Author Topic: The Forum's Scriptorium  (Read 108759 times)

JoB

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #465 on: July 30, 2021, 02:05:58 AM »
I tried to join the Mature Board, and got told that I was off limits, despite changing my profile to include my birth date. I went back in to find that my profile still reads 0001-01-01.

So I changed the birth date again and was told that my profile had been updated. I tried again... off limits! I looked at my profile... not changed despite being told it had been updated.

Definitely vexing.

Please try to join the 18+ group without setting a birth date first. It seems to (now?) have worked for me, too ...

(On the page to enter your birth date, did you notice the "Change profile" button to the lower right to actually submit your changes?)
native: :de: secondary: :us: :fr:
:artd: :book1+: :book2: :book3: :book4: etc.
PGP Key 0xBEF02A15, Fingerprint C12C 53DC BB92 2FE5 9725  C1AE 5E0F F1AF BEF0 2A15

Yastreb

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #466 on: July 30, 2021, 06:02:13 AM »
Please try to join the 18+ group without setting a birth date first. It seems to (now?) have worked for me, too ...
(On the page to enter your birth date, did you notice the "Change profile" button to the lower right to actually submit your changes?)

1. I tried that, and I'm off limits.
2. I know you're being thorough... Yes, I used that button each and every time. And it never worked. The birthdate will not change.


ADDITIONAL: I followed the link in JoB's email and I'm in the Mature Group... but my birthdate hasn't been changed still.

Puzzling!
« Last Edit: July 30, 2021, 06:04:13 AM by Yastreb »
"Life is all we are. Life is what defines us. In the end, Life is the answer."

Ruler of Bartolomeu de Gusmão Airport.

Athena

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #467 on: July 31, 2021, 02:54:26 PM »
I've really gotten into writing in the past year, and I have a couple short stories published on my website if anyone would like to take a look :)

The first is an action adventure romance-at-sea tragedy with copious lesbian yearning and sea monsters and a bittersweet tone ;D it's titled Beneath the Brine, since it was inspired by the album from The Family Crest of the same name, and it's 10k words or so. You can read it here!
Edit: just remembered I should mention that this one has some harsh language in it, though it's all in Spanish iirc. Also gore—though not anything more than SSSS has.

Then there's also this short and sweet romance that I wrote inspired by the feeling of biking out to see the sunset...titled "Spring"!  ^-^
« Last Edit: July 31, 2021, 03:00:29 PM by Athena »
tired programmer girl with stories in her head and magic in her heart

currently working on a video game/digital novel called Keeper of the Labyrinth<3

avatar from the now-unavailable webcomic Prague Race

Athena

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #468 on: July 31, 2021, 03:07:59 PM »
The bad news is, my main Code Geass fanfiction is, as of now, put on hold until I figure out what I want to do with it, which might take some time.

The good news is, I've written and published a short Code Geass piece which you can read if you want, available on ArchiveOfOurOwn and FanFiction.net. It doesn't really contain any spoilers, so you can go ahead without worrying about that.

Ooh, RanVor, this is great!! That's a really cool view into what must have been going through Lelouch's mind during that scene, and has so much emotional weight to it. Nice one!

P.S. sorry for the double post :P
tired programmer girl with stories in her head and magic in her heart

currently working on a video game/digital novel called Keeper of the Labyrinth<3

avatar from the now-unavailable webcomic Prague Race

Yastreb

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #469 on: September 04, 2021, 09:35:48 PM »
This piece came about after a challenge from a workplace writers' group. I have no idea what the challenge might have been (it was a long time ago...)

ACRONYM DISPUTE TAKEN TO COURT
 
Supporters of three organisations with names that are rendered as identical acronyms publicly clashed outside the County Court today.
Approximately 800 people exchanged gibes and hurled insults at each other, and 150 police struggled to keep order.
Supporters of Families Against Nude Sunbathing and the Federation of All-weather Naked Swimmers at first confronted each other in the street, but apparently put aside their differences when members of the Free Arthur Newcombe Society arrived. Scuffles broke out, and police made nine arrests during the afternoon.
In court, lawyers for all three groups sought injunctions against the others, each claiming to have the sole claim to the name FANS.
Judge Ann Djury adjourned the hearing to 5 November.
"Life is all we are. Life is what defines us. In the end, Life is the answer."

Ruler of Bartolomeu de Gusmão Airport.

Yastreb

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #470 on: September 08, 2021, 12:14:10 AM »
And now, an extract from Darkmind, the first of two projected Steampunk-themed crossovers from the Dragonhost Saga.

Admontein, 9.52 am, 8 June 990
Paul Kilgerrin strode into Strandfield Central Station, the main rail terminus of Admontein, capital of Zantria; just another dark-clad figure among scores of others.
His left arm cradled a bulky leather satchel with a sizeable lock; his right hand seemed poised across his chest, as if ready to dart under his left armpit. Another satchel, of stitched green canvas, hung off his right shoulder.
The terminus was angular and sparse of decoration except for the massive wrought-iron framed clock above the ticket office. Typically, nothing had been wasted on fripperies. The only real colour derived from the occasional flashily-dressed woman among the throngs, and the advertising hoardings. Paul smiled at a poster for Grangerford’s Biscuits; he had worked with them once, a while ago…
Royle Society Bombing Suspect Apprehended, the headline read
Paul paused to buy the Admontein Gazette and the latest issue of High Adventures. He handed over twenty-five cents and tucked the paper and the magazine under his arm.
“Hurry up, Kilgerrin!”
“I’m sorry, Mr Dodd.”
He fell into step with the well-dressed accountant, a stout figure in tweed suit and deerstalker, silver-headed cane at his side, gold watch-chain across his left chest; the very model of a successful man of business who had left his office for a stroll or perhaps a visit. His garb was a stark contrast to Paul’s nondescript garb; sturdy trousers and jacket and flat cap, all black as against Dodd’s fashionable grey.
 
