact, Tomas.” She withdrew her hand, and stood, stepping away from the bench.

“It’s normal to have these feelings for your instructor, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.  I still care about you, Tomas, but you know there can’t be anything between us.” she said, working to keep the tremor out of her voice, willing him to stay away, praying that he couldn’t see her hands shaking.

“Do you love me?” it was the barest whisper, if the wind had been blowing the other way she wouldn’t have heard it at all.

Her stomach writhed and her heart ached at the pain she heard in his question.  She straightened her back, keeping her voice level, and said “No, I don’t.”

Tomas couldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks, couldn’t feel her determination wavering, crumbling slowly.  All he saw was her straight back, her small, squared shoulders, her soft hair.  He rose to his feet, shaking, and pushed out of himself.  Finding the thin fabric of reality all around him, he ripped his way into it, aligned himself with it, reached forward, and pushed.  Between he and Sarah, a pinprick of dull grey light appeared, and then knifed downward, forming a rent in the air.  This fissure widened, expanding to reveal a world of shadow and fog.  He stepped through it.

She thought she was going to die.  Nothing is worth doing this to him, she told herself.  I’ll leave.  He’ll leave with me.  What oath can be allowed to cause this much pain?  I won’t abide by it.  She spun around, resolved to give up everything to him, and for him.  To give up her position, her way of life, all of it, just to hold him.  She spun around, ready to fling herself into his arms, to kiss him as she’d been longing to do for months.  She spun around, and found herself alone, on a violet hill, swathed in snow.

 

Not for the last time, Sarah wept.

 

Calling All Bibliophiles

Published
by
cdeagle
on November 28, 2008
in Writing
. 4 Comments

I have a deep, abiding love for books.  It’s true that I get frustrated with some authors, and I’ve been known to throw a book across the room in a fit of pique, but in general I love the institution of literature, and I’ll give just about any book a fair shot.  I attribute this to three people in my childhood, who encouraged and fostered the love of reading.  

My mother, who created a rule which went as follows: “You can stay up as late as you want, provided you’re reading and that you’re able to function in the morning.”  My dad, who taught me to love knowledge and reason and to value the ability to understand.  I remember watching the way he thought about things, the way he saw through things, and thinking that I would never be able to find flaws in logic, to see through charades, as easily as he did.  I don’t know if I’m there yet, but it’s a part of my mind that I’ve cultivated, and which is sharp.  That’s because of him, and because of the books he brought to me.  The last person is my grandmother, who was an example, and also a source.  She had many, many books, and I think I’ve gotten some of her eclectic taste.  She read everything from murder mysteries to fantasy, political opinion pieces to sappy love-stories.  She provided me with an endless supply of pleasant reads, and reinforced that books are not just a collection of words which we can use to deepen our understanding…They’re also places to get lost.  Filthy with tyrants and heroes, blackguards and victims and SEALs and talking mice.  Books exist to sing to a part of the soul that our lives rarely awaken.

I was thinking about my love of books, and I thought I’d query my meager but loyal blog audience.  Blodience?

First a question of tactile preference.  Do you prefer hardcover or paperback, and is there a reason for your preference?

Second, Jennifer I already know the answer to this one.  Everyone else: What is it about a plot that most engages you?  For Jennifer it’s the love story, and if I’m being honest, that’s probably a big part of it for me too.  Anyone in love with Dialogue?  Characterization?

What style of writing do you most like to read?  Wordy and “literature”y, clean and minimalistic, or poetic?  Or something in between?  There are no wrong answers to these questions.

Finally, what do you hate in books?  What plot device, characterization, or theme drives you crazy?

Is there a writer in the house?

Published
by
cdeagle
on October 29, 2008
in Life and Writing
. 3 Comments

It’s a blessing that October, which is historically recognized as the month that preceeds November, has 31 days in it.  Had it only 30, we would be at this very moment poised on the cusp of the National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.

Fear not.  We have an entire extra day of procrastination.  For those of you that don’t know, the participants in  NaNoWriMo are a collection of individuals devoted to a singular purpose: The writing of a novel, being no less than 50,000 words, in thirty consecutive days. 

