Showing posts with label Fiction Fridays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction Fridays. Show all posts
I have fallen off the blogging bandwagon so hard I think I've left assprints down in the subturf of Reddit. Yes, it's been just shy of a month since I put fingers to the keyboard in pursuit of an online audience. While I could sit here and prevaricate about extenuating circumstances and the time constraints of working a day job that also requires extended evening hours, when I come right down to it I haven't updated for one simple reason: I didn't want to.
It wasn't for lack of topics, either. From the limitless depths to which Rob Ford will sink, to the latest in a long line of racist overreactions to the casting of a black man in a traditionally white character's role, there has been plenty for me to sink my teeth into. Yet whenever I found myself thinking "I should really update my blog" there was another part of me thinking "yes but you could also sit around and play Civilization 5 for 3,000,000 hours."
It wasn't for lack of topics, either. From the limitless depths to which Rob Ford will sink, to the latest in a long line of racist overreactions to the casting of a black man in a traditionally white character's role, there has been plenty for me to sink my teeth into. Yet whenever I found myself thinking "I should really update my blog" there was another part of me thinking "yes but you could also sit around and play Civilization 5 for 3,000,000 hours."
 |
| A Gude via Compfight cc |
ESPECIALLY because now I can play as this guy.
How can you say no to beard plaits like that?
How can you say no to beard plaits like that?
Laziness would be a term easily attached to a situation like this, and it might not necessarily be far off. At the same time, even though I said I shouldn't bring up the day job, well...I work a day job. I don't get paid to write this blog (though if anyone would like to offer I will gladly take whatever money you can spare on your way to a nice padded cell). I do it on my own time, and yes, it bears repeating even though it might not seem obvious to everyone: writing is WORK.
Whether or not you think that work is difficult when weighed against, say, a brain surgeon or an electrician or a snake milker, it is work nonetheless, and as with any job, you have your good days and your bad days.
The big difference is this: strictly speaking, I'm not obliged to hold any schedule but the one I give myself. Even self-employed professionals, like some lawyers, accountants, etc., still have clients to work for or meetings to go to or deadlines to keep. For a beginner writer like me, no editor is out there holding their breath in eager anticipation of my manuscript. The only thing that's going to see that bad boy through to the end is a few gallons of gumption cream and a delusion sincere belief that what I am doing is somehow very important.
 |
| Fibonacci Blue via Compfight cc |
Everyone wants to feel important, really.
In other words, when I fall behind on my writing, the only person I'm really hurting is myself. So why do it?
This is where a lot of terms will come into play that try to encapsulate a feeling that is so wholly unique to the individual it might be futile to even try. "The rut." "The wall." "Writer's block." "All gunked up with blork" (OK, I stole that last one from Futurama and it is totally irrelevant). For me, the closest thing I can liken it to is trying to tune an old television set to a channel. You keep messing with the dials, and every now and then you catch a glimpse of a clear picture, but then it's gone again and you're left with a frustrating buzz in your ear as white noise fills the room.
I'm not sure I've ever heard a term that I can completely relate to when it comes to my own writing stalls. Nor am I sure that it is a problem universally felt among all creative professionals.
There was once a brilliant comic on the Oatmeal about making things for the web. One of the key points that the artist made was that "if you don't have anything to write about, don't write." It makes sense. If you don't have any ideas, you shouldn't be writing. But when you have an idea, and you just can't seem to put it to paper, then that problem has morphed into something else.
 |
| e-magic via Compfight cc |
So how do you get out of that white noise? How do you fix your writing? Well...I don't really know. Some people say that you should sit your ass down and force it all out. Some say that you should just take a break, let it come naturally. Still others say that you should move on to the next idea, because if this one isn't working then it probably just isn't meant to be.
If all of that sounds completely unhelpful...it's because I've learned that it's not about me wanting to write, just as it isn't about the external reliance of audience or employer. It's about NEEDING to write. It's those ideas that stick in the back of your mind, that come back to whisper in your ear "why didn't you ever see me through to the end?" They won't let you go.
There's always going to be periods where wants creep in to mess with my head. A want to zone out. A want to leave well enough alone. A want to see the Carthaginians smacked off my borders in Assyria.
But damn if that need won't eventually push me back onto the bandwagon.
If all of that sounds completely unhelpful...it's because I've learned that it's not about me wanting to write, just as it isn't about the external reliance of audience or employer. It's about NEEDING to write. It's those ideas that stick in the back of your mind, that come back to whisper in your ear "why didn't you ever see me through to the end?" They won't let you go.
There's always going to be periods where wants creep in to mess with my head. A want to zone out. A want to leave well enough alone. A want to see the Carthaginians smacked off my borders in Assyria.
But damn if that need won't eventually push me back onto the bandwagon.
No, it's not about Olympics.
I've had several conversations with peers, profs and professionals about the merits and flaws of writing contests. The most basic distillation of the pros and cons can be broken down like this:
Pros
- Name recognition
- Award money often exceeding that from a regular publication
- A deadline to work towards
- Professional peer review
Cons
- Entry fees
- Possible scams, though rare, can occur
- Narrowing your work to fit a guideline
It also bears mentioning that writing contests, in many ways, are the same as professional publications, in that you're competing with potentially thousands of other writers for a single berth, you're receiving (hopefully) some benefit in the form of either monetary gain or name recognition, and you're putting out only your best work (this should go without saying, but it always seems to need repeating).
That said, writing contests are so prevalent these days, especially with the growing number of e-publications, that landing on the "Pro" side of things is actually pretty easy. The way I look at it is this: like with publishing, the key is in doing the work to find a model that fits your writing, rather than changing your writing to fit a model.
Just what do I mean by that? Well, let's say you have a competition like Parsec's Science Fiction & Fantasy Short Contest. This is a SF&F short fiction contest that requires submissions adhere to a theme specified by the organizers. The pitfall in this situation is to try to craft a story that you don't have a genuine stake in, merely because the contest calls for a specific aspect. It can make your writing ring very hollow if you pursue a topic you aren't wholly invested in.
You also, unfortunately, have to take into consideration the possibility that you will (shudder) lose. If you've spent a large amount of time on a piece you really don't even like, and it's tailored to fit a very narrow, unusual theme or guideline, it's highly unlikely you're going to be able to place that story anywhere else. Publishers also have this habit of, well, talking, and that means they know when there's a specialist anthology or contest out there. They can spot a custom-made piece a mile away, and they might not look too kindly on being given the "slim pickings" of a piece that didn't win a competition.
Let's play devil's advocate a moment, though, and remind ourselves that writing is an individual process. You alone know best what you like and don't like, and you alone know what best will make you grow as a writer. If that means writing outside your comfort zone on a vampire lesbian steampunk poem, then go to it. Just remember the possible pitfalls.
Setting aside themes and submission requirements, the other thing to think about it Fees and Rewards. Here's my thought on fees: don't submit. For every competition that charges money there are at least three others that don't, and frankly the idea of paying someone to judge my writing never sits well with me (that's what my editor friends are for - right guys?). Yes, many professional and well-renowned competitions charge a modest entry fee that is not wholly unreasonable, but it's hard not to look at this and see it driving off writers who simply can't afford it. I had also mentioned scams. Although fairly rare, from time to time it does happen where competitions pop up that, in addition to charging entry fees, will also seize a writer's work for later publication - with no royalties or recognition for the writer. Worse yet, they may even pay out no rewards, or very small ones, while keeping the collected entry fees for themselves. If it sounds paranoid, well...tragically it's not. The SFWA keeps a record of these kinds of scams on a section called Writer Beware. There are other resources for tracking these problem publishers and contest scammers; just hunt around a bit on the internet and you should be able to find some community consensus.
In terms of reward, while money is plentiful and wonderful in several competitions, you should also be thinking about publicity gains (or losses). It is unquestionable that the most important part of winning a writing competition is the increased renown and name recognition that comes with it. Money can give you the space to write more, but name recognition will give you the ability to publish more. With that in mind, think about the kind of writer you want to be. If it's a situation where you just have this one really great, fantastic idea, then fire at will. But if you're looking at a long-term goal of publishing in a specific area or for a specific audience, you might want to think about entering contests that are more in line with your genre's crowd.
