Hey guys! Fun Roscribblers today, right?
Here is the prologue for my novel, Baker's Detective Agency: Trial By Murder. i put it up on my blog on Punchwood, which those of you that are on it may already know (you know who you are). So, please read it and comment on it, tell me what to improve on, or just comment for the heck of it. Thanks!
***PROLOGUE***
Roger Flamle had a bad feeling when he left his house this morning.
It wasn't something he could explain, but he knew it, as sure as he had known his own name. As a still able bodied man of 78, with all of his hair intact in a buzz cut, Roger was skilled in several areas, including trusting his hunches. However, his senses had deteriorated over the years due to old age, so he decided to pass it off as the after effects of the root beer he had drank yesterday, at his grand daughter's birthday.At this age, just root beer was enough to upset his stomach, so he wasn't particularly concerned. He had pulled little Annie aside to give her his gift; a beautiful necklace with a deep red stone, very precious metal, set in it. He had told her: "This little gem has been in our family for generations, lass. My grandmother gave it to me, and now, at your fourteenth birthday, I'm giving it to you. Keep it safe for me, eh??" Annie's eyes were as wide as saucers, and she thanked her grandpa with all her heart, and promised that she would keep it safe. Her beaming face warmed Roger Flamle's heart, and was still keeping it toasty during the freezing cold of the winter. All the leaves on the trees were icicles, all the roof tiles were snow, and one could lie down and sleep in the blanket of snow covering the ground, if they wished to die of hypothermia.
As he exited his house (rather big, could easily host a few families and gatherings) and walked towards his car (a 1994 Jaguar Coup, to be exact), he checked his pocket again for the note, the note that had asked him to come. It had looked quite earnest, and who was he to deny someone in need? The note said:
Roger Flamle,
Please, I beg of you. I need your help, badly. I beg of you, please come to the address of 13 Old Wood Drive, or it shall be the last day of someone's existence.
From,
A friend.
Roger must admit, as he stroked his snow white beard, the note was certainly authentic. There was even a drop in the corner of what he had examined to be tears, and the note looked like a suicide note, meaning he had to get there in time, or someone would die.
He put the peddle to the mettle, burning across the snow, and arrived at the given address in less than 10 minutes. The building seemed old, as if no one had lived there in a while, but he could see a light open. It was one of those small side-by-side houses you get on a a narrow street. There was still lichen on the roof tiles, even though it was winter. The door was unlocked. He suddenly felt an ominous feeling, coming through the door ,but he put it down to the cold air.Cautiously, he went in.
Again, it was all but empty. No furniture, no ornaments, nothing. There was a staircase in the corner, which most likely led to an equally empty upstairs. There was, however, one person in the house. In the bare living room, the person was sitting on the floor with their knees curled up to their chest, a cloak around them, so he couldn't tell if it was a man, or a girl. They saw Roger, their head still covered by the hood, and croaked, in a voice indistinguishable by gender: "You came."
There it was again. The ominous feeling, the chill at the back of his neck, the immense bad feeling was upon him again. But he didn't pay it mind. A mistake, so it was."Yes," Roger said as he bounded forward, and knelt by the hooded figure." Now, what is it."
The hooded figure held out a gloved hand. "Can I see the letter?"
Roger nodded, taking it out of his coat pocket and giving to the hooded figure. They held it in their hands, and studied it, with what appeared to be microscope glasses (very weird fashion accessory) and a small scanner, a blue laser bar going across the little slip of paper. "You touched it last, so it has your DNA on it. Hmm."
Suddenly, they moved in a flash, a knife against Roger's neck, and a transmitter like device in his hand, pressed to Roger's forehead. "Where is it?" They hissed.
"W-w-what are you talking about?!" Roger stammered.
"Don't play games with me. Drop the act. I can tell that you were the last person to touch it, and I could trace it, but make it easier on yourself, and I'll let you live.Where.is.the STONE?"
