For the first time in a long while, I got a lot done on the weekend. Here’s the short list of writing-related achievements:
- Scheduled Saturday vignettes all the way out to the end of August
- Wrote Meat, a complete short story draft of approximately 4,000 words, which links back to the “what if Raymond Carver was being Raymond Carver during the zombie apocalypse” idea I had back at the start of the year.
- Started Part Three of Knock, Knock (a lesson I picked up after the gap between part one and part two–start the next section the day after the votes are in).
- Did the final layouts for the next Writer Chaps for Brain Jar Press, Lee Murray’s Goal Setting (Literally), and put the print edition in for proof copies so we can launch pre-orders next Tuesday.
- Broke the spine of a scene/chapter that had stymied me in Median Survival Time.
Some snippets from works in progress:
MEAT
The Miracle Man’s chili order is up, so I hustle over to grab it. Bowie leaves the grill to put his two cents in, making noise about working hard on that food. Why’s this guy disrespecting him by letting it sit there, not even bothering to taste. I tell Bowie about the Miracle Man’s stomach, how he’s just here to get a whiff of things, and Bowie grumps and stomps back to the grill and rumbles about how it ain’t right. Then Vince intercepts me after I grab the order. Pulls me close and keeps his voice low, tells me to get the Miracle Man outta there. Fast as you can, he says. He’s making folks nervous around here. He’s not eating the food he ordered.
I think about telling Vince to go fuck himself, but what good does that do anyone. Do what I can, I tell him.
And I take the Miracle Man his chili.
Right away, I can tell he’s not in good shape. Sitting over a cut-up sandwich, the whole thing rendered down to bite-sized chunks nobody will ever eat. The Miracle Man is listing to his left, his face drawn tight like he’s in pain. Eyes tracking movement throughout the café with a predator’s focus. We all know that look, these days, only the Miracle Man’s not sweating. He’s not keeling over, about to die. His eyes aren’t changing colour. Still, it’s making folks right nervous. All that time we spend drilling safety protocols, all that talk about acting fast instead of waiting for folks to turn. All those adds reminding us we’re in this together, they do their job. I’m itching to draw my .45 and plug him between the eyes, but I don’t. He’s not a dead man. He’s a walking miracle. He’s the silver lining of all this shit, you know?
I put down the bowl of chili. Steam curls off it, the whole thing piping hot, bowl still warm from the oven. I swallow me fear and say, want me to clear some of these plates?
KNOCK KNOCK, PART THREE
The shotgun trembled in Lucy’s grip. Tears beaded in the corner of the her eyes, and Finn figured the first signs of shock were setting in. They didn’t blame her; the looming presence of the intruder at Finn’s back hung there like a sword of Damocles, and they had no doubt all three would suffer if Lucy pulled the trigger.
“Luce, we’re outclassed here.” Finn kept their voice calm and measured, trying to pull her focus off the intruder. “Whatever our visitor is, it’s not immediately hostile, and it possesses technology that outstrips our own. You open fire, and this goes one way after that. I’m not sure—”
“DESIST!”
“Shut up,” Finn barked. “Luce, I know you’re scared here. Trust me, I’ve soiled my pants a dozen times since our guest arrived. But this isn’t the way.”
MEDIAN SURVIVAL TIME
Holst caught the hint of laughter on the edge of Zhu’s smile “Men like Patrick Tolland are an occupational hazard,” she said. “They’ve got the credit to get things done, and they’re motivated to spend. My office gets contacted by three or four of them a year. The leads they promise are rarely as promising as this one, and the rumours are always out there, but I’ve seen nothing to confirm the secret cabal hypothesis.”
“Maybe you just haven’t made the right find,” Holst said. “No reason to come after you.”
Zhu turned in her crash couch. Holst could feel the doctor’s eyes on her, the questioning look of a woman who’d expected an ally and found herself contemplating an unexpected point.
Holst stretched her legs the best she could in the confines of the couch and the suit. The nav data on the corner of her suit’s HUD said they were still thirty minutes out. When Zhu turned back to her work, comms silent and closed to pings from the rest of the team, Holst figured it was best to ride them in silence.