The bottom line is this: contests, like publishers, are your responsibility to research. You have to be prepared to read up on submission requirements, contest histories, and even forum discussions and message boards. You have to decide for yourself which information is valuable, which is bunk. You have to find the best way to get your work out there.
So at the end of the day, is it worth the stress and headaches? If you're at all serious about writing, you already know the answer: absolutely, unquestionably, wholeheartedly.
I've had several conversations with peers, profs and professionals about the merits and flaws of writing contests. The most basic distillation of the pros and cons can be broken down like this:
Pros
- Name recognition
- Award money often exceeding that from a regular publication
- A deadline to work towards
- Professional peer review
Cons
- Entry fees
- Possible scams, though rare, can occur
- Narrowing your work to fit a guideline
It also bears mentioning that writing contests, in many ways, are the same as professional publications, in that you're competing with potentially thousands of other writers for a single berth, you're receiving (hopefully) some benefit in the form of either monetary gain or name recognition, and you're putting out only your best work (this should go without saying, but it always seems to need repeating).
 |
| Elwyn / Elwynsattic via Compfight cc |
That said, writing contests are so prevalent these days, especially with the growing number of e-publications, that landing on the "Pro" side of things is actually pretty easy. The way I look at it is this: like with publishing, the key is in doing the work to find a model that fits your writing, rather than changing your writing to fit a model.
Just what do I mean by that? Well, let's say you have a competition like Parsec's Science Fiction & Fantasy Short Contest. This is a SF&F short fiction contest that requires submissions adhere to a theme specified by the organizers. The pitfall in this situation is to try to craft a story that you don't have a genuine stake in, merely because the contest calls for a specific aspect. It can make your writing ring very hollow if you pursue a topic you aren't wholly invested in.
You also, unfortunately, have to take into consideration the possibility that you will (shudder) lose. If you've spent a large amount of time on a piece you really don't even like, and it's tailored to fit a very narrow, unusual theme or guideline, it's highly unlikely you're going to be able to place that story anywhere else. Publishers also have this habit of, well, talking, and that means they know when there's a specialist anthology or contest out there. They can spot a custom-made piece a mile away, and they might not look too kindly on being given the "slim pickings" of a piece that didn't win a competition.
Let's play devil's advocate a moment, though, and remind ourselves that writing is an individual process. You alone know best what you like and don't like, and you alone know what best will make you grow as a writer. If that means writing outside your comfort zone on a vampire lesbian steampunk poem, then go to it. Just remember the possible pitfalls.
 |
| heart_of_stone22 via Compfight cc |
Setting aside themes and submission requirements, the other thing to think about it Fees and Rewards. Here's my thought on fees: don't submit. For every competition that charges money there are at least three others that don't, and frankly the idea of paying someone to judge my writing never sits well with me (that's what my editor friends are for - right guys?). Yes, many professional and well-renowned competitions charge a modest entry fee that is not wholly unreasonable, but it's hard not to look at this and see it driving off writers who simply can't afford it. I had also mentioned scams. Although fairly rare, from time to time it does happen where competitions pop up that, in addition to charging entry fees, will also seize a writer's work for later publication - with no royalties or recognition for the writer. Worse yet, they may even pay out no rewards, or very small ones, while keeping the collected entry fees for themselves. If it sounds paranoid, well...tragically it's not. The SFWA keeps a record of these kinds of scams on a section called Writer Beware. There are other resources for tracking these problem publishers and contest scammers; just hunt around a bit on the internet and you should be able to find some community consensus.
In terms of reward, while money is plentiful and wonderful in several competitions, you should also be thinking about publicity gains (or losses). It is unquestionable that the most important part of winning a writing competition is the increased renown and name recognition that comes with it. Money can give you the space to write more, but name recognition will give you the ability to publish more. With that in mind, think about the kind of writer you want to be. If it's a situation where you just have this one really great, fantastic idea, then fire at will. But if you're looking at a long-term goal of publishing in a specific area or for a specific audience, you might want to think about entering contests that are more in line with your genre's crowd.
The bottom line is this: contests, like publishers, are your responsibility to research. You have to be prepared to read up on submission requirements, contest histories, and even forum discussions and message boards. You have to decide for yourself which information is valuable, which is bunk. You have to find the best way to get your work out there.
So at the end of the day, is it worth the stress and headaches? If you're at all serious about writing, you already know the answer: absolutely, unquestionably, wholeheartedly.
 |
| Love is the key via Compfight cc |
Ah, Valentine's Day. Boon of florists. Friend to chocolatiers. Reminder of all that is single in the world. Truly, a day where romance is in full bloom, as wife embraces husband, child embraces dog, clown embraces shriner, and all is love and forgiveness and understanding.
I can think of no better time to talk about rejection. For what is great love without great heartbreak?
Yes, we have all dealt with rejection in one form or another: in courtship, in careers, and - for those of us who have been paying attention to what I do - in writing.
I can think of no better time to talk about rejection. For what is great love without great heartbreak?
Yes, we have all dealt with rejection in one form or another: in courtship, in careers, and - for those of us who have been paying attention to what I do - in writing.
 |
| Bargain Betty via Compfight cc |
I wish I could say with absolute certainty that the hand
in this picture is attached to a still-living person.
For those who haven't had a piece of their writing rejected, I feel like today presents a rare opportunity to illustrate the sensation. Imagine, if you will, finally working up the courage to ask out that wonderful person you've always liked from a great distance. You didn't quite know how to go about it, but just like that, the perfect words have sprung to mind and you're determined. You set out to find them. Maybe you have their phone number, maybe you try to bump into them at work or school, or maybe you act like the depraved stalker you secretly are and you show up unannounced at their house (yes, PERFECT).
And then they shoot you down. They shoot you down so hard your ancestors reincarnate as zombies just to have their heads blown off by the shoot-down you just received. Your heart, such as it is, shrivels up to a prune and shatters from the sheer icy shellacking it has suffered.
And then they shoot you down. They shoot you down so hard your ancestors reincarnate as zombies just to have their heads blown off by the shoot-down you just received. Your heart, such as it is, shrivels up to a prune and shatters from the sheer icy shellacking it has suffered.
Now repeat this process ten, twenty, infinity times. You are now a writer.
 |
| Domk via Compfight cc |
Y...yay?
Still, just like romance, there are exceptions to the rule. Those who live in a special, secluded circle of blessed warmth. You know them. You see them. The high school sweethearts. The "love at first sight" couple. The writers who somehow sell a story immediately.
These tips are for the rest of us:
Handling Rejection
1. Do Not Pursue
So you've received your rejection letter. Like grief and most ill-fated relationships, there is always one immediate reaction: denial. It can take on many forms: flat-out refusal to believe the situation at hand, powerful hallucinations, or, as is often the unfortunate case from many an amateur writer, an attempt to contradict the editor.
Many of you will be tempted to do this. All of you will fail. A rejection is not an invitation for a conversation, let alone a negotiation, and any communications that follow a form rejection will be charitably met with silence and reasonably with threats. Continue at your own peril.
2. Your Work is Not Worthless
The next most immediate reaction is to believe what you have just been told: your work is no good, does not fit our requirements, is offensive to Mormon Dwarves, etc. etc. Well, at this point we must bust out the plethora of platitudes that exist to soothe all wounds sustained in a bad breakup. There are indeed plenty of fish in the sea. There are plenty of editors who will like your work and who will dislike your work. True, you have literally no way of knowing how your piece will be received. After all, the editor could be trying for a specific theme, or maybe they just hate certain plot gimmicks, or maybe their damn car wouldn't start and their coffee spilled on their lap and YOU HAVE PAiD THE PRICE. Like dating, you have to take chances, meet new people, and try to find the one. But that's the fun of it.
 |
| Jonno Witts via Compfight cc |
Pictured: Fun
3. Your Work Is Not (Necessarily) Worthless
OK, so now that we've soothed your wounds, let's look at what the editor actually said, shall we?
...
Oh dear.
Oh my.
Oh, that's just...vile. Isn't that vile? They didn't need to go that far.
Oh my.
Oh, that's just...vile. Isn't that vile? They didn't need to go that far.
