Nameless Fiction Sr. 3
This is the last coherent bit of the nanowrimo project--the rest is driftwood. My primary issue is that I don't yet know what computers look like in this alternate reality. Thus, the story ends just as the characters are entering a computer repair shop. I was thinking that their computers could take an alternate root from the invention of our computers: in our world, computers were first controlled by typists at typewriters (code was printed on the typewriter paper simultaneously with electrical messages sent to the computer itself). What if, instead of perfecting the screen (paper to electrical, b/w to color), people perfected the electrical control of computers? In a world such as this, computers would be invisible, hidden in walls, and controlled by users manipulating electrical currents.
What do you think computer programing would be in an alternate reality?
Then, other questions abound: At what point in the timeline do I want it to be, before, or after, our time? Should I omit important things (like certain religions, types of clothing) and see if readers miss them?
Sr. 3--In Which Parents and Professions are Discussed.
The sky is covered with clouds thin as skin. The grey air blows Mortimer's hair past his ears. Ruffling his coat's inadequate collar up, his nose wrinkles as if the chilly air smelled of unpleasant wet winters and white moth balls. Mastering his conviction, he turns against the lame sun. His black silhouette disappears into the shadows of the neghborhood.
Mortimer comes upon Mrs. Boro while she is hanging other people's laundry in the back alley of the bakery.
"Good afternoon, madame. Are you Mrs. Boro?"
A gruff "Yes."
"I'm following a lead on a story. May I speak to you and your husband?"
She looked with hard certainty at Lavande. Exasperation was her main expression.
"My husband? My husband is a man that likes a story, and makes his part in it. Even the littlest things have a story to him. My baking, for example: Whether I undercook it, or burn it black, he likes it just the same. He eats up dreams and fantasies, not my spoonbread." Her eyes softened at their corners, but the look of certainty did not leave her face. Lavande thinks to himself I think that you like your own stories, ma'am.
With a huff, Mrs. Boro turned and hastened up the rickety stairs into the house above the bakery, taking her basket of work with her. With her chin she gestures for Lavande to follow. The stairs lead immediately into the kitchen, where a large man sits, the parts to a pocket watch artfully disassembled on a cloth before him. A tray of day-old cheese puffs lie on the table, covered by a green checkered napkin. The wife offers drinks, but Mortimer and Mr. Boro decline. Mortimer notices they have only a small two-room apartment. Mr. Boro looks up, scooting his glasses farther up his nose. All three of them sit on mismatched stools around the workbench.
He clears his throat. "Ma'am, sir, I have been hired by a client to find a runaway. In the course of that investigation, I have discovered the whereabouts of your son."
The kitchen is silent, not a breath escapes their lips, alike they look in hope. Mortimer knows that they are afraid to interrupt.
"He has been train hopping up and down the coast, working odd jobs. One of those jobs was doing a little surveillance--nothing dangerous--for my firm." A little decoration never harmed the truth. "After my job,I introduced him to a tech master, based on your son's own interest. Your son is currently working for a computer repair shop on Lancet Street, near the market. He does not know that I have informed you of his escapade." He smiles a little. "I believe he wants to learn to be a programer."
Mrs. Boro lets out a sharp sigh, as if she was just contemplating all the other things a young boy could choose to be. Immediatly grasping the domestic, she says "We've never owned a computer."
And Mr. Boro: "I guess he never did want to be a baker."
Mrs. Boro looks at Mortimer with a completely different expression in her eyes. "What do you want us to do? What do we owe you?"
"Nothing, Madame. I am not the grasping type. I have no sons of my own, and I took a liking to the boy. I can take you to him now, if you are able." It is true; Mortimer is a simple soul at heart. Nonetheless, his is often surprised by his own lack of greed.
In a alley with only one entrance, a little shop just turned the lights on. Inside, the screens of computers glow like moonlight in a grotto. It is an old building, which, having lost its deeds and buried many an owner, is currently let by entreprenuering city planners. Its charm is its leaded-glass windows in holly-leaf green frames six inches square.
The Boro couple and Mortimer watch the shop from the alley entrance.
What do you think computer programing would be in an alternate reality?
Then, other questions abound: At what point in the timeline do I want it to be, before, or after, our time? Should I omit important things (like certain religions, types of clothing) and see if readers miss them?
Sr. 3--In Which Parents and Professions are Discussed.
The sky is covered with clouds thin as skin. The grey air blows Mortimer's hair past his ears. Ruffling his coat's inadequate collar up, his nose wrinkles as if the chilly air smelled of unpleasant wet winters and white moth balls. Mastering his conviction, he turns against the lame sun. His black silhouette disappears into the shadows of the neghborhood.
Mortimer comes upon Mrs. Boro while she is hanging other people's laundry in the back alley of the bakery.
"Good afternoon, madame. Are you Mrs. Boro?"
A gruff "Yes."
"I'm following a lead on a story. May I speak to you and your husband?"
She looked with hard certainty at Lavande. Exasperation was her main expression.
"My husband? My husband is a man that likes a story, and makes his part in it. Even the littlest things have a story to him. My baking, for example: Whether I undercook it, or burn it black, he likes it just the same. He eats up dreams and fantasies, not my spoonbread." Her eyes softened at their corners, but the look of certainty did not leave her face. Lavande thinks to himself I think that you like your own stories, ma'am.
With a huff, Mrs. Boro turned and hastened up the rickety stairs into the house above the bakery, taking her basket of work with her. With her chin she gestures for Lavande to follow. The stairs lead immediately into the kitchen, where a large man sits, the parts to a pocket watch artfully disassembled on a cloth before him. A tray of day-old cheese puffs lie on the table, covered by a green checkered napkin. The wife offers drinks, but Mortimer and Mr. Boro decline. Mortimer notices they have only a small two-room apartment. Mr. Boro looks up, scooting his glasses farther up his nose. All three of them sit on mismatched stools around the workbench.
He clears his throat. "Ma'am, sir, I have been hired by a client to find a runaway. In the course of that investigation, I have discovered the whereabouts of your son."
The kitchen is silent, not a breath escapes their lips, alike they look in hope. Mortimer knows that they are afraid to interrupt.
"He has been train hopping up and down the coast, working odd jobs. One of those jobs was doing a little surveillance--nothing dangerous--for my firm." A little decoration never harmed the truth. "After my job,I introduced him to a tech master, based on your son's own interest. Your son is currently working for a computer repair shop on Lancet Street, near the market. He does not know that I have informed you of his escapade." He smiles a little. "I believe he wants to learn to be a programer."
Mrs. Boro lets out a sharp sigh, as if she was just contemplating all the other things a young boy could choose to be. Immediatly grasping the domestic, she says "We've never owned a computer."
And Mr. Boro: "I guess he never did want to be a baker."
Mrs. Boro looks at Mortimer with a completely different expression in her eyes. "What do you want us to do? What do we owe you?"
"Nothing, Madame. I am not the grasping type. I have no sons of my own, and I took a liking to the boy. I can take you to him now, if you are able." It is true; Mortimer is a simple soul at heart. Nonetheless, his is often surprised by his own lack of greed.
In a alley with only one entrance, a little shop just turned the lights on. Inside, the screens of computers glow like moonlight in a grotto. It is an old building, which, having lost its deeds and buried many an owner, is currently let by entreprenuering city planners. Its charm is its leaded-glass windows in holly-leaf green frames six inches square.
The Boro couple and Mortimer watch the shop from the alley entrance.