Chapter 1

Not unlike the night of the murder 109 years ago, the moonless sky shivered, frost bitten in early fall. The silence extended its cold hand, undisturbed by the time aberrant, hungry thief that leapt weightlessly from rooftop to rooftop. He settled on the tip of the inn, his eyes gleaming and his figure only slightly outlined by the stars that tiptoed around him. He swung down from his perch and stole away into the empty streets toward the merchant's storehouse. The thief unfastened the screws on the rusty lock on the outside with his pocket knife, holding it together and then disjointing the shackle from its notch so that it flipped outward, releasing the door. As the clock struck its first mellow tone, harkening midnight, he slipped into the building. Buumm! He passed the staircase on his right that led to the chambers above where the merchant snored.

The locked room beneath was where all of the goods were secured in vaults fastened individually with bronze fixtures. He pricked the merchant's storehouse lock with a glinting needle, he had fashioned from a silver wire taken off a piece of jewelry. The latch swung open delicately and he entered; the chilled air turned his warm breath into drifting smoke as he continued. He came to the first vault, and retrieved two carefully handcrafted needles. He gently inserted them, applying a slight pressure until they clicked. The lock dropped into his rough hands, noiselessly. He opened the door just a crack. His hands trembled for a second in hesitation and reproach. Buumm! He snatched the bag on top, all hesitation erased. He closed the door, refastening the vault's locks, moving quickly. He relatched the inner door to the merchant's storehouse, and then to the final rusty lock on the outer door before dashing back into the cold, moonless night. He clutched the sack of apples to his chest. Buuumm!

The night the thief stole apples the merchant slept just above his storehouse and vaults within his chambers peacefully, blissfully unaware of being robbed. It was just as all the other families had been when the thief had visited them ever so briefly in their homes.

Silently, he dropped to the ground in the dark alley, his bare feet sending up a pall of dirt that settled lightly on his skin. The people in the alley looked up as he started forward. All of the children gathered around him, pulling on his clothes lightly and asking in whispers what he had brought this time. He knelt down, opening the sack for them all to see and pulling them out. He set them out on the sack and one by one began slicing them with his silver pocket knife.

Dirt stained faces broke into grins as they whispered to each other,

"Apples!"

He sat cross legged in the dirt and set the apples out on the sack. He sliced them sparingly and so that hardly any core remained. Tossing the cores back in the sack he began distributing all of the slices until they were all gone leaving only the cores for the thief to eat. While they filled their stomachs the thief recovered his face and disappeared without a word.

He wandered along the rooftops toward the inn in town with the broken window. The thief lay down on the roof of the inn with the sack of apple rinds. He took them out, one by one, and bit through the hard center, swallowing the seeds whole. Staring up at the clear sky stars, he finished off the last bite of thin apple rind and seed, all of the evidence, before closing his eyes and welcoming in the night. He had decided to sleep outside for the night instead of climbing through the broken open window as he had on the colder, damper nights.

~

Laying in the soldier barracks, she couldn't sleep as her mind brewed. She stared through the ceiling into the emptiness as my breath quickened. The nothingness was suffocating.

Word of the stolen apples reached the King the next morning after, when her company and her were patrolling the castle grounds and surrounding city. They were immediately summoned to his majesty and given the distasteful task of satisfying the merchant's blood lust. Cas Koopman, the merchant, wanted more than blood though. He wanted a head for the stolen goods.

Cas Koopman was a large, greedy man, infamous for his hard business and violent tendencies that were let slide by the king as he was top supplier in the country. For which the King eagerly obliged his thirst by sending my company to swiftly deal with the reprehensible thief.

The town where the merchant resided was a day's journey from the castle by horse, so she quickly commanded that they all pack and immediately begin our journey. This allowed them to arrive early the next day, lined in front of the town gates where they were greeted by the Koopman's guard.

In the storehouse, the merchant welcomed me with an unsettling smile and continued to rub his fat, dry hands together making my body shudder in repulsion.

"Cas Koopman. I didn't know the king used women in the military," he said, his eyes busy.

