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Describe Your OC

1: their voice

2: their smile

3: their greatest achievement

4: their insecurities

5: their shortcomings

6: how they deal with grief

7: how they like to dress

8: what they like to eat

9: their theme

10: their fashion sense

11: their family life

12: their romantic life

13: their embarrassing memory from years ago

14: how they react to burning their tongue on food

15: how they react to a brainfreeze

16: their dreams

17: their ambitions

18: how they sleep

19: their reaction to betrayal

20: their reaction to a mystery love letter

21: how they react to pain

22: what they’re like on two hours of sleep

23: how they act when they’re sick

24: what motivates them

25: why you enjoy them

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Valerie Johansson Origin Story

Author’s note: I have a vamp OC for whom a back story was requested, so here it is! It’s more of a micro-fiction more than a full on short story, with minimal editing...enjoy!

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Years ago, Valerie Johansson was your average seventeen year old girl, just trying to live up to her anthem that had just come out that year, Girls Just Want to Have Fun. Cyndi Lauper was her icon, from her fashion to her attitude. Of course, Valerie's parents hated the music, and loathed the fashion of the day, they very pretty bogus, as old folks usually are. That never stopped Valerie from sneaking out every weekend to party and dance all night with her friends.

On this particular evening, she had stayed over with her best friends, Kimberly and Lisa. Valerie knew she was going to get killed by her parents when she got home on Monday, because on that evening, Kimberly had helped her dye her white blonde hair a cotton candy pink and lavender. Thanks for the inspiration, Cyndi! The colors popped with her bright blue eyes, and Lisa decided she needed the colors too. Lisa's hair was a bit darker, so her came out more reddish and a deeper purple, but she still looked awesome.

When they finally finished getting ready, the girls were absolutely positive they looked at least 21, and headed out to the choice night club of their city. They were ready to dance and have a great time, talk to some hotties, and maybe even get buzzin'. Kimberly was lucky enough to have a car of her own, though she had to work a lame restaurant job to pay for it. But the girls were happy they wouldn't have to walk to the club, at least.

They wait until Lisa's parents and little brother were asleep before they left out. By the time they got to the club, the party was in full swing. The bouncer didn't even card them, which was totally awesome.

“Like, you wanna get some beers?” Kimberly asked as they started to survey the scene for any studs that might be there.

“Of course!” Lisa and Valerie yelled over the music. As they made their way to the bar, Valerie couldn't but feel pretty hot as they were all getting looks from most of the guys they passed.

A man and a couple of his friends, maybe in their mid twenties, sauntered up to the bar towards their group.

“Hey, you babes want a drink?” One of the guys asked. Kimberly and Lisa looked like they were convinced these guys were the ones already, but Valerie thought they were probably creeps.

“For sure,” Kimberly said, looking back at the other two girls and winked.

They all placed their drink orders, and Kimberly and Lisa started to chat up a couple of the guys. The last guy started talking to Valerie, and she immediately didn't like him. When he threw his arm around her shoulders, she laughed nervously and stepped from under the arm and grabbed Lisa's arm.

“GAG me! These guys are creeps,” She whispered furiously into Lisa's ear.

Lisa shrugged and replied, “Sure, but they're gonna buy us drinks. We'll ditch them in a bit.”

That didn't satisfy Valerie though.

“Uh, like, I have to...use the bathroom, I'll be right back,” Valerie said to the guy who was hovering around, and shot a a wide-eyed look to her friends. They just waved in reply. She rolled her eyes and headed towards the bathroom to look convincing.

Valerie scanned the crowd for other guys that might be better company for the night, and that when she saw him. He was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and standing in a corner of the club by himself. He had long, curly black hair that he had tied back into a low pony tail, and wear all black, super tight clothing. He looked like he was part of the punk scene, which was pretty bitchin'. And she saw that she had caught his eye as well.

Yes, Valerie thought excitedly, Thank you Cyndi and Kim for this hair!

Valerie made her way through the crowd over to Tall Dark & Handsome, and was met with a coy smile.

They chatted for a bit, and danced for a bit. Valerie caught her friends' eyes and shot them a wink from across the club. She couldn't hear it, but she could see the Kimberly had squealed. Valeries felt a chuckle rumble through the TDH's chester as they were dancing and he kissed her full on.

Wow! I could get used to this!

After the song was over, TDH took Valerie's hand and started leading her...somewhere. It turned out to be the back exit of the club, that lead to a dingy alleyway.

