Open and Shut Case

 “You’re telling me this is an open and shut case? There is a mob outside baying for the head of Constable Parrish, social media sites are up in arms –.”

“They do so love their false outrage in the morning.” The Detective didn’t move from his chair. “The public does not get to eclipse fact, Ms. Brown. Nor should their arrogance assume they can judge what they do not understand. You cannot sum pages of police reports into a twitter feed, and I am not throwing a constable under the bus for political expediency. You can tell the mayor this however you like, of course.”

“Constable Parrish shot an unarmed man!”

“An unarmed white man, yes. And the good constable is Indian, if you wish to spin that into your narrative as well.”

“Detective –.”

“Call the mayor, Emily. Ask him about October 30^th 1997.”

Ms. Brown marched out of the room, returned in under four minutes. Her expression was made of nothing save shock as the Detective handed her over a folder without a single word.

“There are people who can do impossible things,” the Detective said quietly. “Terrible, impossible and grotesque things. It is not well understood, but Constable Parrish recognized the signs. And killed the target before he could kill a great many people with his power.”

“Telekinesis.” Ms. Brown let out a small laugh. “How do you expect me to spin this to the press, Detective?”

“I have no idea. But it is your job. Let’s see if you’re as good as spinning truth as you are at the rest of it.”

“That is uncalled for,” she snapped, but the Detective held her gaze until she looked away. After a time, she stood and walked to the door.

“Open and shut,” the Detective said softly, and closed the filing cabinet beside the desk with a glance.

Of editgasms and novel ideas

I threatened a friend on her blog to do an edit of the first two words of her first chapter (and the chapter title) as an editgasm; she asked to see it, the resulting was written up:

CHAPTER 1

I sometimes 

"CHAPTER 1"? Really? Firstly, the egregious use of capitals is designed to drag the reader in, and only serves the same purpose as multiple exclamation marks. Your story should be worthwhile on its own merits, and not need to shout for my approval and beg to be read like a little child waving around a picture and hoping it get posted on a fridge overflowing with crap art.

Secondly, 1. Words are written out in fiction. While it may seem that you are trying to make up for the abuse of CHAPTER (aka READ ME) with a quieter denouncement of the 1, all it does is pander to internet-speak. You may as well as call it CHAPTER LOL!!1! at this stage.

Regarding the start of your brief sentences (the word paragraph, obviously, cannot apply to such a meagre offering), you begin with "I". Who is this I? Does the back copy tell me? Why should I begin caring about him, or her, at all? To compound your sins, you continue with "sometimes". This is the start to a novel, not a short story. Be specific, focus, draw the reader into the narrative with certainty. An uncertain voice starting out that quickly merely serves to make the reader believe the author is uncertain as well and calls the entire narrative into question as the reader is forced to solidify every authorial vagueness in his or her own head, which is far too much work for a story that is, clearly, not literature, as it is being written for the YA market.

To sum up: I believe leaving CHAPTER 1 as it stands may actually suffice, as the readers expectations will be rendered sufficiently low as to make those first sentences, if not bearable, at least acceptable. I trust that you will understand my reluctance to parse your story further, as your use of 'relative' along would warrant a small essay on the misuse of the family dynamic to lull readers into a false sense of security, to say nothing of the insult it does to the field of psychiatry.

I wonder, now, if one could do an entire novel in this style. Write up a first chapter of something and then a whole novel critiquing it, the rants about various aspects of story and structure revealing the narrator more and more ... it might be a fun experiment for nanowrimo, come to think of it.

A prompt and reply

Prompt: quick! you've got 3 minutes of video and 3 characters, What's the story?

Me: An affair :) Steve's dog, Flopsie, likes his ex Rebecca more than him and, when they break up, ends up sneaking to her place for food, spending the night until, in a fit of jealous rage, Steve kills Rebecca so that Flopsie has to return to him.

Of grass and empire

The grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there, I was told, but felt no need to count. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell, or so my guide assured me, stumbling over the words. English it a hard enough second language to speak when one is not afraid, I thought, and just listened. He didn't want to be here, of course, but he dared not disobey.

"Fresleven," I said, not meaning to speak aloud, but the bones did not stir. A foolish fancy, but such things strike us more easily out here than in England. This is the very edge of the Empire, at least metaphorically, and things are different here. They believe in magic and they make us magic. And why not? We are capable of things they can barely dream of, holding an Empire that stretches around the entire world. Even Rome fails in comparison to what we are, though we still use their roads.

And here, without roman roads, there are other paths, of stone and bone. "All we do is build on the ruins of the past," I said to myself and shook my head. I drew the cross over his bones and looked over at my guide, who saluted me nervously.

Morituri te salutant, I thought, surprisingly myself.: the guide looked healthy enough. Even so, I did not salute back. "The body must be buried."

He froze. "We dare not move the Being. The villagers fled, and dare not return. To disturb the remains would free it to hunt them."

I raised my eyebrows. Our family is not that far removed from the King, and we have lands and titles aplenty. The guide drew back (perhaps he paled, I can never tell with them) but shook his head again.

"You are in my service," I said, and he squirmed and nodded jerkily. He wanted to run, but my words held him in place.

I do not know why. They thing us supernatural begins, and perhaps engender it. I can order the common rabble and servants with ease, but even the King, I think, cannot command in the way my voice has here.

"Would you die, if I asked?" I hadn't meant to speak, but I couldn't help but do so.

"Yes," the guide said, not hesitating a moment, his eyes clear and flesh willing.

I hesitate in turn, taken aback. I was to ask if we are gods or demons, we supernatural beings, but I am almost -- ah, almost -- certain he would lie to save my honour at the cost of his own. I feel strangely heavy as I turn away from the corpse. 'The gentlest of men', Fresleven was called, and it lead to attempted murder over two black hens.

And they know we die as they do, supernatural or not, I thought, but tried to keep the thought from showing on my face.. I wanted to ask what the guide thought of us, of Britain, but the building I had been housed in this morning was a chief's home, once, and I imagine it was built on older ruins still.

"There will come empires after ours," I said, half to the guide, trying to be only the man I was for a moment, in this solitude. "I imagine we will feel towards them as you do to us, angry over what they have, what we lost, marvelling at their arrogance, secure in our condemnation."

For a moment I thought nothing had changed, that my attempt had failed, when the guide favoured men with a slow, sad smile. "They will speak of rights," he said, "as you do now. But we have only responsibilities."

To whom? I opened my mouth to ask. And for what? I closed it and smiled in return. My children would know, or their children's children, when all they would have is quiet pride devoid of arrogance and clothing of the lost dreams of empire to chase them to sleep each night.

I turned away, heading back towards the ocean. "If I stay, I will die like Fresleven. I will make his mistakes, demand things, wish for things that are not mine to have."

"All men do that," the guide said.

"You would have an Empire again?"

"All men learn as well," the guide said smoothly, but did not quite meet my gaze.

I walked away, leaving the supernatural being behind me to be food for worms and a story for villagers. Our empire would end in time, but Fresleven might live on, destroy of villages and seeker of hens, to become a story told to children long after even Britannia is forget. The thought was, strangely, almost cheering, but I shared it with no one, and even less to be a supernatural being and bind and loose what I could not contain nor understand.

I fled from power to safety, and maybe that -- and people like me -- are why the Empire will fall. I don't know. I don't think I want to.