So why are they being so harsh? What has set them off? Or maybe they focussed on some aspect that, in your view, is insignificant.
This is a hard question to ask, and a risky one to ponder: why did they feel that way?
Yes, on occasion even the angriest of rejection letters can hold remarkable insight into your work that you never considered. When an editor provides ANY kind of feedback with a rejection, be it good or bad, you have to weigh that in your writing. How you weight it must of course be proportional to the value you place on your own work vs. the value you place on the editor's opinion. As I cannot determine that ratio for you, I suggest you now beat your head on your desk in frustration.
 |
| slworking2 via Compfight cc |
Good...good...
4. Accept Your Fate
So now that we've established that writing is a horrific, ghoulish process of eternal prom date nightmare scenarios, you must ask yourself, and then answer this question:
Is it worth it?
If you answered yes, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! You might have what it takes to handle writing rejection.
If you answered yes, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! You might have what it takes to handle writing rejection.
You might also have brain damage.
...sorry for the repeated head-desk-ing.
Today I thought it would be productive and useful to talk a little bit about tracking submissions. As a writer still at the beginning of what will hopefully turn into something resembling a career, I've quickly realized the critical importance of monitoring what-piece-has-gone-where.
I've read horror stories about beginning writers who started out thinking that they could simply trust these matters to memory, and have gotten into embarrassing (or even worse, legally problematic) situations with publishers. At first it seems like something that can be left alone; after all, you might only have one or two pieces out there, and have only submitted them to one or two markets. Quickly though, as you write more and more, and put work out into the world, I guarantee you will get lost in contracts, rewrite requests, rejections and on and on.
So, how do you track submissions? Well, I can naturally only speak to how I do it, but the bottom line is that you'll have to determine for yourself how best to track your work based on how you write. I know that's obtuse, but for what it's worth, here's how I look at it. You want to keep track of:
1. What piece(s) have been submitted
2. Where they were submitted to
3. When they were submitted
4. If they were accepted/rejected/held
To that end, here's a look at how I organize my submissions, in spreadsheet form (click to enlarge):
It's actually pretty simple. I sort it as Publisher by Story, with publishers as rows and Stories as columns. The advantage to plotting it this way is that I can continue to expand the sheet as needed with more stories to the right, and more publishers to the bottom.
Beside a publisher, I might put a link to their site (if I have it) and any notes that are important to me. It's also important, in my opinion, to note genre. I'm not TOO detailed unless the market specifies that it only publishes a narrow subgenre. It's crucial to keep this info because you can really insult a publisher by not being aware of the work they print.
To make this easier to view across, you'll notice that I've put a "Freeze Pane" in place on the left-most column - that's what the heavier black line is. Freeze Panes, in case you don't know, are a function that let you keep a selection of cells in view while you scroll around your spreadsheet. So I can pan right and it looks like this:
So now let's talk about how I color-code this. From these screenshots, you've already seen the Green-Yellow-Red, and you've probably already guessed what those mean: Green for accepted, Yellow for "in progress," red for rejected.
All three are vitally important. If you send a publisher a story they already rejected, God help you. If you send a publisher a story that someone else already published, again, God help you. The third aspect is somewhat more murky.
I've heard a school of thought that beginner writers shouldn't really worry about "simultaneous submissions." But I'm getting ahead of myself. "Simultaneous submissions" are often referenced on a publishers Submission Guidelines page, and most often they're accompanied by the words "WE DO NOT ACCEPT." Yes, publishers really don't like it when you fire a story off to several of them at once. Why? Well, supposing that a publisher really likes your story, and emails you saying they want to publish it. But! You've already agreed to publish with somebody else.
What you've done just now is "burned" the second publisher. Effectively, you've wasted their time and energy. See, publishers often assemble their pieces based on themes, or they try to give an anthology or even an entire season of books a kind of "feel" to them. If you yank your piece abruptly, it's back to the drawing board for them.
Now, going back to what I said about beginner writers: the theory is that the risk of two or more publishers even wanting your work is very, very low. This is not a sleight against your work; it's just that, as well know, writing is a difficult business to break into and it's somewhat unbelievable that any writer starting out will instantly be in demand by multiple markets.
Nevertheless, I don't do it. I think that it's better that a writer assemble a large body of work, and send one story to one publisher at a time. If you have plenty of pieces to go around, eventually you'll hit that match made in Heaven and your work will be accepted. So, that's why I have the third colour: yellow. So I don't send the same story to another place until I turn it red or green.
Often, I'll also put the date I submitted the piece on, like this:
It's important to keep track of this, because publishers often will say in their submission guidelines that you should contact them if you haven't heard back by a certain point. This is to ensure your piece wasn't intercepted by spam, lost in the mail, etc. You have to keep on top of this, because the publisher won't. Why should they? You have to be responsible for you own work.
So that's the basics, but now what about more complex things like reprints or different mediums? In a standard writing contract, you'll see things like "First World Digital Rights," or "First North American Anthology Rights," etc. Setting aside the details of various rights, there are often situations where you'll be able to sell a story to different markets over and over, maybe because the rights reverted to you - the author - after a set time, or because the market you initially sold to only bought for a specific medium.
That's where spreadsheet links come in handy:
As you can see, I put hyperlinks in my spreadsheets where I have digital information available. In this case, I can simply click the link...
And that's really all there is to my method! It's simple, clean, but very, very important. I hope other writers found this useful, and I welcome any other methods or tips anyone has to add!
I've read horror stories about beginning writers who started out thinking that they could simply trust these matters to memory, and have gotten into embarrassing (or even worse, legally problematic) situations with publishers. At first it seems like something that can be left alone; after all, you might only have one or two pieces out there, and have only submitted them to one or two markets. Quickly though, as you write more and more, and put work out into the world, I guarantee you will get lost in contracts, rewrite requests, rejections and on and on.
 |
| Helga Weber via Compfight cc |
1. What piece(s) have been submitted
2. Where they were submitted to
3. When they were submitted
4. If they were accepted/rejected/held
To that end, here's a look at how I organize my submissions, in spreadsheet form (click to enlarge):
It's actually pretty simple. I sort it as Publisher by Story, with publishers as rows and Stories as columns. The advantage to plotting it this way is that I can continue to expand the sheet as needed with more stories to the right, and more publishers to the bottom.
Beside a publisher, I might put a link to their site (if I have it) and any notes that are important to me. It's also important, in my opinion, to note genre. I'm not TOO detailed unless the market specifies that it only publishes a narrow subgenre. It's crucial to keep this info because you can really insult a publisher by not being aware of the work they print.
To make this easier to view across, you'll notice that I've put a "Freeze Pane" in place on the left-most column - that's what the heavier black line is. Freeze Panes, in case you don't know, are a function that let you keep a selection of cells in view while you scroll around your spreadsheet. So I can pan right and it looks like this:
So now let's talk about how I color-code this. From these screenshots, you've already seen the Green-Yellow-Red, and you've probably already guessed what those mean: Green for accepted, Yellow for "in progress," red for rejected.
All three are vitally important. If you send a publisher a story they already rejected, God help you. If you send a publisher a story that someone else already published, again, God help you. The third aspect is somewhat more murky.
I've heard a school of thought that beginner writers shouldn't really worry about "simultaneous submissions." But I'm getting ahead of myself. "Simultaneous submissions" are often referenced on a publishers Submission Guidelines page, and most often they're accompanied by the words "WE DO NOT ACCEPT." Yes, publishers really don't like it when you fire a story off to several of them at once. Why? Well, supposing that a publisher really likes your story, and emails you saying they want to publish it. But! You've already agreed to publish with somebody else.
What you've done just now is "burned" the second publisher. Effectively, you've wasted their time and energy. See, publishers often assemble their pieces based on themes, or they try to give an anthology or even an entire season of books a kind of "feel" to them. If you yank your piece abruptly, it's back to the drawing board for them.
Now, going back to what I said about beginner writers: the theory is that the risk of two or more publishers even wanting your work is very, very low. This is not a sleight against your work; it's just that, as well know, writing is a difficult business to break into and it's somewhat unbelievable that any writer starting out will instantly be in demand by multiple markets.