This year, I’ve cast my lot with that happy band of lunatics.  I’ve got a thumbnail sketch of a plot, a loose idea of some characters, and a vast wilderness of unmapped territory.  My goal isn’t riches, it isn’t literary praise, it isn’t glowing reviews.  It’s simply to finish, and finish I will.  I firmly believe that a human being can endure any torture, however grim, if he only knows that there is an end.  It is because of this belief that I am not terrified by the prospect of writing a novel in 30 days.  It will require sacrifice for a period of time, but the cost can be measured, weighed, and quantified.

I’ve never taken on any creative effort of this scope, though I’ve dreampt of it.  Inspired by a love of reading, and by a father who is a writer, the title of ‘novelist’ is one that I’ve always quietly revered.  To be published is a secret dream.  It’s taken years, and concious effort, to bring myself to a level of comfort where, despite an abysmal lack of self confidence, I can even talk about that desire.  To be honest, I feel foolish, even now.  Then there’s the fear.  Fear of failure, fear of ridicule, fear of being revealed and, having been revealed, having revealed oneself, being mocked.  I know that courage isn’t a lack of fear, but what one does in the face of fear, and while my life isn’t at stake, my pride is on the chopping block.  I’d almost rather risk my life, than reveal as much about myself as I undoubtedly will writing a novel.

Why do it?  If you’re a writer, you probably already know the answer.  Paddy Gillard-Bentley famously said, “The play is the thing!”  and I think that sums it up nicely.  We write because the novel is the thing.  We write because it’s something that we want to do, and are compelled to do, by some part of ourselves which we don’t rightly understand, but which wants us to be miserable.  In the defense of the craft itself, I’ve found that I’m only miserable when I’m thinking about writing and not doing it.  Like climbing a mountain, it’s the last breath before you start that is the most torturous.

That being the case, maybe I should be lamenting the 30 days which this month is comprised of, instead of exulting.  Perhaps if it were only 28 I could have attributed these words towards my 50,000 word goal.  

I’ll leave you with this invitation: Join us.   Lose yourself in a totally new experience.  Take thirty days of your life and convert it into a novel.  To quote William Shakespeare, “Be great in act, as in thought.”

Autumn

Published
by
cdeagle
on October 7, 2008
in Business, Life and Writing
. 1 Comment

The sun shone down, turning the leaves to fire. We walked through their blaze, hand in hand.  Through the autumnal air rich with the scents of the small town, of lavender and somewhere in the distance a wood fire. We walked, as we had every day for the last 50 years, and though our bodies protested more now, our hearts soared as ever.

—

I’m leaving for Virginia tomorrow, on a business trip to coordinate one of the most difficult tasks of my career thus far.  I’m excited.  I mean, excitement is the primary emotion.  There’s a bit of trepidation in there as well, but mostly, excitement. 

It occurs to me that the things I do now, in the springtime of my life, are meant to prepare me for the greater victories that autumn will bring.  I can only hope that those victories require less labor, and reward me not with material things, but with the respite that I already long for.

I’m up and out the door in six and a half hours, so I’d best be off to bed.

Chasing the wind

Published
by
cdeagle
on August 30, 2008
in Life and Writing
. 0 Comments

I’ve recently realized that I love the smell of dogs.  Not the musty, stale and dirty pet smell, but the real smell.  There’s a difference in odors, and I think it’s based on lifestyle.  Your grandmothers Pomeranian has a specific smell that it developed as a result of hours indoors.  A lifetime spent sleeping under the dining room table and being stroked by old, leathery hands is bound to engender a certain scent.  This is certainly not pleasant, and not what I’m talking about.

To smell like a dog the animal has to have a little freedom.  They have to be allowed to roll in dirt, run through sprinklers, and chase the wind.  They have to be allowed to eat sticks, and wrestle, and dig in mud.  When this dog comes to you, not because he knows he’ll get a treat from you, but because he wants to teach you something about wildness, he is not, in any way, unpleasant.  Though he may muddy your tile, may shed dust on the floor next to your bed, may even, in his exuberance, plant filthy paws on your chest, there’s nothing unclean about this animal.  When you bury your face in his coat you’ll smell three things; the warm scent of a living thing, the green vividness of the world outside your door, and the soft, cool smell of contentment.  Of these things, which can you object to, or what’s not to love?