The crowds thronging Admontein Central Station were a cross section of Zantrian society; bankers and doctors, technicians and tinkers, labourers and artisans, with among them soldiers in uniform, some (from their tans) fresh from the southern Colony Islands, and one or two even bearing the propeller insignia of the Zeppelin Corps.
Paul kept a tight and wary grasp on the satchel under his left arm; Dodd grunted approval.
“You have a good attitude there, Kilgerrin,” he said. “Mr Porlock spoke well of you. I know you won’t let him down.”
They reached Platform Three where the sign read Greater Colton Limited Express, and Dodd clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Safe journey, Kilgerrin, and stay alert!”
Paul touched his cap and headed for one of the third-class carriages as the train whistle shrieked the five-minute warning to depart.
 
Two men in the same black garb as other labourers watched him discreetly from near the small kiosk on the platform.
“He’s tooled up,” said one. “Barker, shoulder holster. You see the way he’s always got his right hand free?”
The other grunted. “Won’t do no good. One man to carry two grand… well, their loss, eh?”
They waited for the two-minute warning, and then headed for Paul’s compartment.

Paul was reading the article on the Royle Society bombing when the first man opened the door to the compartment.
Early today, agents of the Zantrian Internal Security Force made six arrests in connection with the bombing of the Royle Society for Advanced Aeronautics Airship Arch-Chancellor Redford Bartleby, Snr.
No further information has been released to the press at this time. Questions about possible links to foreign sources were not answered.
Baroness Lucinda Royle is reported to have expressed satisfaction about the arrests. A formal statement is expected tomorrow.

The man saw Paul’s watchful glance and nodded to him before sitting down opposite and taking out his own paper; the Sporting News, Paul noticed.
The second man flopped into a corner seat and stared out of the window.
No-one spoke as the train finally set off.
Paul browsed further through the Gazette, spending some time on a lengthy report of an archaeological project that promised to give new insights into the pre-Devastation world. That apparently rash promise had sparked disagreements and even some fiery exchanges between Faculty members. Finally he moved on. He appreciated science, but there were limits.
He lingered for a while on a report about the upcoming commissioning of the Navy’s newest vessel, the fleet destroyer Myrallea Moondown, but eventually turned the page after the lengthy discussion of whether the 4.7 inch guns and two sets of triple torpedo tubes in the newly-introduced 21-inch torpedoes were a risk to stability, and a smile at comments about the Treaty of Grandville, which turned up in every article on naval matters.
Of greater interest was an article about The Kingdom, the upcoming second novel in the Forerunner Trilogy, and an interview with the author. Charles Newton has chosen to take us beyond the grandeur and tragedy of The Empire, with the grim but enthralling story of a world in ruins and the efforts to not only survive, but to rebuild…
The man with the sporting paper had pulled out a pencil and was making notes in the margins, looking worried; but then Paul had never seen anyone who bet on the races looking calm.
The other man had fallen asleep.
Paul folded up the Gazette and put it aside, and picked up High Adventures. He examined the contents page and smiled when he noticed that one name was missing from that month’s authors. “About time,” he said.
The sleeping man awoke suddenly. “Blazes, how long have I been kipping?” he blurted out.
“About two hours, I’d say,” Paul said. He had always been good at keeping track of time.
“We must be getting close to Lesser Colton then?” The man rose and looked out of the window, ignoring the Passengers Are Advised Not to Lean out Of the Window sign.
“Huh, track works coming up… brings back memories that does!”
“You were a ganger?” Paul asked. “Hey, I did some time tracklaying, even did some stoking, back...”
As he spoke, there was something at the edge of his vision…
He turned, reaching for the revolver under his left armpit, but the sporting man brought his to bear as the first warning detonator fired. No-one would notice the shots.
The revolver roared twice, and Paul felt the impacts like two massive punches to his chest.
The train entered a tunnel, and everything went dark.

Voices spoke in the darkness.
“It gets easier every time, eh!”
There was a mirthless chuckle. “Wonder who they’ll hang for this one.”
They both laughed.
“There’s a gully coming up in about a minute… let’s get the boodle and dump the stiff at the next bridge.”
The train cleared the tunnel, and the man who had been pretending to sleep drew out a long knife from under his coat and turned towards the man slumped on the seat.
His eyes took in the bloodied chest, and the eyes wide open in a face devoid of expression, the large revolver clearing the satchel on the right hip, and the finger tightening on the trigger…

Isaac Howard let his paperwork fall from his lap, and the report to a less than illustrious client spilled over the floor. “Did you hear that, Doctor Knox?”
The other passenger in the second-class compartment looked up from her Zantrian Medical Journal in annoyance. “Hear what?”
“Those were shots, I’m sure!”
The smartly dressed woman shook her head. “I don’t think so. It was more of those warning signals, my dear fellow…”
But even as Doctor Knox spoke, the sounds broke through the rattle of the train; two loud reports, a half-second apart.  She looked around, startled. “No, you may be right! Could it be a train robbery?”
Isaac reached under his coat and drew out a revolver. Doctor Knox flinched.
“I doubt it,” Isaac said. “But I’m ready, whatever it is. It sounds like they came from behind you. One of the third-class coaches.”
They listened intently, but the only sounds were the clack-clack of the wheels and the train whistle blaring.
“We’re slowing down,” Isaac said.
Doctor Knox tugged out a watch from her waistcoat. “Almost twelve… we are nearly at Lesser Colton.”

The train eased slowly into the station at Lesser Colton at two minutes past twelve with a whoosh and hiss of released steam. Isaac stepped out from the carriage on the instant that it stopped, with his revolver at the ready. A few doors opened, and a half-dozen people began to step out, but froze at the sight of an armed man on the platform. He quickly gestured to them to stay back. Doctor Knox was leaning out of the door, watching Isaac stride down to the first compartment of the nearest third class carriage. Then he stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. “Gunpowder – it’s in this one!”
He flung open the door and levelled his revolver into the compartment, and then stepped back, lowering the weapon. “Doctor, get over here!”

