{Tit-tat goes our lil' noir, beep-boop are the machines, click-clack are the shoes, ring-ling goes the unanswered phone. Detective, detective; superhuman in intelligence but a waste of air when yah can't do the job. Hurry up, the case ain't being solved; tick-tock sings in cadence the clock. Ca-chunk will be the last noise the next victim hears if that perp ain't caught. So what are yah waiting for?... Today's post shall include a 50-word tasker, an entry to Foxtales contest by @vermillionfox and an entry to the @bananafish staple, Finish The Story contest. Also, every entry here is going on the same title; have fun trying to wrap yer head around that... Today's music-aide: "Kill Ratio (Extended Mix)" [1.] (Quake 2 OST).}
Both banners by @f3nix
- Noir or not? -
"Wow Ms, thy scarf flogg'd them barons hard."
"I'm... actually a Prince..."
"Hwæt! Thou, fluffy Prince o' goats?"
"~Indeed!~"
"Thy style reminiscent o' sorceresses!"
"Well, can't fault thee; I've seen weirder elsewhere, but some respect?"
"Well sorry... Wanna join-n-split the reward with my warband, O fluffy goat Prince?"
"~Why yes!~"
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Drawing by the lovely @vermillionfox
My bed eek in pain as the blankets flew away from my rise, a train of breaths coming in-n-out of my mouth, my nose falling victim before my entire body trembled before this seeping mass of salty water and my eyes finally seeing the crack of dusk floating by. I grasped myself as memory theatre staff began to investigate my sudden awakening and replayed all of last night in my head. My ears already hearing the ringing and my eyes seeing glimpses of my dreams had prompted my mind to the neural safe-haven. I awoke once more again on the floor with a slew of pills in the sea of spilled rum, finally I picked myself up and headed towards the shower. Hearing the valve squeak with each twist and the singing out-pour of cold water while my body slumped down on the shower floor had given me a joyous folly. I barely moved as this liquid guardian promised safety, hedonistic enjoyment, a freeze in time and no pain; however, upon all this mental folly, my mind would stumble upon bill and my tears soon competed to occupy the space the shower water had done so well so far. But picking myself up and my hands taking the soap, my body soon worked together to cleanse all these salty dæmons off of me; even if my weeping was quiet to the rage of cold water, it perturbed my ears-n-mind equally. The shower head ceasing its cadence, I soon adorned myself - first always with the undershirt. Finishing up, I heard a ring and the memory theatre replayed all the complaints of my detective work. So here I am, again as this lass - solving other's problems and never my own. With the sun midway to noon, another day finally begun.
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- Prompt by @tristancarax -
I watched Belinda getting onto the cable car that was headed up the hill. Quickly, I ran and jumped onto the back as the cable car began to pull away.
I would have had trouble with the ticket agent if it wasn’t for the gun in my hand and the badge on my belt. He backed off with a quiet stare. Following my gaze, he was bewitched by Belinda’s beauty. He darted after me. She had this effect on men of weak mind. I would have fallen off if it wasn’t for the bar slamming up against my back. Tossing the man off the trolley, his body cracked and thudded as he rolled down the hill. A blood-soaked street ...
I turned my attention back to Belinda. Fuck! She’d vanished. That fucking prick! I’d been hunting down this woman for weeks with no luck. I’d have no clue as to where to scour next if it wasn’t for the letter I found at my feet addressed to me.
It was 3 a.m. when I arrived back to my flea-infested motel. A new record for me as the days without sleep turned into weeks of nightmares. Insomnia is a bitch.
The Captain at the precinct had kept me longer than expected. He was viscerally upset when my employer had spoken to him over the phone. ”What do you mean ‘set him free?’” the captain protested. ”This man of yours just killed a man, for no apparent reason, with a slew of witnesses around,” his voice rose a little louder, becoming squeaker, ”and I’m to let him go?” His eyes darted in my direction. I saw him about to crack. ”What am I supposed to tell the press?” My employer ensured him that he’d take care of the press if the precinct did its job and labelled the body bag with the tag ”DNI” (Do not investigate).
Reluctantly, the Captain released me. My employer had ties to power most would never dare touch. Those who dared to challenge him were usually found with a couple missing body parts in the middle of town or possibly at the bottom of a flight of stairs. ”Unsolved” murder/suicides were abound. This place was beyond crooked.
I sat down on the bed. I finally had time to get to the letter I’d hidden in my trench coat pocket that was hidden beneath a pocket. This pocket had saved a few useful items in the past when I’d gotten into trouble for the blatant disregard for life.
Other than the obvious clue ”Addressed to you, Detective,” she had left a kiss mark, formed from the blue lipstick she wore.
I slapped my neck. ”Fucking fleas!”
Opening the letter, I read:
Dear Detective,
I know why you don't sleep at night. I've watched you in your half-hazy sleep toss and turn. Yes, I've done my research. You thought I didn't know about you? No matter.
Pay attention.
Your awakening is coming. You first have to chase this mouse a few more times around the block before your mind will be free enough to see that the shadow and the light cannot be without the other.
You have been to the Garden. Follow the smell. Seek the maid who is more precious than a green stone.
Your employer is banking on the life you've lead up until this very moment.
A sweet kiss, Detective.
There was a knock at my door.
- Ending by @theironfelix -
A hand grasped my shoulder.
