Urban Landscape Painting With a Twist

This is awesome. Enjoy!

Broomstick - The Inspector Wolfe Tales, #1 - Part Five

The ballroom was crowded, and some musty old muskrat was up at the podium, giving a toast. I noticed a group of pigs at a table next to me, wearing waistcoats, top hats, and monocles. They were playing cards, and I quickly turned my gaze elsewhere, turning my amazing ears to the task of skimming through hundreds of data streams of chatter, sifting through conversations, eliminating irrelevant ones, and filtering everything that remained through my existing clues. What remained was something along these lines, coming from a pair of dwarves at the other end of the room:

“Did you hear the news?”

“Of course.”

“He’s dead.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“Same as tomorrow.”

“Of course. With Aleck out of the way, all that’s left is Old Man Shipton, and then Alice.”

“Yeah. When are we leaving?”

I heard one of the dwarves check his watch, zoomed in on the clicking sound, and judged by the micro-details of my hearing, or maybe by looking at my own watch (I forget which), that it was ten ‘till eleven in the morning.

“We leave in ten. You got the tools?”

“Yeah, up in my room.”

The conversation ended, and I broadened my hearing spectrum once more. I glanced at the door and saw Peter Rabbit entering the ballroom, looking around earnestly, and so I swiped a man’s top hat (I am quite the pickpocket when I focus) and put it on, grabbing a large platter of prawns to conceal my face, and beelined it for the leaving dwarves.

I tailed them out the opposite door of the room, handing the platter of prawns to a waiter outside the door and quietly creeping down the hall after the two dwarves.

They turned down several corridors, not speaking, and headed up a stairwell. I kept stealthily after them, and I reached the top of the stairs—to be whacked with a frying pan.

****

“Who do you work for?”

“What?” I opened my eyes blearily. There was a person with a black mask over his head, a bushy beard poking out from underneath it.

“I said, who do you work for?!”

“You know full well,” I replied wittily. Another masked bearded fellow stepped into my frame of vision, and I realized I was in a hotel room, tied to a chair, and there were six short bearded people with masks, in total, all watching eagerly. One even had a bag of popcorn and was munching noisily.

“Them?”

“Yeah, them,” I said, trying to sell this. I had no idea who them were.

“The three?”

“Yeah, the three. Who else, man?”

“Dwarf,” said the interrogator. “Who else, dwarf. We’re very proud of our heritage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “Let me go.”

“O’ course, dude. Sorry about whacking you with the frying pan. You coming to check on our progress?”

I assumed that the “three” were the ones calling the shots, so I answered, “Yeah. How is it?”

“It’s good. The heist is about to go down, and then we’ll have it. We’re still getting paid, right?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “One last thing. The bosses said I had to tag along for the job.” This was the best way to get answers, to blend in with the criminal party. It was highly dangerous, of course, but I didn’t have anything else to go on, and the dwarves had discovered me.

One of them yawned and unbound me from the chair, and the interrogator asked, “What? We specified we go in as a team. No tourists.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m no tourist,” I said, and lightning fast I dead-legged the dwarf and swung him around, wrapping my arm around his neck. The dwarves stirred and tensed, readying to pounce. I released the dwarf and said, “I’m for real. Professional.”

The dwarf coughed. “All right, fine. Name’s Grumpy.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, quickly surmising that these were the infamous seven dwarves. But then I realized there were only six. “Hey, where’s number seven?” I asked.

“He’s already at the place, doing surveillance,” answered Grumpy, then turned to his pals and said, “All right, load up! We’re late.”

I've Been Tagged

Taisia has tagged me. This is my first time to be tagged so bear with me if I don't follow proper procedures exactly.

1. What do you like to do most?

I like to write most.

2. How long is your Christmas wishlist?

Not very long. All I want is an iTunes gift card, really. And a hedgehog, but my parents have told me already that I have to earn the hedgehog myself.

3. What did the baby corn say to the mama corn?

It said, "Why am I blue?" :P

4. How's school going?

I'm out of school, but anyway, I hate Algebra II.

5. Are you an elf, a dwarf, or a man?

I don't know. When the storks dropped me off, they forgot to put that on my birth certificate. I think it was a practical joke.

6. Are you introverted or extroverted?

Good question. I'm not exactly sure. I think introverted? but I could be wrong.

7. Do you have 200 books?

I own more than 200 books, if that's what you mean, but I have not written 200 books. Although that would be cool.

8. Is your room sinking from the amount of thick, heavy books you own?

Luckily, no.

9. Are you annoyed?

No.

10. Am I bothering you with too many questions?

Not really. It's only 10.