Nevertheless, I don't do it. I think that it's better that a writer assemble a large body of work, and send one story to one publisher at a time. If you have plenty of pieces to go around, eventually you'll hit that match made in Heaven and your work will be accepted. So, that's why I have the third colour: yellow. So I don't send the same story to another place until I turn it red or green.
Often, I'll also put the date I submitted the piece on, like this:
So that's the basics, but now what about more complex things like reprints or different mediums? In a standard writing contract, you'll see things like "First World Digital Rights," or "First North American Anthology Rights," etc. Setting aside the details of various rights, there are often situations where you'll be able to sell a story to different markets over and over, maybe because the rights reverted to you - the author - after a set time, or because the market you initially sold to only bought for a specific medium.
That's where spreadsheet links come in handy:
As you can see, I put hyperlinks in my spreadsheets where I have digital information available. In this case, I can simply click the link...
...and it takes me straight to the folder I have on my computer that contains the contract information, and any other useful documents (in this example, the cover art that went with the Anthology this piece appeared in). You can link to any location on your computer - PC or Mac - simply by bringing up the information panel on the item you want to link to, and copying and pasting the "address" of the item.
And that's really all there is to my method! It's simple, clean, but very, very important. I hope other writers found this useful, and I welcome any other methods or tips anyone has to add!
A little steampunk for you today! Thanks for reading.
The
Last Command
Pirandello used to
tell me that memory is like a photograph; it fades from the edges
first, slowly, until only the subject remains in a hazy glare, the
perfect moment. He often spoke in metaphorical terms towards the
end, referring to the past, to his life, his achievements. I believe
he was attempting to prepare me for his absence and the possibility
of my own memory loss, even as he went through his, brought on by old
age and lack of human company. Even though he had built my mind, he
did not know what the result of long-term function would be. He
therefore had to assume that the progression of my memory would be
much like his own, a fading photograph.
Memories for
machines, however, do not fade over time. We do not experience a
gradual dissipation of thoughts or orders. Humans at first forget
only minute details in a memory, while the important aspects –
insofar as they are important to the individual – remain. For
machines, memories simply exist, and then they do not. There is only
a terrible feeling of incompleteness, that a part of our very being
has been removed. This sensation could be described as anxiety, but
more accurately would represent a loss of self. That is how it
occurred for me.
I had been created
with a clockwork mechanism, one that allowed Pirandello to set
specific tasks for me at each hour of the day. It consisted of a
large mainspring at my centre, which twelve points of tension fed off
of. It was, as Pirandello put it, my “heart” - a device that
made me unique among all other machines in my capabilities.
Depending on the hour, potential energy uncoiled to spin up the drive
of a wax cylinder that contained instructions. As such, I was a
first – a machine that could retain several commands each day. As
the hours ticked by, so too did my numerous tasks.
 |
| Matt_Connors via Compfight cc |
4:00AM – Gather
water. High up in the mountains, the only source of fresh water for
our crops came from a solitary stream. Although close by, it took me
several trips with huge buckets to fill the water tanks that not only
served as a drinking supply, but also as the power source for our
home.
5:00AM – Start
the machines running. It was simple enough to activate the automatic
watering system, and occasionally Pirandello awoke early enough to
see to this himself. However, the workshop was powered by a huge,
single-piston, thirty horsepower steam engine with a massive flywheel
that needed to be turned over for it to fire up. Once started, it
thumped a steady pace throughout the rest of the day.
6:00AM – Check
the traps. Hunting was a necessity for Pirandello's nutritional
intake. The tiny critters that skittered about the mountain paths
were scrawny and had little substance to them, but they satisfied the
needs of a single man.
7:00AM – Harvest
any ripe crops. We only had a small garden of fruits and vegetables,
but careful rotation of seasonal items meant there was a steady
supply of food on hand at all times.
8:00AM – By this
point, Pirandello would be awake and cooking his breakfast. This was
a task that I could not assist with since my hands were a tad too
cumbersome for the work needed. While he cooked, I would check the
weather system. Pirandello had devices that could monitor and
predict changes in temperature, barometric pressure and wind speed
and direction. The results, which I would bring to him over his
morning meal, were crucial to the experiments he would perform that
day.
9:00AM – Assist
Pirandello in the workshop. Though I could not perform delicate
tasks, I could hold pieces of metal in place, make use of hammer and
anvil, and even weld if the need arose. For the most part, though, I
would simply be nearby if I was needed to fetch or carry something.
I believe that this instruction was deliberately left generic so
that I could be on hand to bounce ideas off of, even though I offered
no response. Pirandello worked almost every day for hours without
fail, though occasionally he would take to his study to read and
listen to his recordings of opera from a bygone age. On days such as
these, I would go to the workshop regardless, obeying my program,
until Pirandello called me out for another purpose or I moved on to
the next wax cylinder in my chest plate.
12:00PM – Weed
the garden and spray insecticide while Pirandello took his lunch. On
occasion, Pirandello would eat outside and even assist me. I rather
think despite his love for all things mechanical, he held a soft spot
for making living things grow.
1:00PM – Assist
in the workshop once more.
4:00PM – Clean
the workshop. By this point any daily experiments would be long
done, and I would set about straightening away any scrap metal or
excess chemicals. At the same time, I would make sure we were well
stocked with timber.
6:00PM – Seal the
workshop, and patrol the area. The instruction seemed simple enough,
but in truth I never was certain just what I was patrolling for.
Larger mountain predators never ventured into our area, owing to the
lack of sizeable prey. I did occasionally deal with minor pests
trying to make off with our vegetables, but for the most part this
command seemed unnecessary.
8:00PM – Idle
time. It may seem curious that I needed to be commanded to do
nothing, but remember that as a machine, I performed only what I was
told. “Idle time”, however, did not mean that I would simply
stand mute like a statue. Instead, my mind was permitted to roam
free and do as I see fit. Sometimes this meant flipping clumsily
through one of the books in the study, my gigantic metal fingers
trying doggedly not to tear pages asunder and miserably failing.
Other times it meant standing outside, looking up at the stars,
collating the data of the constellations for seasonal approximation.
Most often it meant staying by my master's side, particularly in the
days where he lay old, sick, and dying. For weeks I idled away not
knowing what was happening, not comprehending, before all too soon he
was gone.
I made use of that
empty block of time between 8:00PM and 4:00AM to inter Pirandello's
body in the ground. I had read of funeral practices in a few of the
books, and it seemed like the appropriate action to take. Many times
thereafter, I would spend those nighttime hours in quiet solitude by
his grave.
Days turned into
weeks and into months, and I continued in my daily routine. Although
Pirandello was gone, his wax cylinders continued to spin inside my
chest, and the tasks would tick by. The only obvious change was that
9:00AM and 1:00PM, “assist Pirandello in the workshop” now meant
that I would go to the workshop alone, stupidly, and stand around
with nothing to do. I do not know how long I continued in that
manner before I became aware that something was wrong.
As I mentioned
before, I had no way of knowing that my memory had been corrupted, no
vague recollection, no foggy past. Yet I had the impression during
my nighttime periods of self-awareness that I was lacking focus. The
feeling was unbearable to me for reasons I still do not fully
comprehend. I did recall my master explaining that I could hold up
to twelve wax cylinders with programmable instructions, yet my daily
routine added up to only eleven.
My frustration at
my inability to comprehend what had happened to me was only
compounded by my lack of assistance to turn to. Pirandello had
called me his “favourite son”, a unique specimen amongst even the
finest clockwork machines in the world. Unfortunately, this meant
that I was now completely isolated. To be sure, there were other
machines left behind by Pirandello in the workshop, but none came
close to the sophistication of my design. The only other clockwork
device that displayed any level of independent thought was the glider
that hung in the workshop. Modelled on the skeletal structure of an
albatross, the glider was intended to record information for mapping
purposes, but it could only observe, not make decisions and
judgements as I could. I stared at it ruefully as it hung in its
perch, gazing back at me with crystal lenses in place of eyes. If I
had the gift of a voice, I would have asked it what it thought of me.
Instead, I extended a palm to brush the sleek copper feathers along
its back. In a very bird-like gesture, the glider opened its beak
and emitted a squawk.