Doctor Knox grabbed her black bag and hurried to where Isaac stood. He holstered his revolver and pointed inside. “It’s bad, Doctor…”
She looked past him into the train compartment.
On the right, two men in shabby street clothes were sprawled slackly over the seats. Each had a single large blood-rimmed hole in his chest, and a similar hole in his forehead, like a strange third eye. On the left, a third man was slumped against the seat, his black shirt drenched with blood that bubbled and ebbed as he gasped for breath. His right hand grasped a large revolver.
She nudged Isaac aside and climbed into the compartment as the passengers drew closer, and some tried to peer past Isaac. Then the driver and firemen edged through them with the guard arriving seconds later.
“What’s happening?” the guard asked. “Someone’s been taken ill?”
“Worse than that,” Isaac replied, gesturing the passengers back. “There was shooting…”
“Shooting!” the guard exclaimed.
The passengers drew back.
“Two dead, I’m sure, and one maybe dying,” Isaac added. “There’s a doctor working now.”
The driver spoke up. “Jack, get the station master, quick. Tell him we’ve got an emergency here, let Ellenborough know we’ll be at Lesser Colton for who knows how long, and to block back the line to Wicksteed until further notice. And someone, anyone, get the cops here.”
As the driver took control, Isaac looked in the compartment. Doctor Knox had worked her way in past the corpses and was kneeling beside the live man, cutting away his shirt.
She glanced around and called out, “Mr Howard, please take these guns away.”
Isaac climbed in and reached down to take the revolver from the wounded man’s hand. He straightened up with a gasp. “Blazes, this is a fine piece! Four-fifty-five Barrington Mark Six!
Top-drawer hardware! Just who is that bloke?”
“He is the man I am trying to save, Mr Howard, and those guns unnerve me. Take the one from under his shoulder and the one on the floor too. Take his satchels too, and that knife, if you please.”
Isaac did as Doctor Knox asked, putting on his gloves before picking up the dropped revolver by the tip of the barrel and then the knife by its point. He used his pocketknife to scratch marks on the plain deal floor where the weapons had been dropped, and made a quick sketch in his notebook to back it up..
Leaning over the doctor as she worked, he carefully removed the revolver from the wounded man’s shoulder holster, a Standish thirty-eight, and put it with one he had picked up from the floor; another thirty-eight, a cheap nickel-plated Jordan. He broke open the cylinders of each; the Standish was fully loaded, and three of the Jordan’s chambers held empty casings. The knife was a six-inch hunting blade, and it looked to have been honed to razor-sharpness.
Closing both guns and placing them and the knife onto a seat, he took up the Barrington. He swung out the cylinder and found that four chambers had been fired. He leaned over to look more closely at the dead men, and straightened up, looking thoughtful as he pushed the Barrington’s cylinder back into place.
Lastly, he placed all three revolvers into the wounded man’s satchel with some difficulty, wrapped the knife in a page from the Sporting News lying on the floor and put it with the revolvers, and then slung the satchels over his shoulders.
A few minutes later, the local Rural Constable arrived with four men and a litter to carry the wounded man to the local infirmary. Isaac handed over the satchels to him.
Doctor Knox took her bags and followed, saying to Isaac as she did so, “You don’t have to stay here, you know…”
Isaac smiled. “This has my interest. I’ll be staying… just to find out more.”
« Last Edit: September 08, 2021, 12:20:11 AM by Yastreb »
"Life is all we are. Life is what defines us. In the end, Life is the answer."

Ruler of Bartolomeu de Gusmão Airport.

Yastreb

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #471 on: September 08, 2021, 12:34:30 AM »
Admontein, 12.58 pm
He was a nondescript man in a nondescript room, and those who reported to him could barely recall his face or anything else about him.
The messenger arrived as the man was signing documents, and waited until he looked up. “Sir, we have a situation with one of the Special Assets. The Wolf.”
The man’s expression did not change. “He was at Midwinter Mining, assistant engine operator… what has happened?”
“The pay office staff chose him to carry cash. Special bonuses to engineering staff at Greater Colton. He was sent alone by train. Word has just reached the Metropolitan Force of a fatal shooting on the train. It stopped at Lesser Colton. Detectives from the Metropolitan Homicide Division are to be sent at once by special train. There is nothing more at this stage, since we have no-one there to check. It’s a small place, no call for coverage.”
There was a short pause, no more than a few seconds. “Get an agent and supports to the scene. If there is any risk of disintegration, it has to be dealt with. Inform Doctor Bennett to prepare for a possible reintegration. That is all.”

Lesser Colton, 4.26 pm
Louise Knox sat at a corner table at the Canary, Lesser Colton’s only real hotel, with papers spread before her.
The Canary was made of the same roughly hewn timbers as every other structure in the small town, and the only attempt at decoration was a set of prints advertising Lelibran burlesque shows, most of them smeared with coal dust.
The proprietor, a retired miner with a severe limp, had been careful to explain that quick service was not to be expected, and had made a show of wiping down the table and the bench. There were no chairs; brawls were too frequent of a night. So after cold mutton with loads of pickles, day-old bread rolls, and coffee that tasted like sweepings from the shop floor, she looked over her notes and wrote at length in neat, precisely-spaced handwriting.
At the other end of the common room, half a dozen miners in their grimy working clothes were drinking beer and gossiping about the gentlewoman sitting and writing all by herself. Fortunately, they had not tried to approach her.

