Iron Quill – Time and Lies – Writer’s Block

[Redbeard]

• Word Count: 1,556
• Ingredients: The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, The Lovers, A Broken Clock

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A small sigh escaped his lips as he stood looking out the window into the empty street. It was a weary sigh, one that spoke of longing and dark dusty days in solitude. It had been a silent winter that felt as if it would stretch to summer, and these days he had so few visitors…

 

He poured himself another glass of whiskey, turning slowly. Her saw her there, his typewriter, sitting softly upon his desk. He walked to her, hoping today she'd finally give him what he needed. These days, she was the only cure for his loneliness. The faded letters on each key spoke of their long relationship, the only one he’d ever had that was worth a damn.

 

He took a sip before setting down his glass, and he eased himself slowly into the chair. There was no need to rush. No one was coming, and he had no place to be. As his fingers rested lightly on the keys, he smiled slightly. The cool caress of the well-used typewriter was a welcome sensation, and under his tender ministrations her keys would not stay cool for long.

 

***

 

Reginald stood at the end of the square, leaned casually against the butcher’s place. He watched the two Guardsmen on patrol, moving slowly as they made their way through the crowd. He chuckled softly to himself, seeing the people part before them, not wanting to get in the way of Guild business.

 

Poor bastards didn’t even do anything to deserve it, he thought to himself. It didn’t matter, of course. It never does. Reginald knew the Guild’s reputation could easily take hold, blotting out all other facts of a man’s life.

 

As the Guardsmen rounded the corner, Reginald moved after them. It wasn’t their fault, but today they were going to take the blame.

 

***

 

He stopped typing for a moment to take a drink of whiskey and consider. His hands shook slightly, a small remnant of his past, days he wish he could forget. But the past stuck with him, at the edge of his thoughts on the best days, all consuming on the bad.

 

He glanced at the clock. Time was refusing to pass him by.

 

***

 

Turning the corner, he almost collided with the Guardsmen, and in that moment his choice was made. He drew his sword and swung at the nearest Guardsmen, who dropped to the ground with a scream, bleeding profusely from his arm. Stepping to face the other man, Reginald raised the tip of his blade.

 

The remaining Guardsman thrust at him clumsily, but he easily deflected the blow. These were mere novices, and Reginald had far too much practice killing men. His sword moved effortlessly, his opponent barely keeping up with his onslaught.

 

The fear was there now, in the other man’s eyes. Had he any pity, he might have felt for the man. But the Guild had taken too much from him, and today he took something back. His sword slid easily into the man’s gut, spilling his life unto the ground. As he watched he felt no satisfaction.

 

In truth, he felt nothing at all.

 

He grabbed the other Guardsman by the collar and lifted him to his feet. “Where is the Marshal?” he demanded.

 

The Guardsman stared at him before comprehension sank in. “He’s on patrol in the north of town” he sputtered, and Reginald could hear the whimpering weakness in the voice. The man posed no threat, so he tossed him aside.

 

Reginald offered the advice to the air as casually as he had thrown the man aside:“Be careful who your friends are.”

 

***

 

He smiled to himself, pleased with what he’d written. He drew his fingers across her keys, relishing in the sensation. Despite everything, writing with her always brought him joy. He’d struggled with it when he was a boy, but it came easier now. Ever since he’d found Reginald…

 

Reginald was the first friend she'd introduced him to, and he’d never looked back. He had a symbiotic relationship with her, complex and deep. He’d never let go of the typewriter. She was his, inasmuch as anything can ever be owned, and she was his sole companion. And, she almost always brought him stories of Reginald.

 

***

 

His eyes narrowed as he spotted the marshal in the distance. This is not going to go down easily. Best to wait until he gets away from the crowds a bit, he thought, slowing to stay a safe distance back. The Marshal is supposed to be a fair hand with a blade.

 

The Marshal was fairly new to this part of town, only arriving last fall. He took over when the last one was discharged from service, a wicked business involving a nobleman’s daughter and an errant bullet. This Marshal was calm and collected, which is why he was brought on, and it was also what made him more dangerous. Reginald knew he’d have to approach carefully.

 

Creeping steadily closer, he knew it was only a matter of time before his time would arrive. The Marshal had taken everything from Reginald – his entire life had changed and this man was the reason. He knew that somehow, it was the Marshal’s fault. Somehow, he’d orchestrated it all.

 

And now Reginald would have his revenge.

 

***

 

He took another sip of whiskey, emptying the glass. It would be a long time before he could afford to buy any more.

 

 

He glanced around the barren room. A one room apartment on the bottom floor, first to let in the chill and the noises from the street. There was nothing left in it but the empty bottle, a broken clock, and that which he needed to write: a lopsided desk, a smelly chair, and the typewriter. He smiled again.

 

***

 

“I can’t believe you dared to show your face here” Reginald said, walking from the darkness behind the Marshal. “After everything you’ve done.”

 

The Marshal turned, obviously surprised to find someone behind him. Good. Reginald had been careful.

 

“Do I know you, sir?”

 

That confused look on his face, the politeness. He was good, to feign it all so perfectly. He would be, of course, to have taken things from Reginald so easily. It would have made Reginald rage, were he capable of feeling it, but that was the Marshal's fault, too.