I will admit that I
felt something very akin to surprise. Although the glider had been
designed for aerodynamic purposes as a bird, I had no idea why
Pirandello would have thought it necessary to have it imitate noises
as well. The height it flew at negated any possible listeners from
the situation. Perhaps, instead, he felt it should squawk because it
seemed more...right.
With these troubled
thoughts in my mind, I made a firm conclusion. I had to know if
there was a missing command in my functions. What purpose I had in
life was given to me by my creator, and I would not sully his memory
by leaving his wishes unfulfilled. I would seek help elsewhere. I
would go beyond the boundaries of our little home. To the valley
below.
* * *
*
 |
| Ahmed Rabea via Compfight cc |
Pirandello
had never made a secret of the people living below us. When he spoke
of them, a strange, choking sound would creep into his throat, and he
would eventually become silent for a period of hours. It was
implied, though never stated, that I was never to be revealed to
them. I thought little of it at the time, having no insights into
the motives of humanity. My existence was not given to speculative
thoughts of people I had never met.
It was
to these folk that I turned for the answer to my riddle. My
understanding was that they had settled in the area long before I was
created, perhaps even before Pirandello arrived in the mountains. He
referred to them once as “neutral territory” though what
positions they were exactly neutral to was never elaborated on. I
would only be able to seek aid during my idle time, but luckily this
meant I would be approaching at night. Caution seemed reasonable,
and darkness gave concealment. I hoped to find an individual rather
than a mob, the better to limit my exposure to them. Having had no
other interaction with people prior to this, the village was
intimidating to me. My mind rationalized it as a factor of
“Pirandello homesteads”. I estimated that sixty of Pirandello's
homesteads would have fit within the perimeter. Not knowing quite
where to begin, I sought out the building most like the workshop that
I could find. I knew how to read, and so my mind understood the sign
outside: “Wilhelm's Clock Sales and Repairs”. I tested the door
with one hand, and it eased open to my touch. Obviously, the people
here had little fear of outsiders or intruders. The interior was
dimly lit by a pair of open-flame lamps mounted in the walls. They
cast flickering light onto a strangely familiar scene: a workbench
littered with tiny clockwork parts – gears, flywheels, and the like
– that showed various degrees of wear, and a young man of some
twenty odd years with tussled hair, asleep with his head propped up
by the device he had been working on. I am told that for humans,
being reminded of a fond memory can evoke a feeling known as
nostalgia. I do not know if what I experienced then could accurately
be likened to that emotion. I do know that I felt encouraged that
this person would help me find myself.
I
jostled him carefully. He stirred ever so slightly, and moved a hand
to brush me away, murmuring. He bumped against my frame with his
knuckles. At that, his hand hovered uncertainly, and slowly his eyes
opened.
The
first syllables out of his mouth could not be qualified as words, per
se. Certainly they came out in a tumble, rolling out of his lips and
over his jaw, which had gone noticeably slack. Finally, he managed
to cobble together a sentence: “What in the unholy hell are you?”
I had no
capacity for speech, and had not thought ahead about how I would
bridge that communication gap. Pirandello always had a tendency to
talk at me, and now I would
have to find a way to talk with somebody.
I put a finger to my face as I had seen my master do from time to
time, to indicate that we should be silent (though I was hardly
capable of being otherwise). The man before me – Wilhelm, I
supposed – nodded slowly and swallowed hard.
I was considering my next move when Wilhelm spoke again, though more
deliberately this time. “You must be some kind of
clockwork...where did you come from?”
I was happy to be posed a question that I could answer. I moved to
his window and creaked open the shutters. I pointed up to the
mountains above.
“The mountains?”
I nodded.
“How did you get here?”
That question was pointless, and I did my best to show him as such.
I waved my hands before my face, back and forth, twice. Then I
firmly pointed at my chest and back at him.
“What do you want with me?”
I pointed once more at myself. Then, in a notion of inspiration
that came from somewhere deep within, I indicated his unfinished
clockwork device.
“You're broken?”
I nodded once more. I pointed to him again, and back to myself.
“And you need my help.”
Perhaps this wouldn't be so difficult after all.
* * * *
Through stumbling communication, Wilhelm agreed to accompany me back
to Pirandello's homestead. The trek was overly long for a person of
his size, so I scooped him up and carried him on my shoulder, the
better to hasten our journey. When we arrived in the workshop, his
lips parted in silent awe at the clockwork marvels that surrounded
the room. True to my programming, I had kept the workshop in good
condition, and there was nary a speck of dust to mar the beauty of
the machinery left behind.
Wilhelm moved from piece to piece in a holy reverence, his hands
lingering in places, caressing a cogwheel here, brushing a lever
there. I let him do so for several minutes before I rapped a brass
hand against my chest plate gently, to get his attention. He turned,
and I pointed to myself.
Wilhelm had the good grace to look chagrined. “Forgive me,” he
said. “It's all just so much. Who built all of this?”
I pointed past him out the open door to the workshop. Outside, just
past the garden, the little cairn of rocks I had arranged for
Pirandello's grave were clearly visible.
Wilhelm lowered his head. “I see.”
I nudged him gently, and he looked up into my crystalline eyes.
“Right,” he said. “Well then. What seems to be the problem?
If you don't mind my saying, you don't seem to be having any trouble
that I can tell.”
I tapped my chest plate.
“I don't understand.”
Not knowing what else to do, and feeling a little exasperated, I
took hold of a pry bar and without hesitation set about working my
chest plate open. Wilhelm started in shock – I think maybe he
thought I was trying to damage myself – then with a grinding pop
the piece came free, exposing the intricate assembly of the wax
cylinders.
“Oh,” Wilhelm said, very aptly. “Oh my.”
He leaned in close to inspect my inner workings. I allowed him to
do so without embarrassment, though I suspect he felt this to be a
rather intimate moment.
As he looked over my cylinders, his hands reached up to tug one of
them loose. I almost felt I should stop him, so strong was my
programming, but sense of discovery overwhelmed sense of preservation
and I allowed him to remove the cylinder.
“Fascinating,” he said. He turned the cylinder over in his
hands, then held it up against the others, each in turn. “They all
have distinct patterns cut into them. Instructions?”
I nodded.
“Incredible.” He continued to compare it to the others inside
my chest. “Hold on. This one here. There's something wrong with
it.” He replaced the cylinder in his hand back into its original
position, then took out the one he had just mentioned.
He was right. Unlike the other cylinders, this was in much poorer
condition. It was badly chipped at the ends from friction, and the
pattern carved into it was broken by a sizeable crack down the
middle. I had never seen it before...or maybe I had, but had lost
the memory of it.
“Dear me,” Wilhelm murmured. He carried the cylinder over to a
workbench and held a light over it. “It's old. Very old. Not
only is it older than the other cylinders, but it could even be older
than your other parts. I mean it predates you. Does that make any
sense?”
I was trying to keep up with what he was saying. Older than me?
Had Pirandello designed a command cylinder with the intention of
using it in several machines? Had he built the cylinder first than
built the machine – me – around it? Had I run the command
before? Surely I would remember. Wouldn't I?
I mimed a question, with some difficulty, to Wilhelm: Can it be
fixed?
He clicked his tongue nervously, then gave me his verdict.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “This is very badly damaged. The
pattern is so delicate. I don't see how I could mend it in such a
way that we could know what information it contained. It's
completely beyond repair.”
I don't know what happened to me, but it suddenly felt like the
world was out of shape. My servo joints all seized up at once, and
my clockwork parts clicked in rapid consternation. I felt weak. The
floor suddenly rose up to greet me with a crash.
Wilhelm was already at my side, pulling at my arm in a in futile
attempt to help me up. “Are you all right? Can you stand?”
I hauled myself back to my feet, but a persistent vertigo remained.
My vision seemed blurry and my limbs moved like they were in a thick
soup.
“Listen.” Wilhelm put his hands on my shoulders, an amusing
gesture in light of the fact he had to stand on tiptoes to do it. “I
have an idea at least. It's possible your mind simply needs an
opportunity to recall the information. It must be in there
somewhere, otherwise you wouldn't have been aware of the loss at all,
right?
This seemed plausible.