Isaac Howard came into the Canary, clutching a folder. He came over to Doctor Knox’s table, hung his hat on a convenient hook, and sat own opposite her. “How’s the patient, Doctor?”
Doctor Knox put down her pen after wiping the nib clean. “Mr Kilgerrin will survive, but he is an extremely lucky young man. Firstly, he has a very sturdy constitution, rude good health, you might say. Secondly, I was on the train. Doctor Robinson strikes me as a less than competent surgeon and the facilities and instruments are of a poor standard. When this is done I will see what I can to remedy that lack. However, I can’t say when he will wake up, though. For now, what did you find out?”
Isaac tapped the folder before him. “Our man was carrying over two thousand dollars. It’s locked in the company safe. There were pay lists from Midwinter Mining. That’s a lot of money to be in the care of one man. The local constable’s got both his deputies guarding the carriage in the sidings, and the local undertaker took some pictures. The bodies are still there. Since this is a little bit more than he’s used to, he was happy to have my help, though I imagine that there’ll be city cops on the way. Special Branch. Any crime on the rails is within their remit. I hope they appreciate our work.”
The proprietor limped over with a tray and unloaded a plate and a mug before Isaac. Doctor Knox saw more of the same mediocre fare that she had been served.
“I am a surgeon, not a pathologist,” she said, “but I can give you some conclusions about my patient. Firstly, two of the shots that hit him were most likely fired by someone sitting or standing opposite him. Entry and exit wounds were on the same plane. I think I have the terminology correct.” After a nod from Isaac, she went on. “The third wound was from a different angle, above and to the left. It hit just under the left shoulder, went downwards, and chipped the scapula on exit. On the whole, he’s very lucky to be alive, as the bullets missed his ribs and did no vital organ damage, although I can’t rule out chronic lung problems from here on.”
Isaac grunted agreement. “Thank you, Doctor… well, I’m a consulting detective, not a crime scientist, but here are my findings. At first glance, it seems pretty clear. Two armed thugs tried to rob a wages carrier and lost their lives in the exchange of fire. One of them had a revolver and the other had a knife, the cut-throat sort. But it isn’t all that clear. There are some odd features in this case. We have a man who’s been shot twice in the chest with a .38 revolver at near point-blank range, but somehow he manages to get out a .455 Barrington, and shoot them both. Now, according to what I saw, each man was shot clean through the heart. That’s precision, even at close range, and with two sucking chest wounds as a distraction, and with something with the kick of a four-fifty-five, and considering that he most likely took the third shot before plugging the gunman. Then you have the head shots. Again, precision.
“And lastly, there’s his revolver. A Barrington Mark Six is a top of the range weapon, more like a professional duellist’s choice, but he doesn’t look like a duellist, more like your normal working man. Something very strange overall…
“Where does an ordinary labourer learn to shoot like that?”

Lesser Colton, 5.32 pm
He woke up between rough sheets, smelling antiseptic, and feeling a light pressure on his right wrist… someone was holding his wrist….
There was no pain; just an overwhelming tiredness.
He opened his eyes slowly.
“Oh, you’re awake!”
A woman was sitting by the bed; attractive, buxom, maybe thirty, neatly dressed in a grey waistcoat and matching jacket, her chestnut hair immaculately coiffed, keen grey eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. She smiled a professional smile as she gently released his hand and carefully tucked away her gold pocket watch.
“Mr Kilgerrin, good evening. Please don’t try to sit up. I’m Doctor Louise Knox, MD, FZCS. You’re in the Lesser Colton Infirmary, recovering from three serious gunshot wounds. Thankfully you’re a sturdy fellow. I wouldn’t have expected you to come round for another day at least.”
“Blazes!” he croaked as the memories surged into his mind.
“Please be calm, Mr Kilgerrin.”
“There were two of them! One of them shot me! We have to tell the cops, track the bastards down! How long was I out?”
Doctor Knox frowned. “Ah… well, that is interesting…” She raised a hand quickly as Paul drew breath again. “Please don’t speak just yet.”
She rose and walked to the door, opened it, and spoke briefly to someone in another room before stepping through and out of sight.
Paul took stock of his new surroundings; a stark room of sanded plank walls and ceiling. A gas lamp glowed softly in the wall above his head. He was wearing a white linen bed jacket. His chest and left shoulder were swathed with bandages.
How long was I out? And why the blazes didn’t they finish me off?
After a short while Doctor Knox came back, holding a tray bearing a mug fitted with a spout.
“You should be all right to take some beef tea.”
“Should I be drinking at all?”
“It will be all right. You’ve had the proper surgery. I sewed you up myself. Now drink up, please, Mr Kilgerrin.”
Paul slowly drank down the beef tea. He had tasted worse in his time. Barely had he emptied the cup, and Doctor Knox wiped his lips, than the door opened and two men entered.
One was small, wiry and black-bearded, wearing the blue shako and brass badge of the Rural Constabulary, though his uniform was rough brown woollens rather than blue serge; a lever-action carbine was tucked under one arm.
The other was an obvious city gent, clad in neat slate grey, top hat, waistcoat and breeches, with long fair hair an incongruous touch.
“I do not approve of guns in hospitals, Constable,” Doctor Knox said frostily.
“Symbol of office, Doctor,” the Constable riposted. “Mr Kilgerrin, I’m pleased to see that you made it! I’m Constable Metcalfe, Rural Constabulary, and if you’re up to it, I have some questions about what happened on the train. Oh, and this is Mr Isaac Howard, consulting detective. He and Doctor Knox were the first to arrive on the scene.”
“She saved your life,” Isaac said.
Paul held out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Doctor Knox released his hand. “I will leave you to speak with the Constable, then.” She frowned again at the carbine under Metcalfe’s arm. “But if you feel any pain or discomfort, send for me.”
Paul blinked as something she had said came to him. “Wait, Doctor, you said something about three wounds. There were two shots, just two.”
Metcalfe looked at Doctor Knox, eyebrows raised. “What did you tell him, Doctor?”
“Nothing, Constable… Mr Kilgerrin was trying to tell me about the robbers, so they could be caught, well…”
Metcalfe laughed, a short, derisive bark. “We won’t have to look far, Mr Kilgerrin. They’re still in the carriage. Each one shot to the chest and one to the head. We found your revolver in your hand…” His voice tailed off. “Mr Kilgerrin?”
Paul answered, but his voice seemed to be another’s, from far away, and his eyes were wide with shock, even horror.
“What the... I killed them?”