He pressed her up against the walk and the started making out. After a few minuets, things started to get steamy, with his hand roaming around her body and and him pressing his body full against hers. She thought of herself as mature for her age, but she definitely wasn't ready for a hook up outside of a club in a gross alleyway.

Valerie pushed him back a bit, just enough to break the kiss. She prepared to see a pissed look on his face, but to her surprise, her merely looked amused, with one brow raised. This put her to ease, a bit, for what she was going to tell him.

“Hey, uh,” she said looking up at him, breathing heavily, “I'm like, not really trying to like, do the nasty tonight...” She waited for him to really get pissed now. But again, to her surprise, he laughed full on. Wow, he was beautiful. But in the flash of the laugh, she saw something strange.

Were those...fangs? No way...

“Don't worry, kid,” he said, “I'm not looking to 'do the nasty' on this night either.” He flashed a smile, and Valerie could see now that they were, in fact, fangs. She gasped, and heart heart started pounding.

“Well,” he continued, “not the same kind of nasty you may be thinking of.”

“Wai – wait a sec-!” Valerie cried, and tried to slide away, but he had a firm grip on her arm now and was pinned to the wall.

“Hey, let GO you creep!! HELP! HELP ME!!” Valerie screamed. The guy just continued to smile at her, and even laughed when she started to shout.

“HELP! HEL-!” Now he had taken his other hand and clamped it tightly over his mouth, effectively smothering her cries for a rescue that would never come.

He jerk her head to the side, painfully stretching the muscles of her neck. And the her bit down on her neck. She yelled again in pain, but his hand muffled the sound. Valerie struggled and thrashed around as much as she could, scraping the backs of her arms against the bricks and ripping her tights, but he was just too strong.

The longer he sucked at her neck, the weaker and weaker she felt. After a while, she finally had no strength left to fight and almost lost consciousness.

When the vampire had his fill, he dragged her limp body over to the far side of the club's dumpster and deposited her inside.

Valerie had no idea how long she stayed in that disgusting dumpster, or how she survived the transition, but when she finally awoke, she was covered in several bags of garbage and was a vampire.

From that night on, she had vowed two things: First, she was never trusting an absurdly gorgeous man again. And second, she was going to find the bastard that did this to her and she was going to rip him apart.

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The most important writing lesson I ever learned was not in a screenwriting class, but a fiction class.

This was senior year of college.  Most of us had already been accepted into grad school of some sort. We felt powerful, we felt talented, and most of all, we felt artistic.

It was the advanced fiction workshop, and we did an entire round of workshops with everyone’s best stories, their most advanced work, their most polished pieces. It was very technical and, most of all, very artistic.

IE: They were boring pieces of pretentious crap.

Now the teacher was either a genius OR was tired of our shit, and decided to give us a challenge.  Flash fiction, he said. Write something as quickly as possible.  Make it stupid.  Make it not mean a thing, just be a quick little blast of words. 

And, of course, we all got stupid.  Little one and two pages of prose without the barriers that it must be good. Little flashes of characters, little bits of scenarios.

And they were electric.  All of them. So interesting, so vivid, not held back by the need to write important things or artistic things. 

One sticks in my mind even today.  The guys original piece was a thinky, thoughtful piece relating the breaking up of threesomes to volcanoes and uncontrolled eruptions that was just annoying to read. But his flash fiction was this three page bit about a homeless man who stole a truck full of coca cola and had to bribe people to drink the soda so he could return the cans to recycling so he could afford one night with the prostitute he loved.

It was funny, it was heartfelt, and it was so, so, so well written.

And just that one little bit of advice, the write something short and stupid, changed a ton of people’s writing styles for the better.

It was amazing. So go.  Go write something small.  Go write something that’s not artistic.  Go write something stupid. Go have fun.

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[Image description: drawing of a green bird saying “Don’t let the fear of being a bad writer stop you from writing. If you want to write, write. You can do it. You’ll improve over time. It’s going to be okay and you’re going to be great. Just write.” in a blue speech bubble.]

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A quick tip for writers out there, who use Microsoft Words:

Change the background colour of the pages to a mint green shade.

It is said that green is a calming colour, however, the main reason why I like this, is because I can write for a much longer period of time now, as a white background I used before made my eyes dry and exhausted after just a few hours of working.