I suspect that this difference in smell is as much about the healthiness of the animals spirit as it is about their specific living conditions.  How can you flourish when you are not whole?  How can you be whole when a part of your nature is denied?  I’m not advocating complete freedom, or a life without rules by any means.  But dogs, like boys, have a wildness in them which must be encouraged.  To deny it in either species (and I don’t think any of you will disagree that a human boy is its own unique and challenging species) is to deny an essential part of them.

That Age Old Dilemma

Published
by
cdeagle
on July 2, 2008
in Writing
. 3 Comments

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder. The sun, doing its best to push through the heavy clouds, bathed them in a wan grayish light. The smell of saltwater and the cawing of gulls had faded from their minds as the men stared, together, down the beach. Even the chill November air was forgotten, and their hands abandoned the warm refuge of pockets, with no thought to the growing numbness in their fingertips.

They didn’t watch the crash of the waves, or count sets as surfers might. They didn’t look like any of the stereotypical beach denizens. Both wore denim blue-jeans and reinforced workboots, orange safety vests belted over their button-up shirts. Their hats said “Oregon D.O.T” in a proud shade of gold, which belied the spirit of the Department.

Finally, the shorter of the two turned slightly and spoke, still not taking his eyes away from the bulbous gray shape that seemed to have erupted from the surface of the sand.

“This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”, Hector said.

George nodded, then took a deep breath, let it out and started walking. Hector followed, head down, legs working twice as hard as usual it seemed, to push through the sand. Within two dozen paces both men were short of breath, and trying to hide that fact from one another. Then the smell hit them. Hector had once discovered a sack of potatoes in the back of his pantry, a sack which he did not remember buying. When he found the sack, the potatoes had congealed into a syrupy black fluid with tufts of sickly green mold growing on its surface. The smell, he would tell you, was putrid, a word which he had learned specifically so that he could describe the rancid black puddle. He used it now.

“It’s…putrid.” He said.

George, who understood the reverence with which Hector treated that word, grunted his agreement through gritted teeth.

By the time they came within spitting distance of the carcass, Hectors’ body had adjusted to the stench, though waves of nausea still rolled through him if he moved too quickly. He surveyed the gargantuan corpse.

“It’s big…It’s a Humpback, yeah?” He asked.

“No,” George said “sperm. We need to measure it.”

Hector nodded, and they set to it. They worked through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, measuring the length and circumference of the body, the fins and everything else they knew the name of, scribbling quickly as they went. Small crowds of people gathered and dispersed, some of them standing nearby for hours, others only coming close enough for a quick look, but all of them staying upwind.

After the measuring was done they retreated up the beach. Hector sat on a hill, staring out into the ocean and trying to breathe the scent of dead whale out of his nostrils, as George made his phone calls.

“Eight tons.” George said.

Hector looked up, realizing that George was speaking to him.

“Really?” he said, “Eight tons? That’s a big one. That’s too big, man. We can’t…there’s no way we can get that on a truck, is there?”

George laughed. “Nothing we’ve got,” he said. “We’d have to rent something. Won’t get approval.”

“Well…” Hector squinted, the way he did when he was thinking very hard, or lying, “if we don’t have a truck, how can we move it?”

George was already walking away, and couldn’t see the excitement on Hector’s face when he jumped to his feet. “Hey! We can cut it up!” he said, sliding down the hill after George. “Cut it into smaller pieces and load the dumptrucks!”

“Stupid.” said George.

Hector stopped, looking crestfallen. George glanced back, mid-stride, and seeing the look on Hector’s face said, “Well, do you want to do it? Cut up a rotting whale, flesh and bone and sinew, put it in bags and load it onto trucks? I’ll loan you a machete.”

Hector blanched, then nodded.

“You’re right George. That’s right. No one would do that. What can we do?” he asked.

George smiled, it was a smile that Hector had seen too much of in High School. It meant George had been inspired. When George got inspired, bad things happened. Usually to Hector. The worst of them involved fire.

“W…what?” Hector asked, involuntarily stepping back, which caused George to laugh.

“We can’t move it, and we can’t bury it. We’re not allowed to push it back into the ocean. I only see one option.” George said, his smile growing slowly, just at the edges.

“We’re not allowed to light it on fire, George.” Hector said. George laughed harder at this than he had at Hectors fear a moment before.