Lesser Colton, 6.05 pm
The police special train arrived in Lesser Colton as workers were leaving the pits at the end of the last shift, and many of them headed over to the platform. The incident on the morning train was still being talked about, and the arrival of Special Branch detectives could provide some more excitement.
Doctor Knox, Isaac Howard, and Constable Metcalfe reached the platform just as the passengers dismounted; three plainly-dressed men of nondescript appearance, but their grey trench coats and black bowler hats were effectively uniforms.
Constable Metcalfe, still carrying his carbine, approached the new arrivals diffidently. He was greeted with a handshake before he gestured them towards where Doctor Knox and Isaac stood waiting.
“I’m Detective-Inspector Wright, and my colleagues are Detective-Sergeant Hammond and Detective-Constable Shawcross,” said the oldest of the three officers. He was tall and stocky with the neatly trimmed moustache synonymous with Army officers. He looked at their cards and handed them back. “Doctor Knox, Mr Howard, thank you. Shall we move inside? We need to…” He looked up and past them, and frowned.  “Good grief, it’s going to land!”
They turned to see a long grey shape descending slowly towards Lesser Colton.
Doctor Knox and Isaac Howard saw airships most days in Admontein, but the miners and workers of lesser Colton seemed almost as awestruck as any islander of the Colonies.
The Zeppelin levelled out above the station, the quiet whirr of its engines slowly fading into silence. It had MIDWINTER MINING in large black letters along its envelope.
“Ahoy, below!” a voice boomed. “We are lowering mooring ropes! Please secure the ship!”
Without any further bidding, a number of the miners scattered to grab the ropes uncoiling and dropping from the airship’s keel.
After some discussion, they secured the ropes to the buffers in the siding to leave the Zeppelin suspended about fifty feet up.
“Nowadays every blasted firm thinks it’s nothing unless they have their own Zeppelin,” Wright observed with a sneer. 
“Not just any Zeppelin, neither, mister,” said a miner enthusiastically. He had organised the mooring of the ship. “That’s a Montverne semi-rigid design, top of the range, y’know…”
He went on to describe the design in enthusiastic detail.
“I’d have thought the company would have chosen to stay quiet over this matter,” Isaac mused. “Coming along in the firm’s airship is a bit… flashy, wouldn’t you say?”
A rope ladder swayed down from the passenger compartment in the keel, and two men in grey coveralls scrambled to the ground. As they did, another man began to descend; a bearded man in smart grey suit and top hat, secured by a harness.
“VIPs like this one don’t arrive by mere train, Mr Howard,” Doctor Knox observed. “If I am not mistaken, that is Sir Anthony Wells, the chairman of Midwinter Mining.”
One by one four men and one woman were lowered from the airship.
Sir Anthony and two others were clad in business grey and top hats; the last man wore tweed and a bowler hat, and carried a familiar black bag. The woman was of a different style altogether; pale mauve blouse and dress down to her ankles, with a matching parasol and broad-brimmed hat.
Sir Anthony helped the woman from her harness and looked around. He saw Doctor Knox and walked over to her, beaming, to shake her hand.
“Doctor Knox, you have no idea what a pleasant surprise this is!”
“Honoured to be remembered, Sir Anthony… last April, at the Royle Society’s Morrison Lectures, I believe, though we only spoke briefly.
“Oh, this is a new acquaintance, Mr Isaac Howard consulting detective. This incident made us colleagues, after a fashion.”
“A bad business, indeed, Doctor Knox… Mr Howard, pleased to meet you, sir.
“May I in turn introduce Mr Roger Porlock and Mr Wilfred Dodd of Accounting, Dr Robert Prendergast of Health and Safety, and Lady Scarlett Devonleigh of Public Relations.”
At that moment, Inspector Wright stepped forward, touching his hat.
“I’m Detective-Inspector Wright. My apologies, Sir Anthony, but we have only just arrived to investigate the, ah, incident. Now, as I understand from my briefing in Admontein, your man Kilgerrin was seriously wounded and is still in a weakened state...” He looked quizzically at Doctor Knox, who nodded. “So I would like to leave him be for now and interview the key witnesses, namely Doctor Knox and Mr Howard. I sincerely apologise for interrupting the introductions.”
“You have your job to do, Inspector, and we will not get in your way. Perhaps I and my colleagues could see Kilgerrin briefly?”
Wright pondered briefly. “That would be all right, if Doctor Knox has no objections? All right then. Hammond, go with Constable Metcalfe and make a report on the crime scene. Doctor Knox, Mr Howard, shall we find a place indoors to talk?”
Isaac Howard watched the Midwinter Mining party walk away, and said with a chuckle, “I might have known they’d bring a Mulder.”
“Mulder?” queried Doctor Knox.
“Make Us Look Decent. Something like this makes any firm or college call out the Public Affairs people.”

Paul had sunk into a shallow sleep. He was dreaming about dancing in a large open hall with a woman in white and gold, to a tune unlike any he had ever heard. There was no-one else with them. Her face was partly hidden by a fine gauze veil, but he could tell that she was smiling, and her fair hair swirled as they danced.
There were voices beyond the door.
“He’s asleep, sir, and the doctor, Doctor Knox, she said he’d been badly hurt, sir…”
It was Rachel, the volunteer nurse, a young and pretty girl who tended to blush, and giggle behind her hands.
“It will be all right, young miss, I promise.”
He opened his eyes as the door opened softly and one by one they came in. He recognised Mr Porlock, the chief supervisor of machines, and Mr Dodd of Accounts. The city gent and the one who looked like a doctor he had never seen before, and the attractive woman in mauve, with jet black hair in immaculate ringlets under a fashionable hat, was a lady without a doubt.
“Mr Porlock, sir, Mr Dodd… thank... thank you for coming….”
“Please don’t move, Mr Kilgerrin,” the woman said gently. Her voice had the faint drawl of the Northern provinces. “I am Miss Scarlet Devonleigh, and this is Sir Anthony Wells, owner and proprietor of Midwinter Mining.”
Paul tried to think of what he could say to show respect, but he didn’t know what to say.
But then Sir Anthony stepped up and shook his hand. “From what we’ve heard you did a very brave and worthy thing, Mr Kilgerrin. You foiled a robbery and put an end to two dangerous criminals. You risked your life doing so. We owe you our thanks.”
Paul could only reply, “Sir Anthony, I… don’t know what to say, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything…”
The doctor spoke up. “That’s not unexpected, Kilgerrin. A violent attack, you were wounded, your life was threatened… that sort of shock does affect recall.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Sir Anthony said. “Mr Kilgerrin, since Midwinter Mining bears the responsibility for putting you in harm’s way, I guarantee you the best of medical care, a handsome reward for your actions, and a guarantee of continued employment when you are fully healed.”
This is what it’s like to be rich and powerful, when you can make promises like that…
Sir Anthony went on, “And on that thought… I can guarantee you that those who made such a foolish decision to send you alone on that delivery will be sacked.
“Mr Porlock, Mr Dodd, your employment with Midwinter Mining ends from the moment we return to Admontein.”
He was drawing breath to continue when Paul managed to croak, “No, please…”
Bafflement was on every face.
“Pardon me?”
“It wasn’t their fault, Sir Anthony, I mean, um, how could they have known? Please don’t sack them…”
Sir Anthony turned to look at Porlock and Dodd, who stared back blankly.
Miss Scarlett tugged out a small lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “That is so… Mr Kilgerrin, you are my hero!”
Sir Anthony was now lost for words. Finally he said, “Mr Porlock, Mr Dodd, your dismissals are revoked. Mr Kilgerrin, what can I say? You astonish me. I wish there were more like you.
“I think we should leave you to rest. Tomorrow we will see about getting you to a proper hospital in Admontein.”
As they turned to go, the doctor said, “Sir Anthony, I should check how he is, as company physician. I will be along soon.”
The door closed behind them. Paul saw relief on the faces of Dodd and Porlock.