It is basically much more soft and careful to the eyes. I can’t precisely explain why that is. I think it’s that by making a pinch softer contrast of the text and the background, your eyes does not get exposed to as much light.

Just make sure to not make the background too dark, or else your eyes will get exhausted do to over-fixating the lack of contrast between text and background.

And maybe you find a nice pastel/light background shade that fits you; give it a try.

Different things work out and fits for different people. And I just felt like sharing this.

Here’s the shade numbers I used to get my preferred colour:

Thanks for reading.

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Hey, a chart! This is inspired by an ask I got (I’m gonna be honest, I promised the person I’d tag them, but then sent the reply before I wrote down the URL. So, if I told you I was gonna tag you in this, tag yourself!!)

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I see a lot of writing advice, particularly about giving characters flaws. The main advice is “everyone has flaws! make sure to give your character flaws or else it’s not realistic!” And after thinking about it… I would like to challenge this.

It essentially posits a view of human nature that there are good and bad traits, and that these traits can be neatly diagrammed into separate columns, one set of which can and should be eliminated. It tends to go along with a view that posits character development should be about scrubbing away of “flawed” traits until the character achieves more a higher level of goodness, or else the character doesn’t and falls into tragedy. This is not untrue, necessarily. There are definitely some “flaws” that are 100% bad and sometimes a good arc is about slowly losing them. However, I could call this advice incomplete.

Consider thinking about it this way. Characters have traits and often whether or not that trait is a flaw is purely circumstantial.

For instance, fairy tales I read as a child. In some, when an old beggar asked for money on the road, it was a secret test of character. The prince who gave the old man money or food would be rewarded. But in other folktales I read, the old beggar would be malevolent, and any prince who stooped to help him would be beaten, punished for letting his guard down. Now, in a story as well as in real life, either of these scenarios can occur–a stranger who asks for help can be benevolent or malevolent. So which is the flaw? Is it a “flaw” to be compassionate? or is it a “flaw” to be guarded? 

Trick question–it’s purely conditional. Both traits are simultaneously a strength and a weakness. Either has an advantage, but either comes with a price as well. And whether the price is greater than the advantage depends on circumstance. The same can be said for most character traits, in fact!

An agreeable character who gets along with everyone will be pressured into agreeing with something atrocious because it’s a commonly held viewpoint. A character who’s principled and holds firm even under great pressure will take much, much longer to change their mind when they are actually in the wrong. A character who loves animals and loves to shower them with affection will get bitten if they try the same on every animal. As the circumstances change, flaws become strengths, and strengths become weaknesses. And even a trait that’s wholly virtuous, such as compassion, comes with a price and can be turned for the worst.

You don’t have to think about inserting flaws into your character. Your character, even the most perfect “Mary Sue,” is already flawed the moment you give her any traits at all. The problem with Mary Sue isn’t a lack of flaws, it’s a lack of circumstances to challenge her properly, to show her paying the natural price. Your job as an author is to create circumstances in the narrative that 1) justify why these traits exist in your character 2) show what your character gains from these traits and then 3) change the circumstances to challenge her. 

Make your character pay the price for their traits, for their choices. And then, when challenged, you can make a hell of a story by showing us how they adapt, or why they stick to their guns anyway.

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The very best writing tip you will ever hear is this:  

              Analyze stories.

Don’t just listen to what other storytellers say you should do, figure out what you like about the stories you enjoy and learn to replicate that.

Want to learn about pacing? Examine stories you think flow fantastically. Want to learn about description? Study your favorite author’s descriptions. Want to learn about characterization? Critique your favorite characters.  Want to learn about foreshadowing? Explore how it’s done in stories where the plot twist blew your mind.

Storytellers giving advice to other storytellers is fantastic and useful, but you will never know something as thoroughly as you know the things you figure out for yourself. 

And by analyzing the stories you love instead of listening blindly to advice, you’ll never be swayed by the bias of other writers and you’ll never take in advice that’s suited for a story you wouldn’t enjoy writing.

So put on some thinking caps and go analyze those stories.

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From  How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

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It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record on this blog.  This is the final post from Porco de Palma.  After much consideration I have decided that it would be best to move my stories elsewhere while MN continues her pursuits here as she pleases.  I have deliberated on this matter for a long time, and have decided that this is the best possible course of action.  It was a pleasure to write for you all, and I hope that MN will continue her own artistic pursuits.  Goodbye everyone, and I hope you all find stories both here and within yourselves. 