“No, Hec. Not fire.” George said, “Dynamite.”

Hector only had to think about this for a moment before his stomach flipped over. He leaned to the left, bent at the waist, and vomited into the coarse Oregon sand.

## END ##

This scene is fiction, but it is based on a true story. In November of 1970 a team of Oregon DoT workers used dynamite in an attempt to disintegrate a beached whale. The results were captured on video tape, and were disastrous. Flying whale blubber rained down in a half-mile radius around the site of the explosion, causing extensive damage to nearby cars.

It was such an awesome story that I had to invent a fun backstory for it. I was able to use it as an exercise in characterization. I think it’s a little cheesy, but fun.

As always, comments are welcome!

For more on the exploding whale, check Wikipedia and YouTube.

Worldbuilding

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 29, 2008
in Life and Writing
. 0 Comments

It’s been a whirlwind weekend, and the majority of my “writing” has occurred in my notebook and in my head.  I’m on the cusp of having some things figured out that will make this project doable, and I might not wait till November to start.  That’s not to say I’m not doing NaNoWriMo, it just might be that the stuff I write for NaNo is the Middle portion of it, instead of the whole thing.

I’m really excited about the ideas I’ve been having, and I’m trying to let them marinate so I don’t mutilate them.  I have a feeling it’s going to turn into a “You can see it when it’s done”.  Even for my trusty Beta readers.  But if any nice little vignettes reveal themselves, I’ll certainly share them.

On Magic: I love it, and I want to create a magical world, but I don’t want magic to be a panacea for all problems.  I have some interesting consequences, as discussed briefly in a previous post.  Hopefully my concept is unique, and not…inane.  Look, I don’t want balls of fire smashing down buildings.  That’s not subtle or entertaining.  If you’re going to make a ball of fire it should behave like fire.  Not smash through a building.  I get that it’s magic fire, I do.  But Magic Fire is still Fire, right?  …Right?  Books are about humans dealing with problems.  Imbuing them with super-powers that obviate character development or personal sacrifice is lame and juvenile

I think that’s all I have for right now.  Work in 8 hours, time for bed…3 hours ago.

Macaroni Grill

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 25, 2008
in Writing
. 2 Comments

I don’t know if they grill actual macaroni’s or if it’s just a figure of…something…What I do know is that dinner was delicious.  And now I’m watching The Illusionist, which is fantastic, and pondering sleep, which I’m also quite fond of.

I’ve been trying to flesh out a workable and interesting fantastic world, and to that end I was talking to Kim after dinner.  I didn’t give her any context, so this conversation was just her answering my weird questions:

Me: What is the cost of magic?
Kim: What?
Me: The cost, to do magic.  What does it cost?
Kim: A lot.
Me: Ok…but what?
Kim: Your soul.
Me: Well, that’s a lot.
Kim: yeah.
Me: What if it’s a selfless act?  Does it still cost your soul?
Kim: well, no.  If it’s selfless, it’s free.
Me: But there’s really no such thing as a truly selfless act, is there?
Kim: I guess not.

This raises an interesting dilemma.  If the cost of magic is variable based on intent, some sort of consciousness is implied on the part of magic.  Some kind of ability to discern the heart and mind of its practitioner, and then a framework with which it makes value judgments after that discernment has been made.  This flies in the face of magic being a set of Laws, like the laws of physics.  Relatively inert, and with no will or agenda of its own.

What then?  Is it inert and without aim, or imbued with the apparatus to judge, decide, and penalize based on intent?  I guess it could be developed interestingly either way.

So the question is, what is the cost of magic?

32 Hours Earlier

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 24, 2008
in Writing
. 4 Comments

Alistair stepped out of the train as soon as the doors opened. He threaded his way through the crowd and found himself blinking in the midday sun outside of the tube station.  A black sedan pulled out of the stream of traffic and came to a stop directly in front of him.  As he slid into the backseat, the smell of cigarettes and oranges washed over him.

“Morning, sir.”

“Yes,” Alistair said, “you know where you’re taking me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, he relaxed into the leather seat. He ran his thumb over the lions’ head engraved on the handle of his cane, as he considered his situation. The family had called him. He thought he was done with all that boyhood nonsense about princes and lords, Houses and kingdoms, all the machinations of their perverse world, but when they said that he was needed, he found himself incapable of denying them. He assumed that he was going to regret this either for a long time, or for a very short, painful time.