The doctor sat down next to the bed and put down his bag. Reaching into an inside pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of pasteboard about the size of a playing card and unfolded it in front of Paul’s half-closed eyes.
The eyes snapped fully open and all the signs of weariness faded on the instant.
The doctor put the card back in his pocket. “Report.”
“I was attacked. I defended myself.”
Paul’s voice was quiet and without emotion, with no trace of accent.
“Describe your actions.”
“I used Beta Protocol, with the Barrington. Immobilise, then execute.”
“Why?”
“I needed to make certain in short order.”
The doctor paused, eyes narrowed. “Witnesses?”
“None to the shooting, but beyond that, I cannot say. I believe that Knox treated my wounds.
All else is what Kilgerrin told them. I remain hidden.”
The doctor smiled briefly. “Kilgerrin will only recall that he felt too tired to speak to me. Yield control when I leave. That is all for now.”

Lesser Colton, 8:30 pm
The interview had been brief, and Doctor Knox was happy to accept a sherry in the drawing-room of Horace Jones, the local manager of Midwinter Mining, and then a simple dinner of roast pork, roast potatoes and beans.
Not only was Sir Anthony present, with his retinue, but Jessica Royle, sister of Lucinda Royle, was there too. Jessica had surprised many when she took up a teaching post in a small and underdeveloped mining town, and became the mayor.
Some said she was staying out of Lucinda Royle’s shadow; others that she was simply taking her own path. Whatever the truth, Louise Knox found her a delight to converse with.
Dr Prendergast had been happy to discuss Kilgerrin’s case, and they lamented the fact that the clinic’s radiograph had been out of commission, but they wisely put that issue aside to allow more civilised discussion before dinner.
The main course had been indifferent, but an excellent apple crumble had made up for that.
As brandy was served and cigars were offered, but only Sir Anthony and Inspector Wright lit up at the table, as perhaps their rank allowed.
Jessica Royle asked the Inspector, “Now then, my dear sir, do you have a conclusion on what happened on the train?”
“Only a preliminary one, ma’am, but I have little doubt that the Prosecutor’s Office will accept it. It seems to be a clear case of justifiable homicide. Self-defence.”
Sir Anthony nodded urbanely. “What else, indeed?”
“Sergeant Hammond immediately recognised both men,” Wright continued. “John Dixon and Peter Mapleton were villains with long records of violence and larceny. Mr Kilgerrin saved us the expense of a trial and executions! Now, I don’t think for a moment they were on that train by chance. We will find their contact at Midwinter. I’ve already sent word to the office at Admontein to follow up at once. There was a putter-up, an organiser, who hired then, I’m sure of that, and we’ll find him.”
Miss Scarlett was making careful notes as the Inspector spoke, and he said, “I don’t recall this being on the record…”
Miss Scarlett frowned slightly. “Inspector, this is a great story! 
“Two violent criminals perish in the course of their crime, felled by a brave citizen who was gravely wounded. Despite his wounds, the victim pleads that those who unwisely sent him alone with a valuable load be spared dismissal.
“A renowned surgeon swiftly acts to save the hero’s life.
“A consulting detective is first on the scene, and acts swiftly to secure the scene for the detectives of the Special Branch, who take swift action to track down the master criminal who planned the robbery.
“A philanthropic businessman races to succour the wounded hero.
“Oh, it’s a bit disjointed, but with some editing this will be a front-page story!”
Prendergast looked thoughtfully at Miss Scarlett over his brandy glass. “Kilgerrin might not welcome the attention. He seems to be painfully modest.”
“Oh, nonsense!” chaffed Sir Anthony. “He deserves praise. He’s hard-working, honest and unassuming as well as brave. Dear me, he is a model citizen.”
Doctor Knox glanced around to see Isaac Howard looking thoughtfully at her.
Where does an ordinary labourer learn to shoot like that?

"Life is all we are. Life is what defines us. In the end, Life is the answer."

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lwise

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #472 on: September 30, 2021, 09:54:18 AM »
The answer came to him in a dream.  It was the old dream which he had not had for many years.

He is riding home from school on his bicycle. He knows, as he did not know then, that he must get home, must get home at once. But the street gets ever longer, and though he pedals with all his might, he has not yet reached the corner when the explosion rocks the neighborhood. Though he knows he must not, he stops as he stopped then and looks around in confusion. When he sees the flames rising above the house before him, he remembers and he rides ...

He sees the house in flames, in pieces. He hits the curb, leaps off his bike, runs up the lawn, but Mr. Henderson, running out of the house next door, tackles him. "No, boy, no! You can't go in there!"

"But my mother --"

"No! It's too late, boy, too late!"