- Porco de Palma

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Eliza (Part 1) by Porco de Palma

Been a little while since I’ve written anything, but in order to keep my brain a little fresh, I’ve decided to write a small side project before returning to Reed & Lock.  I hope that will suffice!  Please enjoy the first part of this ‘side project’. 

Happy reading! - Porco de Palma

     Eliza felt it.  

     Their sweat is mine, 

     Their blood is mine. 

     Dust in the air had yet to settle against the corpses strewn about the fields like flecks of dew on a morning leaf. The sword in her hands was tainted in twisted shadows of blackened blood. 

     The heat of the sun blasted against the remains of everyone: Argyle, Soma, even Cid and Lottie, all were gone. 

     Even several nameless soldiers of the enemy. 

     She sighed as he stood up, feeling the wind blow against her face. 

     She didn’t know who they were, never did. They simply held a different banner than hers. 

     A single soldier was left of the enemy, holding a pike and a crossbow in his weary hands as he stared down at Eliza’s weary body. 

     “For the King!” he cried as he fired his crossbow against the salted wind.

     The bolt struck her in the shoulder, close to where another had landed sometime before, forcing its’ twin to fall from his body.

     “It’s over boy,” Eliza shouted as she stood up. “This battle is lost to the both of us. Let it go.” 

     The soldier shook his head and threw the crossbow to the ground as he gripped his pike in his trembling hands. His face was covered in sweat and dirt, just as Eliza’s was. 

     Remarkably, he appeared to not be wounded, the single difference between their positions. 

     Eliza sighed and smirked. 

     “We don’t have to do this, we both know how this will end, let it go.”

     The soldier stared at Eliza with a hate-filled passion that burned in his heart, and charged up to her as fast as his aching legs would carry him. She sighed as he saw him charge, shouting wildly as he nervously held the pike in his hands.

     “Enough!” she shouted as he grabbed the pike before it’s blade reached him, and threw the soldier to the side, tossing him into a pile of corpses. 

     The soldier coughed as she approached him, trying to will his lungs to cooperate with his actions. 

     “It’s over. Our armies are gone, our lieges have destroyed themselves a hundred times over. Go home,” Eliza shouted.

     The soldier shook his head and tried to stand.

     Eliza sighed curled her armored hand into a steel fist, and struck him as hard as he could against his face.

     “Still breathing. Good,” she observed as the soldier’s chest continued to rise and fall in harmony with his lungs. 

     Dropping her blade, she let it fall into the ground piercing the sleeve of some rotting general, planting itself into the dead soil of the desert.

     Blinking, she tried to ignore the dust covering her face as she coughed. The lingering energy in the air swirling against her pain-wracked body, like little jolts of static that curled up her arms and into her silent chest.

     Staring at the boy, she sighed as she thought of the mess she put herself into. This boy would awake, remember the horrors that he saw and seek revenge. 

     And the cycle would continue. 

     “Not today, not now,” Eliza muttered as she stripped her armor off. 

     The steel fell against the dry fields, stained crimson from the battle, as Eliza lifted the boy onto her shoulders. 

     Carrying him on her shoulders, she scanned the fields for any trace of life, and sighed at her findings: all the soldiers here had died or were dying. There were none alive save for her and the boy. Eliza shrugged at his load as he walked away from the battlefield. 

     Nearby, a swamp’s waters lazily drifted about, indifferent to the battle so close to its’ craggy shores and rotted tree stumps. 

     Eliza sighed as she concentrated on the wind blowing through air from the aromatic waters of the swamp. Energy filled her veins as she put her hands in front of her, as she began to whisper to the winds. 

     At the height of her whispering, she suddenly stopped, and through the air she heard the sound of hoof beats riding towards her. 

     An ebon horse rode up to them, fit with a saddle and reins. Its pale eyes beamed against its fur like a pair of stars in the night sky, shining brightly even against the sun above. 

     “Take him to the nearest friendly town, and be swift,” Eliza ordered as she placed the man onto the saddle. 

     The horse was silent as it stared at her, and strode off towards the East as fast as its legs would carry.

     Eliza turned her head, and looked through the pale sky, her gaze piercing that of even the sun and into the deep stars of space.