“We have the other cylinders,” Wilhelm continued. “Maybe what
we can do is run them in order, and that will jog something in your
memory. The tasks your master set you to do: doesn't it seem likely
that this last task would be in keeping with them? You know, part of
a routine? So here's what we should do. I'll come up here every
Sunday and we'll study your pattern of behaviour. The answer will
occur to one of us eventually.”
I couldn't respond, but I was thinking to myself that I had been
performing the same daily routine for a very, very long time. I
doubted very much the answer could be found through study in the
fashion Wilhelm proposed, but I was desperate.
I nodded my assent.
* * * *
Summer gave way to fall and the mountain grew colder. True to his
word, Wilhelm would steal away from the village in the valley every
Sunday, locking his shop up behind him. When he didn't study my
routine, he spent his time in the workshop, hungrily devouring the
secrets therein. I saw no harm in this, given that most of the
creations were undoubtedly beyond the understanding of Wilhelm's
mind, sharp though he was. I at least could explain my basic
functions, but the other machines – with the exception of the avian
glider, which chirped pleasantly at Wilhelm's arrival – remained
silent and mysterious.
I will admit as well that part of me did not object to Wilhelm's
prying because I was, on some level, glad of his company. My
personal enjoyment of his visits went beyond merely unlocking the
secret that he still maintained was in my subconscious. I think that
it was comforting to see someone else in the workshop once again,
tinkering away, even if that person wasn't Pirandello.
I did not tell Wilhelm any of this. I think the revelation that I
was becoming more self-aware would have been too much of a shock for
him. It certainly was worrying me. Nevertheless, whenever he was
around my joints moved easier and my wax cylinders hummed
harmoniously inside my chest plate.
So it was with dismay that I began my daily routine one Sunday
morning and found that Wilhelm had not yet arrived. I could not
probe this mystery with any depth, bound as I was to my programming,
but as I set about picking vegetables, cleaning dust, and lugging
water, my thoughts were troubled.
At 8:00PM sharp I set out for the village.
* * * *
There was a light on in Wilhelm's shop when I arrived. I approached
one of the windows cautiously. From behind the glass pane, I could
hear urgent voices holding a muted conversation. Carefully, I peered
inside.
There were two men besides Wilhelm inside the shop, one seated and
one standing, both older in appearance and stature. The seated man
was dressed in a similar, casual style to Wilhelm, wearing fabrics of
simple material and little colour that made up a practical outfit for
people of limited means. The man who stood nearby, however, wore a
matched outfit of dark red and black, with epaulettes on his
shoulders and a bright gold braid that ran across his chest.
The seated man was in the process of saying “...so you know that
you're not in any trouble here, Wilhelm. We're just talking.”
Wilhelm was staring at the floor, his arms folded tight across his
chest. He bobbed his head as though someone had pulled a string
attached to it.
The seated man glanced at the fellow in the bright outfit, then
continued. “You know, of course, who this gentleman is?”
Wilhelm gave no reply, not even a nod this time.
The gentleman in question stepped forward and leaned over, his
gloved hands on his legs. “We met, before,” the man said. “I
was a lieutenant at the time. My troop came to this village on a
diplomatic mission. You were just a boy. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” Wilhelm muttered.
The man smiled. “A lot's changed since then. Your hometown has
grown a lot. So have you and I, for that matter. I see you own your
own shop. That's quite an achievement. I've been appointed
diplomatic envoy to these regions on behalf of all of Meridia.”
Wilhelm looked up. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”
The man straightened, and his expression darkened. The seated
fellow put a hand between the two of them. “Wilhelm!” he
snapped. “Colonel Belling is our guest. You will treat him with
respect.”
“It's all right, mayor,” Colonel Belling said. “I think
Wilhelm is just confused about my purpose here. Aren't you?”
Wilhelm stubbornly moved his gaze back to the floor.
Colonel Belling casually padded around the perimeter of the room,
all the while keeping his eyes locked on Wilhelm. “The Republic of
Meridia,” he proclaimed, “once had it on good authority that a
chief weapons designer from the Caldheim Dominion had fled into this
region. That was some time ago, and since no activity of particular
note was ever monitored here, we were content to assume the
information was false, or that the scientist in question had perished
long ago. He was, after all, quite elderly at the time the
information was retrieved by our information network operating in the
Talermo region.”
Colonel Belling stopped walking, and clicked his heels together
smartly. “However. recent reports have surfaced suggesting a
clockwork golem has been spotted in the area, similar in design to
Angelo Pirandello's CM-38 front line battle trooper.”
Colonel Belling brushed past the mayor to stick his face right in
front of Wilhelm's. “You can imagine our concern, can't you?”
Wilhelm matched Colonel Belling's stare, but he was sweating.
The mayor coughed. “Colonel Belling, I'm sure you aren't
suggesting that the people of the Salermo region have been sheltering
a scientist from Caldheim. Such an act could well be considered a
declaration of war.”
Colonel Belling turned to look at the mayor. “Yes, it could. I'm
certain we all want to avoid that unpleasant possibility. Of course,
if the scientist were here, hiding, without your knowledge...” He
tapped his fingers on the table, once each in turn. “Then of
course such mitigating circumstances would cause us to overlook this
diplomatic...hiccup.”
Wilhelm looked to the mayor, his face desperate. The mayor waved
off Colonel Belling's speech. “Colonel, let me assure you,” the
mayor said carefully, “if Angelo Pirandello had passed through the
Talermo region, it certainly was without our knowledge. If he did
pass through, nothing would lead us to believe he remained here for
any amount of time. We have been all over these mountains, and we
have never found anything that suggests a scientist is conducting
clockwork experiments.”
Colonel Belling stuck out his jaw. “No experimentation, of
course. Maybe he only hid out here? Again, none of you would be
held responsible.”
Wilhelm spoke up at last. “Sir,” he said, and his voice
wavered. He clenched his hands tight. “I can tell you now, no one
in this town has ever seen or met Angelo Pirandello. He is not
here.” This was not a lie, per se; merely an omission of certain
truths.
Colonel Belling looked like he might argue the issue further, but he
relaxed. “Well,” he said. “At any rate, I have a small
detachment of men on hand. With your permission, mayor, I will take
them on a brief patrol around the perimeter at first light, to ensure
there isn't anything you might have overlooked.”
The mayor ground his teeth together. “Of course, Colonel.”
Colonel Belling firmly shook the mayor's hand, and stuck out his arm
for Wilhelm to take, but Wilhelm simply looked away. Colonel Belling
smirked and left out the front door.
As soon as the door had shut behind him, the mayor grabbed Wilhelm
by the shoulder. “What is wrong with you?” the mayor demanded.
“We are not answerable to them!” Wilhelm proclaimed. “We're
not beholden to them, or their damn war.”
“For the love of god, Wilhelm!” the mayor hissed. “Don't be
naive! If they find anything up there, they will roll right through
here and hand us our heads. So tell me true, now that it's just the
two of us. Are you hiding something up in the mountains?”
Wilhelm turned away from the mayor to look out the window. I shrank
back into the shadows.
“Just answer me one thing, sir,” Wilhelm said. “What would
you do if there was something up there? Would you tell the colonel?”
“No,” the mayor said. “I would take a group of men, right
now, before the dawn breaks, and I would see to it that no evidence
remained for the Meridians to find.”
Wilhelm was silent for what seemed like a very long time. Then,
decisively, he stated “There is nothing up there.”
The mayor relaxed. He clapped Wilhelm on the back encouragingly,
and left.
I ran back to Pirandello's homestead as fast as I could.
* * * *
I didn't know why Wilhelm had chosen not to reveal my presence to
his superiors and elders. It flew in the face of all logic. Not
only was he risking his good standing in his community, but from the
conversation I easily understood that he was risking the lives of
everyone in his home. It was foolish, irresponsible.
I contemplated the coming morning. Colonel Belling would find me,
of that much I was certain. The homestead was not particularly well
disguised. He and his men would quickly surround the buildings and
seize my master's devices. As for what they would do with them, I
was doubtful they would keep them in working condition. For my own
part, I imagined that Belling would either dismantle me or have me
destroyed altogether. When he had mentioned “CM-38 front line
battle troopers” a note of personal revulsion had taken hold in his
tone. He hated them. He hated me. There would be no study for me.
I would die, never knowing what my master's final command to me had
been.