He jolted awake and rubbed a trembling hand across his eyes. Too late! Yes, he was much, much too late -- decades too late, in fact. He snapped on the light, put on the glasses that lay on the bedside table, and gazed blankly at the key that hung on the wall. Too late! The answer came back to him then, the gossamer strands of thought that we all bring back from dreamland.

Snatching up the pen and pad from the bedside table, he began to write, frantically gathering the thoughts even as they faded. The answer was there, he knew. Grammar, spelling, nothing mattered but to get the thoughts on paper. He had three pages of notes before the memory of the dreamtime answer faded entirely. Eagerly, he began to read them ... and his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Gibberish!

He turned the pages over as if looking for enlightenment on their backs, but after a moment, turned them face up again. The answer was there if he could only find it. Collecting the pages, he rose and moved to his tiny study and his cluttered desk. Reviewing them slowly again, he saw that this statement was connected to that statement, and if you assumed that this over here could be proven, then ...

He pulled out one of his reference books, one to which he had been a contributor before he retired -- before he was retired, that is, a thought which still rankled. But such thoughts were irrelevant. What mattered was the answer.

The sun was shining through the west window of his study and his hand was painfully cramped when he finally came out of his trance of concentration. Massaging his hand, he looked around the study, at papers thrown to the floor, at books piled high on the desk and on the floor, at business cards that he no longer needed marking important spots in the books. Precariously balanced on one pile was an empty plate that had held yesterday's leftovers; beside the pile was an empty pitcher and a glass. He found that he was fully dressed. He smiled wryly. Yesterday, if he had found himself dressed and with evidence of food and water, but with no recollection of dressing or collecting food and water, he would have had fearful thoughts of Alzheimer's or some creeping dementia. Today -- well, that was the sort of thing he used to do when he was deep in thought. He hadn't done it since retirement ... he cut off that thought and looked back at the handwritten sheets in front of him.

It was the answer. No question about it. It relied on some obscure findings in physics on the nature of time and it could be wrong -- but it could be tested. It could be demonstrated.

I can build a time machine.

He looked around the study again. It seemed as if the world must have staggered in its orbit when he realized that, but the objects around him were quite unchanged. Only he had changed. Gathering the precious papers to him, he walked out into the living room.

Her picture hung on the south wall. Not a portrait, it was simply a candid photograph that he had had enlarged. She was looking down and to the left, smiling gently at something outside the camera's vision. He wondered, as he had so many times, what she was smiling at: a kitten? a flower? himself? "I'm coming," he told her softly. "This time I won't be too late." He thought of the key hanging in the bedroom, as one like it had hung in every bedroom since he was fifteen. It was not the original, of course -- that was in a safe deposit box -- but it was a good copy. He would take it with him in the time machine. He imagined how it would happen.

He would take the time machine back to an hour or so before the explosion. He would go to the house and knock on the door. Pound on the door, in fact. She would be napping on the sofa; that was what the police determined afterwards. She would be napping, and she would hear him pounding and come to the door. Or, if she didn't hear him, he would unlock the door and go inside and get her. He would claim that he had smelled the gas and that the door was unlocked.

It was probably better that it had taken him so many decades to find the answer. If he had come for her when he was a young man, she would have recognized him and that would have been difficult. And if he had come for her when he was in middle age, she would have been afraid of a strange man. But an old man like himself? She would not be afraid. She would be thinking of the gas instead of worrying about his intentions, and they would run out together and call the gas company.

Maybe the house would explode and maybe it would not, but she would be safe. And when his younger self came up on the bicycle, he would quietly leave her and then ... well, it didn't matter what then. He would go find a shelter and claim that he was homeless and penniless and without family that would acknowledge him, all of which would be entirely true, and he would finish his life knowing that she was living out hers.


That was the good dream that had sustained him for so long. The years and the decades had worn away his memories of her; he could summon no memory of her voice or her face. This picture was all he had and all that remained of her.

Not all.

He turned slowly and with a strange reluctance to the displays on the north wall. There were three of them, collages of photographs. The center one showed his own family. The picture in the middle was the wedding picture of himself and Myra, so long ago. They had met in a physics class and she had seen something in the painfully shy and driven young man he had been. They had married three months after they met, and their marriage had endured until her death at age seventy-three, just two years ago. The time machine will not help Myra. I have no cure for cancer. Maybe someday ...

Their marriage had produced three children: Christina, Marianne, and Victoria. Their pictures were part of the collage, along with the pictures of their eleven children, and their four grandchildren: just four so far, but another on the way.

He stepped closer to the picture, searching for the picture of Jodie. She was his oldest great-grandchild and had presented the collage to him. Terribly shy and conscious of the importance of the task, the five-year-old had bungled the presentation and dropped the collage on his foot, then burst into tears. Her father had then made things worse by assuring his grandfather that she was a brilliant child who was already learning to dance and read music. The mortally embarrassed little girl had fled to her mother and had not dared to approach her great-grandfather for the rest of his birthday party.

Ah, there was her picture: a sweet little girl with a nervous smile. Some kind hand had written the genealogies of each descendant under the picture to spare an old man's memory: Josephine Sanders, daughter of John Sanders, son of Christina Sanders. He suspected Marianne's hand; she had always been a thoughtful child.

So: Josephine Sanders, daughter of John Sanders.  The family liked to call John "Doc John" because he was the only "real" doctor among them. There were eight PhDs, counting himself, but only one MD, and that was John. He and Janet had met in the emergency room when he was a student and she brought her mother in with a broken nose. When Josephine was born, her mother had sent numerous presents for the baby -- and the rake that had broken her nose, sporting a large pink bow and a note reading "The luckiest rake anyone ever stepped on."

So: John Sanders, son of Christina Sanders. Christina had married Daniel Sanders on the rebound. Her first husband -- he couldn't remember the lecher's name and didn't care to -- had betrayed her with an unknown number of women. When she learned the truth, she had had to go through the humiliating process of being tested and treated for venereal disease. She never told her father which disease, but he knew that at least it could not have been HIV or herpes, neither of which are curable. To escape the pain and the shame, she had fled halfway across the country, fetching up in Memphis, where she took a job as a school administrator. Daniel had worked alongside her for years, patiently gaining her friendship and, at last, her love. Their marriage was still solid, he thought, looking at their wedding picture in the collage, and they had raised four good children.