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writing an autistic character when you are not autistic - a masterpost

completely double spaced version on google docs here – this post is more blocky for the sake of people’s dashboards, but still long so people will be less likely to glaze over it. my apologies if that makes it hard to read

things to look for and avoid in an autistic character

• symptoms only manifesting as “nonverbal and rocking” • super smart / living calculator • super dumb / doesn’t understand anything • all the symptoms you can come up with for them are “awkward” and “has special interest(s)” (please do more research) • trains, technology, and/or math as special interests • acting like a child • getting treated like a baby • unreasonably cruel and uncaring about others’ reactions to them being cruel • if they’re comparable to sheldon from the big bang theory, start over • animal comparisons • a lack of feelings • please no stories about what it’s like to be autistic told by allistics

the right way to write an autistic person

• lots of symptoms, including secondary ones not included on a general diagnosis requirement list (here’s a list i rather like that was made by an autistic person – their blog is also a good resource) • having a good amount of general knowledge and actually talking about it (i cannot believe that i have to say this) • talking about things outside of special interests (again…. come on……….) (special interests are usually the default things our brains go to when theres no stimulation or we want to entertain ourselves – it isn’t literally all we think or talk about ever. if a conversation has no connections to a special interest, reconsider having your autistic character bring it up in a context that is not an introduction.) • explicitly expressed to be capable of attraction and romantic feelings – if your character is an adult, add sexual feelings to this point • capable of general functioning, just with a disability that makes it more difficult – not a walking disability (….sigh) • a wide amount of feelings and emotional turmoil (but perhaps only being able to express it in limited ways) • we’re people • just people whose brains are wired differently

things to avoid in research for an autistic character

• autism moms / autism blogs and websites not run by autistic people • any affiliation with autism $peaks means you should walk away and never look back • a scientist trying to create explanations for what autistic people do without actually asking / not mentioning asking autistic people • anything about a cure for autism • a person that “worked with autistic kids” phrased in the same way as “worked with animals” • talking about autistic people as if they are mysteries, are like animals, or are otherwise othered weirdos instead of people

things to look for in research for an autistic character

• actual autistic people talking about their experiences and symptoms • just stick to that and you’re good but it’s hard to find sometimes ngl. just look for the above red flags

things i would personally like to see in an autistic character

• less easy to swallow sadness and more destructive anger. i would love to see a canonically autistic character who was frustrated easily by small things and had trouble communicating why • not a story about being autistic, a story that happens to have a character or characters who are autistic – it isn’t pointed out or questioned, they’re right at home with the rest of the cast and not othered (a la symmetra from overwatch) • intensive sensory issues / small sounds making large reactions • clear communications about not liking x sensory thing (for example being touched) • poor motor skills / clumsiness and not being laughed at for it • walking funny (body bent downwards, walking very fast, walking slowly, big strides, shuffling, stiffness, etc)  – no one treats it as if it’s funny or something totally strange • a big personality that has a presence so they can’t be cast aside (but feel free to have quiet characters too) – if this was along with being nonverbal they would probably leap to being one of my favorite characters ever • a fear of asking for clarification on sarcasm or jokes because of past experiences and an arc about the character becoming more comfortable asking questions

>> if any fellow autistic people want to add something, feel free <<

allistics are encouraged to rb this

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Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas from the Quill Dribble Staff!

- Porco de Palma and M. N.

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Reed & Lock Part 3 by Porco de Palma

Been a little while since the last post, but not too long I imagine. This is the third part of my latest story, and I hope you all enjoy! (The previous two parts will be linked below)

Happy reading! - Porco de Palma

Part 1 Part 2

     Allison sighed as Emerson scratched his chin. 

     “I took the book with me and placed it into our underground vault soon afterwards, and it was quiet until the 23rd…” 

     Allison took a deep breath as Emerson summoned Lock. 

     He stared at it and it stared back. 

     Emerson raised an eyebrow and pointed at Allison with his eyes while continuing his stare. Lock stared back and simply shrugged, showing about as much personality as it was created with.

     Several minutes of silence passed as Allison 

     “I need to make a phone call,” he finally muttered as he grabbed the old rotary phone on his desk. 

     It was a shining, polished black, with slight speckles of dust over its dials. Mostly kept there for show, it only served one purpose, something that Emerson hadn’t had to do in nearly ten years. 

     He picked up the phone and gripped his fists tightly. Small beads of sweat dripped down his brow as his fingers shakily pulled on the dials for the numbers on the telephone. Allison stared at him blankly as he gulped as the phone began to ring. 