"D-d-d-don't answer, I shall. Plus 't-t-tis rude to knock so late."
As this blue mist-fog creature slithered to the door way, my shoulder began feeling the ecstatic cleanliness. My fingers poked it, extending back I saw the grime all gone. My eyes stared at the figure, but it approached around the door frame and spawned quickly many a vestiges. I slowly rubbed this gaseous mist all around my body and began to feel the slight burn-off all the dirt, blood, cuts and bruises my body harbored indiscriminately. Then my ears picked up on the rapid thudding, mercilessly it pierced through the door and in rapid succession for four whole seconds. But I resumed my self-cleansing as it repaired my door while absorbing the carcass from the other side; my fingers slowly slid the gas into my mouth but then my hands burned insanely.
"Sorry Ms, but I-I-I'm no dentist nor good with oral pleasures."
"Ms? I'm Henryk-"
"F-f-funny yah say t-that, but 'tis n-no secret yah hast as y-yer private identity as Marta."
"True, I only fake being Henryk to get any decent income. But how'd-"
"If y-yah can figure out h-how I got in, then that answer wi-will apply here equally."
My eyes worked with my body, scanning all about I saw the blue mist plaguing my room. Withal, it started... becoming more clean? Insects were being absorbed left-n-right, tears repaired, puddles of rum-n-pills scrubbed and my windows sheathed.
"Indeed, not hard for a M-M-Myst like me to seep in. Anywho, I b-be Blue Myst of White-Flame. I'm sorry f-for the sudden intrusion-n-such Ms Marta, b-but better late than never."
"So?"
"Ah yes, turn to y-yer right."
"It's a blue ball of gas... So you won't let me lament for even losing my job?"
"Never been a f-fan of those noirs anywho. Anyways, I w-want in on the Employer's Green Stone."
"But why me and not go in for the kill?"
"If life where e-ever t-t-t-that simple, plus that's stone not for money."
"Before I accept, who was at the door?"
"To make an omelet, y-yah have to c-crack eggs. Of course, the writer be-became guilty b-but that soul be bet-t-ter used here. So: d-d-do yah accept to be part of a n-n-new noir?"
My eyes seeing one last time this room, it entirely was scrubbed clean and more cleansed than when I had first lived here. Turning back to the misty-shell, my mouth gasped as I jumped in.
"W-w-wise choice~"
"What kind of purging happen- I guess enough to make me ready for this tasker?"
"In-indeed!~ The on-on-only changes are that yer revolver shoots p-plasma æternum 'n' yah got a true secondary skin."
"Oh! The gas-mask... so-"
"I'm t-truly sorry for all these in-interruptions, but time's off the e-e-essence. I shall route yah through a d-d-different way to un-un-unload on yer ex-employer 'n' st-steal the stone."
"Sounds good to me, let's discuss a bit on the way."
"Per aspera ad astra, Ms Marta."
First two things: I landed perfectly on the word limits for both, respectively in chronology, the 300-word and 500-word stories; also good to see the @bananafish back posting! Still have to wrap up my back-to-back philosophy posting though! But did yah notice how all the entries relate-n-connect so [the rest was expunged].
Anyways, let's talk about prose! I never really cared for how prose was carried out except in two sincere cases: it becomes unintelligible and/or becomes unreadable. What do I mean and why do I care about prose in those two cases? It's quite simple: if it looks, acts and sounds like a word salad and/or the sequence of events are truly (and only truly) unintelligible, then I cannot accept the prose. (This is not to talk about non-linear stories, simulating concussions/confusion/dizziness nor even avant garde literature mind you.) That was probably as straightforward as straightforward can get on that manner; I can't say it out loud to another person and they can't sequence it because of bad wordsmanship and/or unintelligible sequencing, then the author screwed up and they have to fix it.
Now why bring this up and not talk about the qualities of prose? Because how should I formulate a universal prose that appeals to the taste of at least (and this is purposefully generalizing here as well) seven camps of readers? You know what, how about even three camps of readers to make this easier. Now how do I sculpt one for those that even would have a shared collective history, shared language thanks to that history, are all from the Global North (Euro-American Capitalist nations) and they so happen to have the same publishing houses? You see how absurd I can stretch this before we get to the point: there are no hard-n-fast rules, just guidelines that form around a culture as to replicate that culture. However, even those guidelines shift over time and become something different within a decade alone.
Yet I can give tips: no word salads, make sure you know how to sequence, use your biases to your full advantage and you have to play jester and keep the audience's attention. If you want to see if you are a good author, speak it to yourself. Ask if you can say it without tripping every few words. See if you can see for yourself how A leads to set point P. Let the emotions go off and try to see if you can feel passion in your work. And even ask yourself if you can detect the voice-n-mood you were trying to aim at. If you said no to one of them, then review why so as to see if that hinders the work at all and what you are trying to tell. If it affects it not, then run with it; if it does, rework-n-rewrite the passage until it stops becoming a problem. Of course, don't be afraid to ask others as well when you draft things up; if they complain and provide why and where, now you work on their suggestion as to hopefully make the reader's life easier and more enjoyable. If it is good in their eyes and they say why, always good to check with another one as to make sure. But remember, if you are writing in X genre, best to stick with those people as they tend to understand the taste better than people outside the genre. Well, that's the hope anyways.