11. Shall I leave now?

That's probably best.

And now....

I tag Hyperlinkzer!

Broomstick - Inspector Wolfe Tales, #1 - Part Four

The first impression I had of the ballroom was that it was very cavernously huge, and very crowded, and there was violin music floating through the air. This lasted one and a half seconds. The second impression I had was that of two brass cymbals, crashing down on both sides of my head.

I reeled dizzily, and a white rabbit dropped down in front of me, eyeing me with a squint. He had on a blue coat, and said something inaudibly.

“What?” I asked. The rabbit was blown away ten feet. I must have said it louder than I had intended; my lungs are quite powerful.

The rabbit clutched his way back against the thunderous wind of my exclamation. My hearing suddenly returned, like a wave of water.

“You ain’t part of the club, bub,” said Peter Rabbit. Somehow, he pulled a full-size tuba out of his breast pocket, handing it to me. I buckled under the weight. Peter Rabbit continued, “You got strong breath, pal,” with a smirk, “so why don’t you get practicing, eh? We gotta performance in five.”

I was too dazed to reply, and Peter Rabbit whirled me around, taking me out of the ballroom and into the halls, from where we promptly went to a dress rehearsal room. Three blind mice were practicing their acrobatics act on a miniature tightrope set, and Peter roared, “Get out there, ya ninnies! You’re on next!”

The blind mice hurriedly scrambled for their canes and ran out of the room, one of them bumping into the wall on the way out. Peter Rabbit sat himself down in a chair and motioned toward the stage. I had to practice now.

I walked up onto the stage, nearly fainting beneath the weight of the enormous tuba. Peter Rabbit put on a pair of black shades and pulled a bag of popcorn out of his pocket, grinning mischievously. “Well, go on then.”

I nodded, feeling queasy. Then, I gave it my best shot. I inflated my lungs and blew.

The cacophony of discordance that rang out scarred me for life. And it was louder than any tuba I’ve ever heard played. My ears were ringing (and so were the rabbit’s) for thirty seconds. We both shouted at each other but neither of us knew what the other one said. After our ears stopped ringing, we shouted some more, then realized that our ears were fine now.

“Well,” said Peter Rabbit, “maybe you’ll just do stand-up. Okay? Show me your routine.”

I cleared my throat nervously. If I flunked this, he’d kick me out for sure.

“Well,” said he, “go on.”

I set the tuba down. “Why did Red Riding Hood cross the road? To get to her grandma’s house.”

Peter Rabbit eyed me as if I were a rotten apple. “Why doncha just stick to the trumpet, eh?”

I shook my head fervently. Peter nodded in agreement. “Well, you blow hard, don’t you? So—oh yes! Bagpipes!” He grinned like a loon.

“Um,” I said, but next thing I knew, he threw me a giant green bag of air with bristling pipes sticking out every which way, and who am I to refuse to deafen a really, really annoying rabbit?

I gave it my best blow. Detectives are trained to dissect the purposes of objects within seconds. For instance, I once figured out in about four seconds the purpose of a toothbrush. The bristles, the ergonomic handle, it all pointed to one thing: it was a back-scratcher.

So, I figured out pretty well how to play, and before I knew it, I was playing “Flight of the Bumblebee” with the skill of a master.

When I finally stopped, Peter Rabbit was enraptured. “You’re up next,” he muttered, and dead fainted. I threw down the bagpipes and rushed out of the room.

NaNoWriMo 2012

Dear Readership,

It pleases me to announce that I have completed National Novel Writing Month, for the first time in my life! I have a total of 50,127 words so far, and even though I've beaten my goal, I still have plenty of loose ends to tie up still, so it will probably be around 60,000 to 70,000 words when I'm done with it. I am planning to self-publish it on the Kindle.

Now that I've written it, I should be able to post more of Inspector Wolfe. Yay!

Broomstick - Inspector Wolfe Tales, #1 - Part Three

The Peacelock Headquarters was a maze of passageways. As I recall, Thumb, a senior Peacelock officer, got lost once or twice guiding me to the questioning chambers.

I decided to forgo my right of counsel for questioning, since finding a suitable person for the job could take hours, and Alice was running out of time before she dissipated into complete Nether.

Thumb sat in front  of me, a blindingly bright white werelight right beside his face. It was supposed to intimidate me, I knew. I had read about questioning procedures and knew them inside and out.

Thumb began. “Drink this,” he said, and handed me a small shot glass full of gleaming clear liquid. Truth potion.

I drank it. Thumb asked, “When and how did you discover the body of Aleck Shipton?”

