What, oh what to do with an extra week in the month? Well, I WAS going to post about a trip I’d planned to take to Bruneau Sand Dunes last weekend, but Idaho weather saw fit to rain us out. And I wasn’t all that interested in exploring Bruneau “Mud” Dunes.
Then I figured – Hey, a fifth week doesn’t come around all that often. I should do something completely different! So now, I present to you: “Fifth Week Fiction” (I totally just made up that title, like, right this second), during which I’ll share a short snippet from some of my personal story writing.
I’ll post material from my original fiction and maybe even occasionally a bit of fan fiction. (Hey, writing practice is writing practice, right?) And if it turns out my writing bores you…well…I guess you can be thankful there’s only 4 fifth Fridays this year.
(But I really hope my writing doesn’t bore you. That kind of defeats the point.)
And now, without further ado – an excerpt from an original story, taken wildly out of context:
Tainock saw the bright neon tape first, the dead body second.
It appeared to be another homeless person. A man, Tainock thought. He was wearing a garbage bag, but it had been torn down the back, and the man’s buttocks stuck straight up due to his prone position.
“Couldn’t you…cover him up?” Tainock asked, troubled by the scene.
“Master Guardian,” The tach who answered was either being respectful, or he’d perfected the flat response when asked a stupid question. “We would, except his wound is on his back. You can look for yourself.”
He retracted the tape and ushered Tainock through. Other hobos lingered as close as possible to the crime scene, craning to catch a glimpse of their dead compatriot. They didn’t even have the modesty to look away when Tainock caught them rubber-necking.
Tainock circled around the dead body. He saw only the profile of the man’s face, smushed against the pavement. Other than the grotesque expression, it had typical – if haggard – features. No signs of physical trauma. As the tach had said, the killing blows had been dealt to the man’s back.
There were deep, bloody gashes across the shoulder blades and down around the abdomen. They were oddly jagged, like something blunter than a knife had torn them open. They also seemed to form a strange sort of pattern. Tainock walked to the back of the corpse and read the cuts.
They said “Al-Fāȧn”: Dawn script. “He doesn’t know.” Tainock thought sleep deprivation had finally started to take its toll. Writing in a man’s back? He tilted his head; maybe a different angle would show he’d only imagined the word.
“Al-Fāȧn”, the gashes said, clear as Tainock had ever studied the language.
“He doesn’t know” what?
Tainock met back with the tachs at the edge of the crime scene.
“Sir” one of them greeted.
“The wounds on that hobo are a word. I mean, they spell something in – in…Dawnian.”
Tainock immediately regretted sharing the information. Now the crime might be considered a racial murder, and with things being what they were between Dawn and Dusk…
“Master Guardian, with the girl roaming free, I think it’s our priority to find and hold her for interrogation,” said one of the tachs. “She’s likely behind the killing.”
Tainock couldn’t picture her as a murderer. At least, not a calculated one who cut obscure phrases into someone’s skin.
“We’ll continue searching,” Tainock said. “But, uh, if you find her, don’t do anything until I get to talk to her.”
The tachs looked at him like he’d said to give her more human backs to scrawl on. “Of course, you’ll be contacted right away,” said one.
There was the “stupidity tolerance” voice again. Tainock assumed it’d be a constant for the rest of this career.
(Thank you all for indulging me.) 🙂