I’m putting up the current prose work I am prose working on, for fun and giggles and possible feedback. Do keep in mind it’s not finished - it’s currently 1500 words of a roughly 2500 word piece, and the ending is still indeed to come. For the curious, it’s somewhat likely to be a court scene - but I get ahead of myself.

Oh, and I apologise wholeheartedly for the roughness of the prose. The first part (before the stars) has been workshopped, but the workshop feedback has yet to be integrated, and the second half is so raw it’s still bleeding, being as I finished knocking it together around seven minutes ago. At least I ran a spellcheck, no?

Anyway:

Jehoshaphat

rnThe rock struck the water, ripples running in concentric circles from the centre of the pond and buffeting the tufts of grass overhanging the bank. Matted green growth surrounded the small pool, trampled down by black boots and flecked with reddish mud. “Clay?” the sergeant asked wish hand poised over his notebook as he jotted in shorthand. “Yes, the entire area’s on clay. Nothing grows that well.” I spat, the gobbet of saliva hitting the pond surface and stirring up the ripples again. The sergeant grunted and folded over the page he was jotting on, then stopped down at the bank. His eyes fixed on the water, the surface pulsating in the light breeze. Putting the notebook in his chest pocket, he reached down and gently brushed the grass stems overhanging the pool. I glanced away from him, towards the apparatus of the official machine. Seven other officers were spaced around the Old Oak, a blue plastic barrier checkered with white surrounding them. One, the forensics detective, was bent over the corpse. I drifted slightly closer, leaving the sergeant to mutter over crushed grass and muddy footprints. “Male. About thirty, thirty-five I’d think. Anyone recognise him?” the detective was asking, to the accompaniment of shaken heads. “Ah well then. That’s what DNA and dentals are for. Let’s see. Rigor’s well set, temp’s close to 25 degrees. At least twelve hours ago, gentlemen. No obvious cause of death. Can’t tell much until we’re at the morgue.” The forensic detective zipped up the bodybag, and gestured to two waiting detectives, who carefully lifted the bag, placed it on a gurney, and wheeled it back around the Old Oak. My eyes tracked them as the gurney lurched over a protruding root, then stabilised as it reached a waiting ambulance. “Sir, if you don’t mind,” the sergeant’s voice came from behind me, and I turned to see him holding a handful of brass casings, “can I have a look at that rifle you mentioned keeping at home?” “Of course,” I replied, voice even. “Now, officer?” “If you don’t mind,” the sergeant replied, dropping the bullet casings into a plastic sample bag. I nodded, and led the way to my driveway, leaning on the fence as the sergeant ambled along beside me. “Trouble, sir?” he asked as I stumbled on a patch of level dirt. “Nothing major,” I replied, my face slightly reddened. “Leg troubles. Should have driven.” After several minutes more we rounded a bend in the drive and reached the tarred surface that led up to the house. The dog was lolling on the front porch, but she jumped out of the way once she saw I had company and skittishly sniffed at the sergeant’s boots. He bent down and scratched her ears, his fingers fondling the dark underside of her aural flaps. “Nice dog,” he said to me. rn “That she is. Come in, I’ll find that rifle for you.” I settled the sergeant into the kitchen and limped into the bedroom, then picked up the rifle from my bedroom windowsill. I sighted along the barrel towards the bedroom door, my finger cocked on the trigger, then shrugged, grabbed a walking stick from the rack beside my bed and went back to the kitchen. The sergeant was leaning against the bench, his navy blue shirt sharply outlined upon the redgum surface. He was staring at the portraits sitting on my dining table, their silver frames shining in the morning sun. “Here you go sergeant,” I said, handing him the rifle. He looked it over carefully, sliding the bolt back and forward and glanced up at me. rn “Bit of an antique, this one sir.” “My father’s. Never used it much, but never really felt like getting rid of it either. Kind of a keepsake.” “Of course.” The sergeant glanced around once more. “I’ll have to take this with me, just for a brief time. I’m sure you can understand why.” “I can. It will be returned, unharmed?” “I don’t think that’ll be a problem sir,” the sergeant replied, tucking the gun under his arm and pulling out another notebook. “Here, I’ll write you a receipt. When we’re done with it we’ll call you, and you can bring this down and pick it up from the station.” He scrawled his name on a dotted line, and tore off the receipt. I took it from his fingers and glanced at it, then slid it underneath the phone on the kitchen bench. “Thank you for being so understanding, as well,” the sergeant said, and stepped onto the porch. “You’ll be available if we have anymore questions?” “Of course, officer,” I replied. “I wish you luck.” The sergeant nodded once and stepped off the porch, giving the dog a quick pat before striding briskly down the driveway. I watched him turn the bend and reentered the kitchen, shutting the front door. Looking over at the phone, I smiled briefly, then picked up the receipt and tore it into four square pieces, and dropped them like floating leaves into the wastepaper basket.