Outside the window, trees and sidewalks slid past. Compared to the speeds he’d traveled at earlier that same day this was nothing. The chunnel…now that was a modern wonder. There wasn’t a soul that could’ve dreamed of such a thing, when he was a boy. And that didn’t even come close to concords, or mag-levs, or any of the ridiculous technologies of the last 80 years. He shook his head. All this modernization came with a heavy price. There were few alive that remembered what the world was like when Alistair was young, and the history books he’d read in the past few years were remarkably…sparse.

“We’re here, sir” the driver said, bringing him out of his reverie.

Alistair nodded. “Here” was an opulent townhome, and as he stepped out of the car and up the steps the front door swung open. Inside stood a woman he hadn’t quite expected, and because old habits die hard, Alistair bowed.

“I’m glad you came, old man.”

His face remained impassive, despite his growing sense of unease. His host turned, retreating into the house, and he followed her.

–

Alistair didn’t inhale, he knew the smell would steal the breath from his lungs. He lifted the glass of scotch, tasted it, and set it down. After the burning had subsided he spoke.

“I assume you didn’t bring me two thousand miles to share a drink?”

“No, of course not.  We have a job for you.  There’s something that needs retrieving, it’s proven impossible for my Coterie to get.  I’ve read the briefs on your past work, and I think your skillset is a good match for this problem.” Carmella said.

“How many of your Coterie did you send?”

“Eleven,” she said. “Only eight came back.  You understand that I cannot afford to do that again.”

Alistair nodded.  People with the abilities required to be of service in a House Coterie were extremely rare, and the serviceable number was always drastically reduced by the rigors of training.  There were all sorts of dangers involved in that training, and none of them were minor.  The few who passed carried scars for the rest of their lives, and of those who didn’t pass…the lucky among them died excruciating, but relatively quick deaths.

“For how long would my services be required?” he asked.

“Perhaps only one night.  The object is a key, it’s in a certain place in Old London, that seems…closed to us.” she said.

Alistair frowned. He looked around the room.  The wooden paneling was red, rich in color, and the leather furniture was its perfect compliment. The mood was dark and masculine, with an inviting warmth.  That it had been designed and furnished by Carmellas’ father, he had no doubt.  He sighed, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last three days.

“You seek a key?  One that’s hidden in one of the oldest and most malignant places on earth, for reasons that I cannot fathom.” he said. “I admit to some curiosity, but going alone into that dark…I’m not interested.”

“You think I’m offering you a choice?” she laughed, and there wasn’t a shred of humor in it. She leaned towards him, locking her eyes on his face. “How old are you, Alistair? You served my father. And his father. And his father? And yet, you look not a day over 60. You may have left Family and House, but it’s clear you’re still benefiting from the terms of your…contract. As far as I’m concerned, that means you’re still bound by it. Bound, to me.”

He considered his glass. It had found its way back into his hand and he took another drink before meeting her gaze. “I never liked you.”

“I’ve prepared a file with all the pertinent details. If you have any material needs, that phone will ring the butler. He can procure anything. You may take the rest of the day and start in the morning, if you like. You’ll find that I’m not a cruel master.”

Alistair drained his glass and reached for the folder. By the time he’d opened it, he was alone.

–

Forty-five minutes later he set the folder down and sat back.  He produced a pipe from an inner pocket of his tweed sport coat and began tamping tobacco into the bowl.  The trip was always disconcerting, but he’d been through enough times to know that he’d live…that long, at least.  He did need her, after a fashion.  Bound to her?  Pure hubris on her part, but he could use that.  The flame of the match seemed to mirror a light dancing in his eyes, and for the first time in three days Alistair Hightower allowed himself the barest glimmer of a smile.

## End ##

It was right after reworking the last paragraph for the third time that I decided the whole thing was self serving and trite, and I was going to toss it out.  Before I do, though, I’m going to post it for a few days.  I like the character, and the ideas, but I have no clear definition of their “world”, and I’m not comfortable moving on until I do.  This vignette may completely disappear.  I’m going to bed.