     The office was quiet save for Allison tapping her finger on her cheek, and nearly everything that Emerson was doing. His nervous ticks blending with the faint ringing from the telephone to create an orchestra of anxiety that filled the room like a poisonous gas. 

     Allison sighed and lowered her head into her hands, twisting her short brown hair in her hands as Emerson finally broke their silence. 

     “Ah…hello? Is this Alexis? Mhm, it’s been a long time. I’m sorry? Yes. Yes. I just need you to watch the office for a little bit. Yeah, a young lady. Ms. Allison. Nah didn’t catch it. Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

     Hanging up the phone, he stretched his back. 

     “An old friend of mine will be over soon to watch you while I go to the scene of the library. Just to investigate any clues or what have you. I hope that this arrangement is acceptable?” he explained as he stretched his arms. 

     Allison nodded.

     “I don’t mind,” she replied.

     Emerson smiled weakly. 

     “Ah, very good then. Please make yourself comfortable, no need to be formal. And while I’m gone, this place is as good as yours. Oh and…try to keep Alexis from going into my bedroom if you don’t mind. We….er…had an odd relationship a few years back, and I suspect she’s still mad at me…” 

     Allison smirked. 

     “What did you do to her?” 

     Emerson squinted back as he drew a deep sigh.

     “It’s…a long story.” 

     Allison grinned. 

     Despite the situation she was in, she seemed to be very lighthearted, Emerson thought to himself as he watched her. Something about that seems off to him. 

     “We’ve got time, you said it might be a while right?” 

     Emerson, expecting that line of logic from her, waved his hand dismissively. 

     “I said she’d be here ‘soon’ not ‘in a while’. Two –very– different concepts. At any rate, my past isn’t particularly any business of yours, I am not here to exchange niceties,” he explained as he stood up. “I’m here to protect you and your book until our contract is complete.” 

     Allison stared at him as he glanced out the window, unsure of what grabbed his attention now, and though she didn’t particularly appreciate his answer to her question, she slumped her shoulders relenting on her curiosity for now. 

     “Now…what has your…boss told you about this book?” he asked as he eyed it again. 

     Allison straightened herself in her chair and shrugged.

     “I’ve told you everything that’s happened. I can’t really think of any other details except that this is a very important book. I wasn’t really given any other information about it….” 

     Emerson shrugged.

     “Alright, if that’s the best you can give me, I’ll see what I can do.” 

     Emerson stood up and picked up the book as his doorbell rang.

     “Ah, that must be her. I’ll return in a moment.”

     Emerson left her in his office as he walked through a hallway to his door. 

     Before he opened it, he glanced outside through his peep hole to see a young woman in a smart dress that matched the sky. She stared back at him and frowned.

     “You know I can see you right?” she asked.

     Emerson frowned as he opened the door.

     “Just...checking the door…”

     She laughed as she opened the door. As she walked through she glanced around at the office, grinning at the multitudes of books. Smiling as she stood inside, she snapped her fingers, closing the door instantly.

     “Oh Emmy, you worry so much. I hope this is important, I had to cancel meeting my best friend’s girlfriend. You remember Anja?” She asked, “Her girlfriend is such a delight! She’s…”   

     Emerson glared at her, stopping her short.

     “Fine, fine. Business before pleasure. Lock, a pleasure to see you again,” she replied curtsying before the figure behind Emerson. 

     Lock bowed slightly. 

     “Enough! Let me introduce you to my client…” 

     Alexis smiled and turned to Allison.

     “Yes, let’s.”

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Reed & Lock, Part 2 by Porco de Palma

It’s quite late at the moment, and I’m amazed I’m awake enough to have written this (let alone post it). I’m sure it’ll require editing, though I’ll leave that for the future of tomorrow when I’m a tad more alert... Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! - Porco

     He climbed up the stairs, rolling his hands along the wooden banister as he passed by several old photographs. In several pictures, he was joined by the same two men, but they were old and dusted now, just like the rest of his office.

     “You can come out now, they’re gone,” he cried as he opened a small freezer, taking out a small bag of ice.

     He placed the ice pack on his desk, as he moved a newspaper out of the way, it’s bold headlines staring at him in the face.

     Explosion at the State Library! Suspects Still at Large!

     “Lovely,” he muttered as the young woman emerged from the stairs behind his desk, taking her seat back.

     Emerson motioned to the ice pack as he sipped his water. As she sat down, she grabbed the ice pack burying her face into it as she sighed.