rn”How would you describe yourself? As a person.” rn I exhaled, smoke swirling from my nostrils into the clean office air. My forehead crinkled. ”Why is it relevant?” “Because if I can’t build a sympathetic portrait, you’re going under, Walter,” my lawyer replied, his voice growing irritated. “Why the hell can’t you understand that? The police are damn sure you did it, and even I’m not sure you didn’t! Five bodies now, Walter. Five. The homeless guy from three weeks ago, and another four randoms from between two years to a decade old.” I shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “I didn’t. You’ll have to just take my word for it; it wasn’t me. I’m not paying you to try to convince me I killed people that I didn’t even know existed, let alone died. I’m paying you, John.” John pushed his chair back and strode to the window, gripping the frame. His knuckles whitened, the sunlight shining over his lips. His voice came, softly. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?” I shook my head, realising the useless gesture. “No.” “Then God help you when they select a jury, Walter.” John turned, and offered me a hand up. “I’ll do the best I can. But it isn’t hopeful. Not at all.” I picked up my stick from where it leant against the table, and put my weight on it as I limped to the door. Before my fingers met the cold metal of the knob, I turned my head. “I’m not a murderer, John.” His eyes locked on mine through shaded plastic lenses, the sunlight changing them from clear to black. He didn’t reply. I smiled, briefly, and turned the knob, and walked out into the street. “Done now, sir?” the sergeant asked, holding open the door to his car. “I’ll give you a lift home.” I looked at him, then hobbled over to the car and sat inside. He swung the door shut and climbed into the driver’s side, turned the key in the ignition and then pulled away from the curb. “A nice chat, was it?” the sergeant asked as he indicated left and turned. I didn’t reply, and he grinned beneath his mustaches. “Not going to talk? Lawyer got to you already about what you do and don’t do?” “I think you should know,” I replied, staring through the windscreen. “Fact is, Mr Malory, our case looks pretty airtight. Your rifle fires the same kind of rounds that caused death in four of the five victims. Only the most recent one seems to have escaped you, eh? Pity he’s proved to be such a lightning rod, helping us find a few other ‘missing persons. All corpses found near that little pool on the edge of your property, and the neighbours tell us you’re mighty protective of your little ‘holy grove’. Sounds interesting, doesn’t it?” He glanced at me, then chuckled. “Have it your way then, Mr Malory.” The sergeant accelerated out of the town and onto the highway, before taking the exit that led to my house. He pulled into my drive way and drove up to my house, stopping before the front porch. I opened the door and climbed out of the car, then leaned down and shut it. The sergeant opened the automatic window before I turned away. “Face it, Wallie. You may’ve been granted bail, but you won’t be free much longer. It’ll go better on you if you give up, and soon. The prosecutor will be in touch with your lawyer before long, and if you want any chance of seeing the outside world again, you’ll make a deal.” “Have a good day, sergeant,” I replied, and entered the house, pulling the door closed behind me. I leant against it, my breathing rapid, until the engine of the police car had retreated into the silence of the lonely homestead. I looked over at the mantelpiece, and the hanging crucifix suspended above the sandstone shelf. I hobbled over to it and traced the letters I had carved into the wall beneath it. “Thelema”, I whispered, and looked into the face of the forsaken yet risen one. “Do what thou wilt.”

Thoughts? Comments?

rnAlcata’riel.

-Andiyar