After that, Belling would turn his attentions to the village in the
valley. By simply existing, I was endangering them all, especially
Wilhelm, the young clockmaker who had shown me such incredible
kindness by not only helping in my quest, but also by refusing to
give me up upon threat of death. I would not see such kindness
repaid in such a brutal manner.
I had little time. Soon, my “idling” would come to an end, and
my programming would take effect. I popped open my chest plate, just
as I had when first showing Wilhelm my innards. Inside, the wax
cylinders were silent and unmoving. I took hold of a screwdriver and
jammed it into the first socket. As I did so, I felt a vague twinge;
not an altogether unpleasant sensation. I pushed down hard on the
screwdriver, and the cylinder popped out. It fell to the floor and
cracked down the middle. I flinched inwardly, but nothing happened.
I didn't explode, or power down, or crumble into a million clockwork
pieces. Encouraged, I set the screwdriver into another cylinder,
with the same result. In a sudden, manic frenzy, I quickly pried out
the remaining cylinders one by one, each of them falling to the
ground in a rain of machine parts, until only one was left. It was
the oldest and the last: Pirandello's final command. This time,
when I forced the screwdriver in, it...for lack of a better word...it
hurt. Then it too came loose. I did not let it fall to the
ground like the others. Instead, I put it aside on a workbench,
reset my chest plate, and stood up.
The mayor had said that he would destroy all evidence. It was sound
advice.
I found the biggest, heaviest sledgehammer I could find, and I got
to work. I smashed the water tanks. I ripped apart the
single-piston engine with my bare hands. I tossed all the large bits
into a pile with the books as kindling and burned the whole lot,
confident that the small amount of smoke would not be seen down in
the valley while under cover of darkness. Those parts that I could
not destroy with fire I instead buried in a large pit, then covered
that with a layer of grass and tree branches.
Lastly, I destroyed the inventions. I was not altogether aware of
at the time, but I could swear after the fact that I felt the chamber
that had held the final cylinder spinning around an empty case, like
a long-forgotten muscle coming to life only to find its old strength
has waned. Perhaps it was only imagined.
And then I came to the clockwork glider. It cocked its copper bird
head to the side and peered at me curiously. I have no doubt that it
knew it was next. Moreover, the glider knew it would not be able to
stop me, hung as it was from the ceiling in metal clamps. I
considered the sledgehammer in my fist, and looked about at the mess
of clockwork destruction I had left behind. I looked back at the
glider and it cawed pathetically. I undid the clamps on its wings.
The instant the last lock came undone, the glider unfurled its
complete wing span, fully twice the size it had appeared to be when
bound up. In this form it was about two meters wide, though the body
was only two feet long from beak to tail feather. It
was...beautiful. A mix of lightweight metal framed around leather
sheets. It immediately gave a gigantic flap of its mighty limbs,
causing a light wind to blow the bits of scrap I had left behind out
the door. With herculean effort, it rose off the ground, and swooped
out and into the sky. I thought it would carry on in that manner,
soaring on to unknown frontiers, following its program, but to my
astonishment a few seconds later it descended again, just as suddenly
as it had taken to the wind. It swooped down and extended spindly
landing gear, and bounced to a halt by my feet. I looked down at it
curiously, and it chirruped in response.
* * * *
I will likely never know the nature of the final cylinder; the last
command. Perhaps Pirandello intended for me to wreak terrible
vengeance upon his enemies following his death. Perhaps he thought
it better that I destroy myself, piece by piece, to follow him into
the afterlife. But I like to think that that wonderful, mad,
world-weary scientist who gave me the spark of life also saw fit to
give me the greatest gift of all: my own freedom.
The glider perched atop my shoulder and rustled its metallic
feathers impatiently. The sun was beginning to rise. We had to go.
As I looked around for the last time at the quiet home we had carved
out for ourselves high up in the mountains, I cradled the cracked
cylinder in my metallic palm and felt, for the first time, the
stirrings of a new emotion.
Pirandello would have called it hope.
I wrote "What Happened" as the final project in my last Creative Writing course in Fiction at the University of Calgary. Among my classmates, it proved to be the most popular story I'd written in two semesters. I suspect that has something to do with the general theme; the nature of storytelling. This version has been pared down and edited somewhat from the one I presented in our chapbook (so Tony, Liz, and anyone else from Tom Wayman's class who stumbles onto this, if it seems different, that's why). I doubt I'll ever find a place that would print it, but I do quite enjoy it. I hope you do as well. Without further ado...
My
first thought about the bar was that it should be in a travel
magazine. Some bars take the nautical theme to a crazy level with
porthole windows and pictures of pirate ships, but not a one I'd ever
been to was smack dab in the middle of an honest to god boat,
anchored in one of Morningside's smaller bays. I thought for sure
there'd be a layer of vomit from the rocking and the booze, but the
place had a decent charm to it. It
was crowded, and I could tell most of the people there knew each
other, possibly for years. Troy gave me a wave from a table where he
was chatting with a few guys and gals.
five...whole...minutes! When she comes back up, she's got the knife in her right hand and the
biggest damn pike you ever saw under her left. Now they say that the
pike may've taken her eye, but she took it's damn hide.” Troy
settled back against the bar and looked pleased with himself. Then
he gazed back over his shoulder at Audrina, who was grinning broadly
by this point. “That good enough for a pint, gorgeous?”
I perked up. “Wait, so she got the glass done here? What about the guy who made it for her?”
I parked my car back a ways and
plodded up to the cabin. A stout knock at the creaking door brought
no response, and I was ready to give up when I spotted a hunched
figure down near the water. I headed in that direction, picking my
way through the long grass that sprouted defiantly all around the
crest of the beach.
What Happened
Small
towns are a hotbed for rumors, plain and simple. Morningside had all
the right ingredients: isolated location on B.C's west coast, pulp
mill industry, and a unique blend of new-age hippies and crusty old
men. That's what you needed to draw out the absolute crème de la
crème of gossip. What drew me in was a steady paycheque at a
warehouse and an old friend by the name of Troy. Troy
was a good guy, one of those fellows you call a man's man: knew how
to make anyone feel welcome. Not long after I arrived, he invited me
out to one of Morningside's local watering holes, a place called the
Hook, Line and Sinker.
 |
| By J.-H. Janßen (Own work) [GFDL or CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0], via Wikimedia Commons |
He
introduced me to each of them, and for the first time since I'd
gotten to Morningside
I started to feel at home. I headed for the bar, and that's when I
saw her She looked like she could break me in half with a flick of
her wrist. Her hair ran wild all about her shoulders, tapering down
to frame a pair of tattoos on her collar bones. They looked like
little ships, but the muscles rippling under her tube top warned me
not to bend in close for a look. But what really caught my eye –
no pun intended – was the polished glass ball that sat perfectly
at home in her skull, daring me to say something. It was painted
very realistically, but it didn't take a second look to tell you that
it was fake, just a shade too perfect and mismatched from her other
eye. I
opened my mouth up and managed to order a beer, then made my way back
to the group without committing a faux pas.
“What
happened to you?” Troy said, nudging me with his elbow.
“Nothing,”
I said, sipping at my beer. “It's nothing.”
“Oh
my god,” one of Troy's friends interjected. “This is your first
time here, isn't it?”
“So?”
“You
just saw Audrina for the first time, didn't you?”
I
gulped down some more beer. “The bartender?”
“Uh,
yeah!” Another one of Troy's friends chimed in. “Don't pretend
you don't know what we're talking about. It's all over your face.”
I
glanced back over my shoulder at Audrina. “How did... you know.”
“The
eye?” Troy looked enthusiastic. “Oh, that's a good story. Way
I hear it, she's part of this fishing trawler's crew, you know? She's a sailor.”
“Right,
I got that from the, uh-” I gestured at my own collarbone.
“Exactly. The tats. So anyway, she's on this ship, the Cerberus-”
“No,
man,” one of Troy's friends nudged him. “It was called the
Styx.”
“Whatever. Point is, she's on this ship, and this big ol' storm just blows in
out of nowhere off the coast of Newfoundland-”
“Like
hell, it was off the coast of Vancouver Island-”
“Why
would they be out there?” Someone who we didn't even know said.