"Lieutenant Ellis. He typically doesn't," she replied coldly, shifting back a step unconsciously biting the tip of her tongue to taste the iron she craved to draw, satisfying the apathy welling in the pit of her stomach.

"I see," he said, smiling crudely.

He seemed as though he might continue but she forcibly interrupted his train of thought as it wandered below her face. She had no intention of letting him foul up her day any further or waste her time.

"We were sent to investigate the robbery and I would hate to waste any more of your time than necessary so let's begin."

"Of course," he mumbled, slightly disgruntled, "Ask me anything."

"I want to know everything you remember about that night as well as what exactly was taken and, then to the best of your ability try and explain how this thief was able to rob you."

"I am a very careful man. I purchase only the best locks and all of my merchandise is stored securely behind them in my personal storehouse within this building. Everything is stored in vaults according to what they are and sealed with only the best bronze double locks in the country. The vault that the thief broke into was in the first vault on the left, part of my prized produce. I organize everything to allow for impeccable accounting which is how I noticed immediately that something was stolen." He unlocked the first silver lock on his personal storehouse and then the bronze double lock of the first vault to the left. He swung the heavy, metal vault door open. Inside were dozens of sacks organized in crates. Each crate appeared to have nine sacks. She opened one sack and counted the contents. Within, there were exactly nine apples. The merchant continued, verifying her observations,

"Each crate has nine sacks and each sack has nine apples. However, this crate only has eight sacks of apples which means that someone stole nine of my prized apples." She nodded and looked at the locks carefully, the silver lock and the bronze double lock. They were both left completely intact, seemingly untouched. She looked at the rows of vaults on either side of the merchant's storehouse. They all had the same bronze double locks. Bronze double locks were expensive and required steady, practiced hands to pick. And even if they were picked, there were almost always telling signs. Even she had difficulty picking them and always left scratches if not gauges in the locks.

"But do you remember anything about that night? Was anything else stolen?" she questioned. He turned a light shade of pink and looked to the ground and replied.

"No, I don't remember anything... But I did inventory everything as soon as I realized a bag had gone missing."

It was mad! One bag. Nine apples warranting an immediate military investigation commanded by the King himself! But... she was silently curious about the thief that had only taken the single sack of apples.

"Are there any valuables in the other rooms?"

"Yes, things worth many times more than what common folk could afford. Treasures I sell exclusively to royalty. All manner of exquisite merchandise, if you know what I mean." She ignored this,

"What time frame do you think the robbery occurred?" She turned to the merchant.

"I am not certain but, likely sometime late that night." She nodded again and continued drilling more questions,

"Does anyone else have keys like yours?"

"No, this is the only set and these rooms are exclusive to my merchandise."

"Do you work with anyone who would be close enough to access your keys? Also, is there anyone that would have a reason to steal your apples?"

"No, my close partners are all paid very well and would have no need to take from me but, even they aren't close enough to get to my keys."

"I will need a list of your employees and those you are in contact with. Since the locks were not broken I would like to start there as this may be a person who is close to you."

"I can get those to you right away, though they are at my house so you will have to come with me." He rubbed his hands together, eyes resting on her while saying this.

"Markus, go with the good merchant to his house to get the list. I will stay here and survey the town."

"Yes, Lieutenant Ellis! I will return right away!"

"Very well," She said, nodding at her adorably oblivious subordinate and smirking at the merchant's displeasure. She turned on heel leaving the merchant's storehouse. 

Reviews

[JayG]

Well, you did ask…

• Not unlike the night of the murder 109 years ago, the moonless sky shivered,

In all the world, only you know how the entire sky can “shiver.” I’m pretty old, and I’ve not noticed it happening, so....

And… The night of THE murder? What murder? Only you have a clue of what you’re talking about. Only you know where we are, what’s going on, and whose skin we wear. And until we know that, the reader lacks context to make the words meaningful. Yes, we will figure it out, but is there such a thing as a second first-impression? Can we retroactively remove confusion?

• The silence extended its cold hand, undisturbed by the time aberrant, hungry thief that leapt weightlessly from rooftop to rooftop.