Roger's face relaxed, dropping all pretenses and theatrics. "Never gonna tell you. Any person who would demand something of another while they hold them at knife-point cannot be up to any good, eh? And you're just going to kill me either way, aren't ya? Even if I tell you, I still die, don't I?" The hooded figure hissed. The transmitter that was being held to Roger's head was meant to pick up brain wave patterns, meaning it was supposed to read Roger's thoughts, to find out where the item was. But Roger's mind was like a steel wall, no thoughts were being picked up by the transmitter except some choice words and insults that Roger had deigned satisfactory to pelt him with. The man's mind was focused so utterly that nothing he didn't want coming through would go through.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Roger continued, making sure that if these were his last words, he was gonna make them count. "So, I figure, why should I? Which means, basically, that I will help you when Hell freezes over. So good luck, lad. Oh, wait. No amount of luck in the world will help you find, use, and keep that stone. So, I'll just tell the devil to keep your space warm and ready for you."
In a fit of anger, the hooded figure stabbed Roger Flamle through his heart, leaving the neck. As he lay dying, Roger realized several things. One, the tear on the letter was a tear of joy, probably, because the hooded person thought that they would have achieved their goal. Two, the person that would have died today was not the person sending the letter, but the one receiving it. In other words, him. Three, he almost laughed at. He reeaally should have trusted his bad feeling today. Fourth, he probably just did his ancestors proud. A joyous last thought, as soon his body would fail him, his heart would stop beating, and Roger Flamle would live no longer. But, as he stealthily drew his hand up to his chest, took some blood, and began to write with it underneath him, he could still be of some use to someone else.
The hooded figure stood over Roger, panting, not noticing Roger's still moving hand, not noticing when Roger finally drew his last breath. In their anger, they couldn't notice anything, but their own heart, beating a tattoo, their eyes, seeing nothing but red and his goal, and their mind, which could think nothing but their goal. " I..will.. find.. that which I seek." The figure vowed. "And none of you can stop me! Whoever thinks they can.. YOU ARE WELCOME TO TRY! But who thinks that they can beat me?!"
And on that note/cue...
Here is the prologue for my novel, Baker's Detective Agency: Trial By Murder. i put it up on my blog on Punchwood, which those of you that are on it may already know (you know who you are). So, please read it and comment on it, tell me what to improve on, or just comment for the heck of it. Thanks!
***PROLOGUE***
Roger Flamle had a bad feeling when he left his house this morning.
It wasn't something he could explain, but he knew it, as sure as he had known his own name. As a still able bodied man of 78, with all of his hair intact in a buzz cut, Roger was skilled in several areas, including trusting his hunches. However, his senses had deteriorated over the years due to old age, so he decided to pass it off as the after effects of the root beer he had drank yesterday, at his grand daughter's birthday.At this age, just root beer was enough to upset his stomach, so he wasn't particularly concerned. He had pulled little Annie aside to give her his gift; a beautiful necklace with a deep red stone, very precious metal, set in it. He had told her: "This little gem has been in our family for generations, lass. My grandmother gave it to me, and now, at your fourteenth birthday, I'm giving it to you. Keep it safe for me, eh??" Annie's eyes were as wide as saucers, and she thanked her grandpa with all her heart, and promised that she would keep it safe. Her beaming face warmed Roger Flamle's heart, and was still keeping it toasty during the freezing cold of the winter. All the leaves on the trees were icicles, all the roof tiles were snow, and one could lie down and sleep in the blanket of snow covering the ground, if they wished to die of hypothermia.
As he exited his house (rather big, could easily host a few families and gatherings) and walked towards his car (a 1994 Jaguar Coup, to be exact), he checked his pocket again for the note, the note that had asked him to come. It had looked quite earnest, and who was he to deny someone in need? The note said:
Roger Flamle,
Please, I beg of you. I need your help, badly. I beg of you, please come to the address of 13 Old Wood Drive, or it shall be the last day of someone's existence.
From,
A friend.
Roger must admit, as he stroked his snow white beard, the note was certainly authentic. There was even a drop in the corner of what he had examined to be tears, and the note looked like a suicide note, meaning he had to get there in time, or someone would die.