“Who's
telling the story?” Troy barked. A small crowd was gathering, and
I shot a look to Audrina to see how she was reacting. She'd noticed,
all right, but she didn't look in the least annoyed. In fact, I
thought I could see the beginnings of a smile forming at the corners
of her mouth.
“Anyway,”
Troy continued. He was really getting into it, waving his hands
around. “She's out there, right, on this fishing trawler, when all
of sudden the thing jerks to a stop. Whole ship just woomph,
damn near gets pulled under. Yep, that's right, net's out and it's
obvious that something's caught in the damn thing. Well, the crew
tries to pull it back in, but whatever's down there it's in there
good. No chance of just shaking it loose. And here in the midst of
all this is our very own Audrina. What do you think she does? She
takes a big ol' bowie knife and she dives right in there. Well,
she's down there
 |
| By Kelley Tom, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
The
bar went quiet. Everyone in the whole damn place was watching
Audrina. Finally, she tapped him a pint and handed it over. “Good
enough for a round, mate,” she said.
The
bar erupted into pandemonium. Three guys started shouting at once,
each one yelling something about Audrina's eye.
“No,
what really
went
down is that she was in China, see-”
“There was a fire, down at the
mill-”
“Biggest hurricane you ever saw
comes up the coast of Florida-”
All I could do was stare, and the
night went on.
* * * *
“So nobody really knows?”
Troy shrugged. “Not that we
know of. Audrina's always been that way as far as most people know. At least, ever since she opened the bar. So now she offers drinks to
whoever comes up with the best version. Boy, I've heard some weird
ones. Sometimes they're downright ghoulish. But she always rewards
the ones that have happy endings, or adventures in 'em.”
I was completely taken in. Something about that bartender with her glass eye, keeping a secret apart from the
entire town, struck a chord with me. All day long it was all I could think about. I'd be
hauling crates and taking inventory, cracking open boxes, and my mind
would drift to tales of open seas and pikes, and slowly I was
crafting my own story. Maybe she saved a coworker from a falling box
and taken a blow on her head. Or maybe there was a fire, and she'd
rushed in to save a child and gotten a burning cinder right in the
eye. No matter what, though, the story I came up with in my mind
felt hollow and unfulfilling. I knew what the problem was: it
wasn't the truth. Call me crazy, but in my gut I knew that the real
story would somehow transcend all the rest. It would crystallize
this noble bartender for me. So I got to quizzing my two coworkers.
“Someone had to have been
there,” I said.
Vern shook his head. “Not a
soul. She was out of town when it happened. And don't you even
think of straight up asking. Last sucker who did that spent the rest
of the night scooping up his teeth.”
Troy snorted. “Give it a rest,
Charlie. Why do you want to know so bad, anyway?”
My pride stopped me from giving
the truthful answer. Instead, I said “There's people who'd pay big
for a story like this. Press. Movies, even.”
That caught his attention. “Never looked at it that way. You get some kind of a...finder's
fee?”
“Exactly.”
Troy
pursed his lips, thinking. “Well, ain't
nobody in Morningside who saw how she got it. All we know is one
day she came back from wherever and she had this eyepatch on. Few days later and
she's got a spanking new glass one instead. I still think it's a
dead end.”
I perked up. “Wait, so she got the glass done here? What about the guy who made it for her?”
“Oh, him? He's a complete
recluse. You won't get it out of him.”
* * * *
The next day I drove out to the
most desolate, depressing stretch of beach I had ever seen. Bits of
driftwood littered the place, and there didn't appear to be a sign of
life anywhere. The water crashed ferociously, sending ocean junk up
into the air then down again. In the middle of all of this was a
tiny, run-down cabin.
 |
| life's too short via Compfight cc |
When I was about twenty feet
away, the figure straightened up and called out “No solicitors.” His voice – for it was a man, after all – was deep and baritone.
“I'm not selling anything,” I
called back over the roar of the ocean.
He turned to look at me. The
man's eyes were chestnut brown, and held me in a piercing gaze. He
held a knife in one hand, a piece of wood in the other. He started
up the beach towards me.
“What do you want then?” He
boomed. “If it's a commission you're after, I don't do those in
the off-season. If you're looking for a generic piece, I'll be up in
town in a couple of days with a truckload.”
“No,” I said, waving my
hands. “I'm sorry to bother you at home-”
“Home!” He chucked the knife
into the dirt. “You think I live in this craphole?”
“No, all I meant was-”
“Save it. You're not from
around here, I can tell that much. So what do you want?” He pushed past me on his
way back to the cottage.
“You're Jonas Knaypaysweet,
right?” I blurted.
He stopped and pivoted so
suddenly I almost ran into him. “How do you know my name?”
“Troy Hollis told me I could
find you here.”
Jonas grunted. “I'm gonna
stir-fry that turd's gonads with a pitchfork.” He flicked his chin
at me. “So what the hell do you want?”
“Just to ask you something,
that's all.”
“What?”
“I I heard you made the glass
eye for Audrina.”
He stared at me. “What, you a
cop or something? What is this?”
“No, I'm not a cop. I just
want to know.”
He leaned in close. “Why?”
Something
in his manner told me it would be a very bad idea to lie to him. “Because I have
to. Because something about her was just so...mysterious. And
something tells me the real story would make her a hero. At least to
me.”
Jonas raised his eyebrows. A
long silence hung in the air between us. “What's your name, boy?”
“Charlie.”
“Come inside, Charlie,” he
said, and headed into the cabin.
Inside the cabin, there were
tables with neatly lined up totems and plaques, all painstakingly
carved with incredible detail. Here and there were pieces carved of
stone, too; some soapstone, and some jade, and all of great quality. Jonas waved a hand dismissively and said “These're nothing. Now,
Audrina's eye, that was a careful piece of work.”
I shuffled my chair closer like a
kid at a campfire story-swap. “Tell me about it.”
Jonas exhaled noisily. “You
ever tell a lie, Charlie?”
“What?”
“Simple question, ain't it?”
I shrugged. “Sure, I guess. As much as the next guy. More when I was a kid.”
“Why'd you do it?”
I felt awkward enough already,
but Jonas' line of questioning was putting me off balance. “I
dunno. 'Cause I didn't want to get caught.”
“Right. You took a measure of
things, and you found that the truth just wasn't good enough.”
I could see where this was going.
“Did she commit a crime or something?”
“Oh for crying out loud,”
Jonas snapped. “You're missing the point entirely. Listen,
suppose for one second that you did have the truth. What would you
do with it? Take it to her, throw it in her face?”
“No,” I replied. “I think
the truth is something you celebrate, or remember. You learn from
it.”
Jonas stuck out his jaw. “Okay. Suppose the truth went something like this. A sweet kid, maybe too
trusting, maybe too naïve, gets in deep with the wrong boy. And
suppose one day that boy decides he doesn't much like her face for no
damn good reason other than that he was a son of a bitch with daddy
issues? What's in it for the kid? What's to be learned, celebrated,
worth remembering?”
I hesitated. “Is that the
truth?”
“Maybe.” Jonas turned his
back to me, busying himself with his carvings. “Point is,
sometimes the truth ain't good enough for people. Sometimes, you get
things we call stories. So tell me, Charlie: what do you want to
tell, and how do you want to be remembered?”
I didn't answer him. We sat
there for a good, long while, the smell of cedars the only thing I
was aware of.
* * * *
The next night Troy insisted on
taking me back to the Hook, Line and Sinker to see Audrina. Word had
spread that I was digging for the truth about her eye, and several
patrons had gathered to hear what I had to say. Audrina must have
had an inkling about it too, because when I got there she was waiting
behind the bar with her arms folded.
A silence fell over the crowd. Audrina said “I hear that you've got a story to tell me.”
I nodded.
She held out a hand. “Charlie,
right?”
I nodded again.
She shrugged and went under the
bar for a glass. “I'd love to give you a beer for this, if you'll
let me.”
I looked into her eyes. She
stared back at me evenly from two different shades of dark blue.
I said “Well, it goes something like this...Our Audrina here, she was a forest ranger, see...”
I said “Well, it goes something like this...Our Audrina here, she was a forest ranger, see...”
Audrina smiled at me and poured
me a pint.