     “Who are you?” he asked. “And what’s going on?”

     The young woman frowned as she lifted her head from her tear-stained hands. Emerson pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket, and tossed it lightly onto his desk, eyeing the bronze pin on the woman’s coat.

     She smiled gently, and picked up the kerchief and promptly blew her nose.

     “Ah, thank you very much Mr. Reed,” she whispered as she wiped her nose.

     “Emerson is fine,” he replied as Lock massaged his shoulders.

     The young woman smiled awkwardly and nodded.

     “I am…er…” she began before stopping herself, pointing at what she thought was a floating glass. “What was that?”

     Lock’s hand disappeared from Emerson’s empty cup as Emerson caught it in an instant, hiding the illusory floating the young woman thought she had witnessed.

     “Hm?” he asked, as he turned to the water jug again.

     “Right...” the young woman muttered, staring at the cup. “My name is Allison Brown. I’m a librarian.”

     Emerson filled his cup as she explained.

     “Pleasure, I’m sure.”

     Allison sighed.

     “No, not quite. You see, I am in a bit of trouble presently. I’m sure you saw those policemen downstairs. I don’t know how you got rid of them though….”

     Emerson sipped again and glanced at Lock, who remained motionless at the door.

     “All authorities require some sort of persuasion that everything’s under control. When they have that, they’ll usually not bother you. Though these days it would seem that some officers prefer a more…literal control,” he muttered with contempt as he gripped his cup harder than he intended, making Lock’s hand appear within his own, destroying the cup with its strength.

     “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” Emerson exclaimed apologetically, “just sort of got caught up in the moment is all.”

     Allison waved her hand.

     “Not at all, it’s quite alright.”

     She frowned as Emerson grabbed another cup.

     “It’s sort of a messy tale.”

     Emerson shrugged.

     “Messy tales are usually the most interesting.”

     Allison smiled weakly.

     “Yes, that’s true I guess,” she replied, straightening her posture in the chair.

     “Are you familiar with rare books?” Allison asked.

     Emerson shrugged.

     “Not exactly something I often come across in my line of work, but on occasion I guess a client or two has had me guard one or something like that.”

     Allison’s gentle face hardened into a severe expression.

     “This is not a job for a guard. I need someone to help me protect a book,” she explained gravely. “A book that has the capacity to cause much bloodshed.”

     Emerson raised an eyebrow.

     “Bloodshed…? Who are you, really?”

     Allison’s face paled.

     “What…do you mean?” she asked.

     Emerson’s eyes narrowed.

     “You come here seeking my help involving some rare book, as the police are chasing you. In addition to relying on me to help run them off, you want me to hold something that is clearly evidence of theft due to the recent events at the State Library!” he barked as he shoved the newspaper in front of her.

     Tears began to form in Allison’s eyes.

     “I…it’s not like that. I didn’t…”

     Emerson sighed.

     “Tell me the truth,” he growled.

     Allison shrugged.

     “This is the book, Mr. Reed,” she sighed as she pulled the book from her coat pocket.

     It was a very thick book. With metallic ink of silver and gold twisting around each other against a cool emerald leather.

     “What kind of book is this? I can’t read the title,” Emerson observed.

     Allison frowned.

     “I can’t read it either. It was given to me by the librarian to hold just a week before that article printed.”

     Emerson glanced at the date.

     “A week…I see,” he whispered as he glanced at the dusty calendar on the wall. “The event itself occurred around November 23rd, the article appearing about a day later, as well as on various news channels. Sort of surprised to hear someone wait this long to mention it to me about it considering the police are handling it. You acquired this text, according to your story, a week before so that would place it at around the 16th, correct?”

     Allison nodded.

     “So…according to your story,” Emerson began as he stood up, picking up the text. “You work in a library, where you no doubt see all kinds of books, texts, etc; including rare pieces like this one,” he muttered, gesturing to the book in his hands.

     “Mhm,” Allison replied, agreeing.

     “A week ago, you came into possession of this book. How? And what did you do with it?” Emerson asked as he stared at the newspaper article’s photograph of the charred and smoking library.

     Allison cleared her throat.

     “The director approached me with a dusty box, inside which was the book,” she explained. “He told me that I was to keep after this book for a while as he was going to be on vacation to see some family of his or something,” she replied.

     Emerson took a swallow of water as he glanced at the clock on his wall.

     “12:30…has that much time really passed?” he muttered.