He put the peddle to the mettle, burning across the snow, and arrived at the given address in less than 10 minutes. The building seemed old, as if no one had lived there in a while, but he could see a light open. It was one of those small side-by-side houses you get on a a narrow street. There was still lichen on the roof tiles, even though it was winter. The door was unlocked. He suddenly felt an ominous feeling, coming through the door ,but he put it down to the cold air.Cautiously, he went in.
Again, it was all but empty. No furniture, no ornaments, nothing. There was a staircase in the corner, which most likely led to an equally empty upstairs. There was, however, one person in the house. In the bare living room, the person was sitting on the floor with their knees curled up to their chest, a cloak around them, so he couldn't tell if it was a man, or a girl. They saw Roger, their head still covered by the hood, and croaked, in a voice indistinguishable by gender: "You came."
There it was again. The ominous feeling, the chill at the back of his neck, the immense bad feeling was upon him again. But he didn't pay it mind. A mistake, so it was."Yes," Roger said as he bounded forward, and knelt by the hooded figure." Now, what is it."
The hooded figure held out a gloved hand. "Can I see the letter?"
Roger nodded, taking it out of his coat pocket and giving to the hooded figure. They held it in their hands, and studied it, with what appeared to be microscope glasses (very weird fashion accessory) and a small scanner, a blue laser bar going across the little slip of paper. "You touched it last, so it has your DNA on it. Hmm."
Suddenly, they moved in a flash, a knife against Roger's neck, and a transmitter like device in his hand, pressed to Roger's forehead. "Where is it?" They hissed.
"W-w-what are you talking about?!" Roger stammered.
"Don't play games with me. Drop the act. I can tell that you were the last person to touch it, and I could trace it, but make it easier on yourself, and I'll let you live.Where.is.the STONE?"
Roger's face relaxed, dropping all pretenses and theatrics. "Never gonna tell you. Any person who would demand something of another while they hold them at knife-point cannot be up to any good, eh? And you're just going to kill me either way, aren't ya? Even if I tell you, I still die, don't I?" The hooded figure hissed. The transmitter that was being held to Roger's head was meant to pick up brain wave patterns, meaning it was supposed to read Roger's thoughts, to find out where the item was. But Roger's mind was like a steel wall, no thoughts were being picked up by the transmitter except some choice words and insults that Roger had deigned satisfactory to pelt him with. The man's mind was focused so utterly that nothing he didn't want coming through would go through.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Roger continued, making sure that if these were his last words, he was gonna make them count. "So, I figure, why should I? Which means, basically, that I will help you when Hell freezes over. So good luck, lad. Oh, wait. No amount of luck in the world will help you find, use, and keep that stone. So, I'll just tell the devil to keep your space warm and ready for you."
In a fit of anger, the hooded figure stabbed Roger Flamle through his heart, leaving the neck. As he lay dying, Roger realized several things. One, the tear on the letter was a tear of joy, probably, because the hooded person thought that they would have achieved their goal. Two, the person that would have died today was not the person sending the letter, but the one receiving it. In other words, him. Three, he almost laughed at. He reeaally should have trusted his bad feeling today. Fourth, he probably just did his ancestors proud. A joyous last thought, as soon his body would fail him, his heart would stop beating, and Roger Flamle would live no longer. But, as he stealthily drew his hand up to his chest, took some blood, and began to write with it underneath him, he could still be of some use to someone else.
The hooded figure stood over Roger, panting, not noticing Roger's still moving hand, not noticing when Roger finally drew his last breath. In their anger, they couldn't notice anything, but their own heart, beating a tattoo, their eyes, seeing nothing but red and his goal, and their mind, which could think nothing but their goal. " I..will.. find.. that which I seek." The figure vowed. "And none of you can stop me! Whoever thinks they can.. YOU ARE WELCOME TO TRY! But who thinks that they can beat me?!"
And on that note/cue...
great prologue. You have a great skill in writing. i can't see any problems in your story so it's pretty much alright. keep writing more stuff. Good Luck
ReplyDeleteThanks, man. I'm gonna try and post the first chapter of it soon.
ReplyDelete