FICTION
November 5, 2006
Below the cut is fiction of some small number of words.
The sign on the heavy oak door said “Nicholas Pardoner, Private Investigator.” The nameplate on the desk also read “Nicholas Pardoner.” The man seated in the battered leather chair, feet propped up on the desk, hat over his eyes to block out the fluorescent lights, arms folded across his chest, and shirtsleeves rolled up, was the so named Nicholas Pardoner, private investigator.
In other words, that was me. It was a Tuesday at ten in the morning and I’d already grown tired of repeated games of solitaire. I had a sticky-note on my monitor reminding me to download new games after my nap. Also on the desk (besides my computer and my feet) there was a cup of coffee gone cold, a very silent telephone, and a mobile phone that also served as a mobile computer (also in need of new games).
I’d really like to say something along the lines of “the dame appeared before me, looking scared. Her blue eyes were wide with fear and her hands trembled as she shook my hand. ‘Mister Pardoner,’ she’d say, ‘I need you to find my father, Professor Smith. He’s been kidnapped and I think they’re coming for me next.’” I’d love to say that. That would be completely awesome. That would be the sort of thing that led me to become a detective in the first place.
But I’d be lying if I said that, because what actually happened was that two young men with very white smiles and neatly pressed suits knocked on my door and asked me if I’d found god. I told them I hadn’t, but I could for two hundred a day plus expenses. They weren’t amused and left just as quickly as they’d arrived.
3 Responses to “FICTION”
Okay so don’t NaNo it, but don’t shelve it forever! The world needs more hard-boiled detectives.
By mim on Nov 5, 2006
He’s really more soft-boiled. Poached?
Alex is sunny-side up.
By Agent Nine on Nov 5, 2006
Humbly submitted, an edit:
The sign on the heavy oak door reads “Nicholas Pardoner, Private Investigator.” The nameplate on the desk also states, to anyone with reason to care, “Nicholas Pardoner.” Imagine a man seated in a battered leather chair, feet propped up on the desk showing worn soles on not-quite-cheap shoes. The hat is over the eyes to block out the fluorescent lights, the arms folded across his chest, with shirtsleeves rolled up.
Nicholas Pardoner. Private investigator. Me, in other words.
It was Tuesday at ten in the morning, and I’d already grown tired of repeated games of solitaire. A quickly scrawled sticky-note stuck to the computer monitor offers a reminder to download new games. Maybe after my nap. Scattered about the desk there sits a cup of coffee gone cold, a very silent telephone, and a new mobile – part phone, part portable PC.
It’d be a great opening to my story if I could say something along the lines of: “the dame appeared before me, looking scared. Her blue eyes were wide with fear and her hands trembled as she shook my hand. ‘Mister Pardoner,’ she’d say, ‘I need you to find my father, Professor Smith. He’s been kidnapped and I think they’re coming for me next.’”
I’d love to say that. That would be textbook. That would be the sort of thing that led me to become a detective in the first place.
That would be a complete and utter lie.
What actually happened was that two young men with very white smiles and neatly pressed suits knocked on my door and asked me if I’d found god. I told them I hadn’t, but I could for two hundred a day, plus expenses. They weren’t amused and left just as quickly as they’d arrived.
By RobAtSGH on Nov 5, 2006