My throat burned, and my eyes watered. Truth potion was strong stuff. I found myself replying, without any conscious will of my own. “I discovered it this morning at approximately 9:00, as I was walking out of the inn.”

“Good. Did you kill Aleck Shipton?”

“No.”

“Have you had any past affiliation with Aleck Shipton?”

“No.”

“Do you have any knowledge whatsoever of what killed Aleck Shipton?”

“No.”

Thumb sighed and leaned forward. “Very well then. You are innocent, or at least you believe you are innocent. It is possible your memory was altered, but that is highly unlikely.” He gestured, and the werelight switched off. I got up and rubbed my eyes.

Thumb handed me another shot glass, this with a purple liquid inside. He told me, “It’s the antidote to the truth potion.”

I nodded and downed the glass. I grimaced. Thumb smirked.

I set down the glass. “Good day.” I walked to the door in two brisk strides and left the room.

Outside the room, I was escorted to the exit of the Peacelock HQ. A cab was waiting for me outside the tall building. I got in and said, “King’s Men Club Avenue, please.”

The cab driver nodded and set off at a trot. I watched inns and shops go past, and then we came by the Peacelock University. There were a few white buildings, large and grandiose, assembled in an academic style, each complementing the others at a different angle.

I stared at the students walking along the pavement, and then I glanced away.

Next we passed a field or two, and then some nice houses and apartments, and at last we came to the rich section of town. Coaches and carriages were everywhere, pulled by fine silk-furred horses. The mansions were tall, with pillars and spires. The shops were large and magnificent. Everything appeared so gloriously.

The cab driver pulled up at the curb of a stone building three stories high. “King’s Men Club,” he announced. “Ten florins, please.” I paid the cab driver and got out of the carriage.

I straightened my jacket and headed to the great doors. Two tall hares in red coats stood at the door. “Member of the King’s Men Club?” asked one of the hares, eyeing me in a doubtful manner.

“Guest,” said I.

The two hares laughed raucously. I thought it insulting. “There ain’t no guests to the King’s Men!” cried the second.

“What’s your name? Who are you, in other words.”

“Wolfe,” I rumbled ominously. “James Wolfe.”

“Persona dramatis, are you, eh? Want to perform?”

“Oh yes! We have a slot open for 6:30 tonight! You a comedian? We would have had Miss Belle the Beauty, but unfortunately her husband is ill. We need entertainment. So, guest, you up to it?”

“Yes,” I replied hastily.

“Now not so fast though,” said one of the hares. “First go to Peter. You know, Peter Rabbit? Yeah, him. He’ll audition you. If you’re any good, you get to stay all day, and you perform at 6:30 PM, sharp. Got it? Drinks on the house if you’re a performer. Ain’t that right?”

“Right,” said the other. “All right, come on in.” He turned and wrenched open one of the gigantic double doors, revealing a red-carpeted corridor inside.

I stepped in, thanking the hares profusely, and treaded quietly down the red-carpeted hall. My footpaws sunk deeply into the rich fabric of the carpet, and I felt a luxury that I had not felt perhaps in my entire lifetime.

I walked quickly and quietly, hoping to skip the whole “audition with Peter” thing and cut to the chase. I was investigating. I needed to be quick and discreet, pick up clues from afar and smell out the quarry before baying and sprinting in pursuit. I needed to go through my leads before they turned cold, and before Alice finally faded into Nether for all eternity.

I turned a corner into the next corridor, and saw a few pigs in fine waistcoats, drinking champagne and chatting excitedly. I brushed past them and kept on my way, until something at the end of the corridor caught my eye.

There were great oak double doors leading into some ballroom or something, but that was not what had initially caught my eye. What I noticed was a broomstick above the door. Its knobbly frame and close-pinched fibers were meant for speedy witch transportation. This was a priceless tool just waiting for some witch to come along and steal it for nefarious purposes. It was just hanging on the wall. With a ladder one could take it off easily.

I noted this and filed it in the recesses of my mind for later. For now it was unimportant, but Alice had not specified anything about the King’s Men Club, so I had to keep a broad perspective on the whole business.

A quick word about the King’s Men Club. This was a society for the greatest elite of Faeraway, where all the rich and famous citizens gathered together for social events. Kings were members of the King’s Men, which was kind of ironic considering the name of the club, but that was how wealthy and influential the members were.

            I pulled open one of the doors slightly, just enough to let me through, and slipped 
into the ballroom.

Announcement

I regret to inform the readership of this blog that Broomstick is going to be postponed until December, because I have been spending and probably will spend most of my time this month writing for NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org/). I am sorry for the inconvenience, but after November's end, in addition to continuing Broomstick, I will probably post excerpts of my NaNoWriMo novel.