His eyes went back to Jodie. She looks nervous. She should be nervous. Her great-grandfather wants to kill her.

No! Never to kill! Only to save my mother!

But part of his mind was still working on the implications.

I was planning to go into biochemistry. I never thought of physics. When my mother died, I went into physics because I wanted to study the nature of time. If she hadn't died ...

The good dream was coming back to him, but it was beginning to be a nightmare.

He would pound on the door and wake her. They would run to a neighbor's house to call the gas company. Then his younger self would ride up and he would leave them together. She would be alive and then ...

And then his younger self would never consider going into physics. He would go into biochemistry and he would never meet Myra. She would meet another young physics student and she would never know of the life she might have had. He would meet another woman and they would have children, but they would not be the same children. There would never have been a Christina, and she would never have met the lecher and never have moved to Memphis; she would never have met Daniel and John would not have been born. Janet would have brought her mother to the emergency room and some other young man would have treated her, and maybe some other family would have received the rake.

There would be no Jodie.


He continued to stare at Jodie's picture, his mind whirling. He could tell his younger self ... but even if he knew the importance of going into physics and meeting Myra, their lives would not be the same -- my mother bouncing her first grandchild on her knee, that same gentle smile on her face -- and they could never produce the same children. Never the same grandchildren, never the same great-grandchildren. Never Jodie. And not just his own descendants.

He tore his gaze away and looked at the other two collages, similar displays showing the descendants of his brother and sister. And besides them, how many of his students had met and married other students in his classes? How many had come to his university to study under him who might have studied elsewhere? What of their children and grandchildren?

But there will be others! There will be children who never existed because she died! What about them?

His gaze returned to Jodie. The number of possible descendants of any woman is unthinkably, unimaginably huge. Out of all those possibilities, Jodie was the one possibility that had been actualized. Did she not have the right to remain actual? Those other might-have-beens -- what right had he to take away her actuality for their benefit? To save his mother would not be to kill Jodie -- no, nothing like that. She would disappear back into the realm of probability. She would not die because she would never have lived. No one would even know that she ever might have lived --

No one will know but me.

He would know. He would know when he brought his mother out of the house that his children, his grandchildren, his little Jodie, were gone forever -- had unhappened. He would know that Jodie would never learn to read music, would never learn to dance, would never drop a picture on his foot ...

He looked down at the papers in his hand and found that they had somehow been crumpled in his fist. He laid them on the nearest coffee table and smoothed them carefully.

The Uncertainty Principle bites everyone. Even here. If these figures are correct, no time machine, not even the best of them, will ever be able to go back more than about eighty years. I would have time. Sixty years since the Explosion, maybe five years to build the machine. I would have plenty of time. If I don't have a heart attack or something, but I'm in good shape.

He was trying not to think of the implications, but still his eyes went back to Jodie's picture. He stared at it for a long moment and then turned back to his mother's picture. She was the possibility that was actualized out of the unthinkable number of people that could have lived. She had had her moment of reality -- too short and too painful, but she had had it.

Must I take away the reality of your descendants to spare you?

He looked down and found that the papers were in his hand, crumpled again. This time he did not smooth them.

This field is obscure. I'm the world's leading expert in this field and I almost couldn't get it. It might be that no one else will think of it for a hundred years.

He turned back to Jodie.

If it is not discovered again for a hundred years, it will be too late to make you unhappen. You will be safe. All of you will be safe. If it is not discovered again. If no one sees these papers.

Swiftly, not wanting to think of what he was doing, he strode to his study and hastily pushed the papers -- all of them, even the scribblings of his dreamtime thoughts -- into the shredder. As an after-thought, he pulled all the bookmarks out of his books and reshelved them, somehow putting them in the right places despite the tears that blurred his vision. At last it was done. He returned to the living room to face his mother.

And her smile.

Jitter

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #473 on: September 30, 2021, 02:17:14 PM »
lwise, that is beautiful! Thank you for sharing this.
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lwise

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #474 on: September 30, 2021, 03:24:13 PM »
lwise, that is beautiful! Thank you for sharing this.

Thank you!  I wrote it years ago but never showed it to anyone.  I'm glad you like it.

Róisín

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #475 on: October 01, 2021, 12:03:31 AM »
Oh, wow! That is very fine! Very well made!
Avatar is courtesy of the amazing Haiz!

LooNEY_DAC

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #476 on: October 03, 2021, 08:38:55 PM »
* LooNEY_DAC shuffles in nervously
So I decided to get a little better organized with my fanfic ideas, and I'm still trying to gauge interest levels for my stuff, so here's a link to the Google Sheet I made. Could y'all weigh in on whether/what you think I should go on with?

...I mean aside from chucking them all and not listening when I get an interesting notion or twelve...

* LooNEY_DAC ducks out quickly

Yastreb

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #477 on: October 04, 2021, 01:35:14 AM »
lwise, that was outstanding. Well done.
"Life is all we are. Life is what defines us. In the end, Life is the answer."

Ruler of Bartolomeu de Gusmão Airport.

lwise

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #478 on: October 04, 2021, 09:02:46 AM »
Thank you, Róisín and Yastreb!

Jitter

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Re: The Forum's Scriptorium
« Reply #479 on: October 04, 2021, 02:12:52 PM »
@lwise , I want to come back to your story. I really like the way you build up the scene but also his thinking. It’s not very long and yet you build a whole life, without it being a boring list of of things. And the main idea is really thought provoking - are the ones who happened to happen, more entitled to it than the others who never did but could have. What a staggering burden for him - it’s good he was old and wise already before he had to make the choice.

Oh and I love the point he makes about how it’s not just about his family, but how many other strings in the network of life would be different, if his life was changed. It’s… I can see in my mind’s eye a sort of web of life surrounding him, surrounding us all. Everyone matters to the whole.

Tldr I love your piece.
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