 

“You know me as well as you know yourself!” he said back. “After all, you took it all from me!” Reginald drew his sword. Let his intent be clear. He would face the Marshal cleanly, awarding the man the privilege he had not himself had.

 

Calm as ever, the Marshal drew his own sword. “Put down the weapon, sir. You have mistaken me for another, and I do not wish to shed blood this day.”

 

There’s no mistake, he thought, approaching slowly. “Today will see your end.”

 

Reginald moved his arm to slash, but the Marshal was faster. He parried the blow, the ring of metal echoing in the street.

 

Strike, strike. The Marshal kept up a steady beat, and Reginald was forced to give ground. A strike found the flesh of Reginald’s cheek, but he didn’t feel it. He was of singular focus.

 

***

 

He could feel a bead of sweat drip down the side of his face. His fingers were flying over her keys as if trying to fend off the Marshal's blade. He was too caught up in it, and he was having a hard time slowing down. After feeling stuck for so long, he was finally going to move the story to its end.

 

***

 

The Marshal had driven him back and there was nowhere left to go. A sudden thrust towards his face made Reginald flinch back, and his head shattered a window behind him, dazing him.

 

“Marshal?” said a voice from inside.

 

The Marshal stepped up to the window and peered inside. “Ah, Winston. Sorry, the lunatic jumped me."

 

***

 

He walked over, eyeing the bleeding man who lay there, completely motionless and starting to fade. “Don’t worry, Marshal, always nice to have guests.”

 

Before the Marshal realized what was happening, he had grabbed a piece of the shattered glass and lodged it firmly in the Marshal's eye. He broke into a toothy grin, as the Marshal collapsed on the street. Walking back over to her, he touched her side and looked at the page.

 

Sure enough, it was all there, spelled out in clean black and white.

 

***

 

As the Marshal writhed, dying, on the cold street, Winston walked back to his desk and smiled again. He opened his only desk drawer, the others having been burned that winter to keep the cold at bay. It creaked in the silence of the apartment as it slid open; it hadn't been opened in some time.

 

He reached inside slowly, luxuriously, and pulled something out and pinned it to his lapel.

 

***

 

It felt like a weight had been lifted from him. His hand steadied when he put on his old Marshal badge. It felt right. It made it all a bit easier.

 

He looked at his broken window, and the empty space where the man who had smashed it had disappeared. A soft chime behind him made him look at the old clock, the pendulum beginning to climb its slow arcs back and forth.

 

“Looks like it’s my time again, Marshal.”

 

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Thanks!   I look forward to reading everyone's stories!

[Kadeton]

Neat concept, a bit like a Malifaux version of Stranger than Fiction.

 

The lines "Walking back over to the her, he touched her side and looked at the page." and "It creaked in the silence of the apartment as it slide it;" might need a second look. I'd also consider mentioning that the writer's name is Winston a little earlier in the piece - the reveal is initially confusing because the reader lacks the information to immediately make the connection.

Otherwise, nice work!

[Redbeard]

Thanks, I fixed the two errors. Last minute changes I should have edited better.

 

I appreciate the feedback. I was too subtle in my first draft and made it more obvious here, but clearly still not obvious enough. I'm a big fan of subtlety, but it's lost if the point doesn't still get across. Ah well. I'll leave it as is for now and work on it more in the future.

[Brewmaster]

Dig the story man! I'm always a fan of messing with the narrative structure

[admiralvorkraft]

I really like what you're going for here, and I think the style really works in this setting. Your imagery is very clear without being overbearing, so that's great too.

In the interest of providing some constructive feedback (something I'm always looking for, but that you can ignore if you like) here are a few things you might want to play with if you ever want to revise the piece.

The first thing is that the twist comes out of nowhere, you may be okay with that and if so then skip to the next paragraph. As a reader I find that I like twists that I don't see coming, but that are inevitable in retrospect. In a piece like this one I might want to show the two realities crossing, if Reginald is Winston's avatar maybe the smell of ink or whiskey drifts across the narrative barrier at some point, maybe the ding as the typewriter reaches the end of a line distracts him during the sword fight, maybe something way better that you come up with. those little notes wouldn't be unreasonable in the moment, but once the twist comes the reader would feel like they were suddenly seeing a whole picture, as opposed to being kept in the dark until you decided to turn on the lights. Maybe you put those notes in already, and I wasn't clever enough to spot them.

More importantly, I really don't get a feel for Winston or Reginald's motivation. You address it in generalities, the Marshal took everything from him, or something, but I didn't get a good feel for it. Back story is one instance where I would rather have a tangible detail that I can extrapolate from than a broad picture. Say you've decided that the Marshal accidentally killed his wife in a shootout with some Wastrel. All I need as a reader is a flash, "the haunting smell of her hair," or, "the way her blood dried on my hands as I cradled her in my arms," maybe even, "Reginald would have his revenge, the Marshal's blood would finally wash his hands clean. 'Do you remember,' Reginald said, drawing his sword, 'The night my Margaret died?' And then he attacked."

Of course, that's just my two cents. If something inspires you to go in a new direction or open up new meaning, take it and run with it, if you like your story as-is, then it's perfect.

I'll look forward to reading more of your work.