You’re trying to be literary, but… Silence has a cold hand? It’s the absence of sound. How can it have a hand? By all means, use vivid evocative phrasing, but first, never forget that the goal is to present the story, not impress the reader with poetic language.

And: You have someone leaping from rooftop to rooftop? Can’t happen. A skilled athlete can just make a 12 foot jump. Most people can make 7'. But damn few buildings have such narrow spacing between them. And where I to jump to your roof, the thud of landing, and their running feet would have you saying, “What in the hell is going on?" And, calling the cops.

And finally. What kind of fool would climb to a rooftop, then take the risk of jumping from roof to roof to reach their destination, when they can simply walk there, and climb that building?

But forget all that. Why? Because they’re symptoms of a larger, fixable problem, one I call, The Great Misunderstanding.

In our schooldays we’re given a skill we call writing. So we make the natural assumption that the word “writing” that’s part of the profession we call Fiction-Writing refers to that skill. But it doesn’t.

Think back to the writing assignments. Most of them were for reports and essays. And that make sense because our future employers primary need us to write reports, papers, and letters. In other words: nonfiction. But the goal of nonfiction is to report and explain, which is what you’re doing here. The methodology is fact-based and author-centric. Look at your structure. You, the all knowing author, are talking TO the reader, explaining and reporting. The only one on stage is the author. So the reader is being educated on events in the life of a fictional character, as if this is a detailed history lesson. And who buys history books to read for fun?

Fiction’s goal? E. L. Doctorow put it well with, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” And how much time did your teachers spend on how to do that? None right? Did they spend even a second on such things as the short-term scene-goal, or the inciting incident and where to place it? No. How about why a scene on the page and one on the screen are so different? Or, the more basic, “This is what the goal of a scene on the page is, and the elements that make it up are…"

The short version: Like any other profession, the skills of writing fiction are acquired IN ADDITION to the skills we’re given in school. And THAT’S the answer as to how to identify and fix your problems. It’s more than a list of, “Do this instead of that,” because the approach to fiction is emotion-based and character-centric. Out goal is to make the reader feel the emotion the protagonist IS FEELING in the moment they call, “Now.” Your reader wants to know the situation as the protagonist does, and have their emotional response calibrated to that of the protagonist.

Remember, as they read, your reader will learn what happens BEFORE the protagonist does, and react before that character can. To work, the reader must react in the same way, and care about the decisions they're making as much as the protagonist does. But nonfictions skills can’t accomplish that task because they’re designed to be dispassionate.

The needed skills of writing fiction are no harder to learn than those we were given in school, and the learning will be a lot like going backstage at the theater. But still, they must be mastered.

The good news? The act of writing becomes a LOT more fun when the protagonist becomes your co-writer, whispering warnings and suggestions in your ear. And wait till you’ve had your protagonist place hands on hips and say, “Do that? Me? No way in hell would I respond that way. Instead, I would…” Till that happens, the character isn’t real to either you or your reader.

So, where do you get those skills? You could spend four years acquiring a degree in Commercial Fiction-Writing if you’ve the time and money. But I'm guessing that's not a possibility. So...there are also workshops, seminars, conferences, and retreats. They even have writers cruises (when cruises start back up). But my personal advice is to begin by devouring a few books on the nuts-and-bolts issues of constructing scenes that will sing to the reader, and linking them into a coherent whole. The library's fiction-writing section can be a great resource in that.

The best book I’ve found to date is Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It’s an older book, one that talks about your typewriter ribbon, not your keyboard. But still, I’ve found none better. And, because it’s out of copyright, it can be downloaded, free, from archive sites. One is below this paragraph. Copy/paste the address to the URL window at the top of an internet page and hit Return to read or download a copy.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

Unfortunately, after all the work spent writing and editing, and the emotional commitment you’ve made to your story, I’m pretty certain that this was nothing like what you were hoping to hear. I know that because I’ve been there more than once, and such news hurts. On the other hand, as Mark Twain puts it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

You can’t fix what you don’t se as being a problem, so eliminating a few of those, “Just ain’t so” issues can do wonders. And you’ll find the learning full of, “So THAT’S how they do it.”

For what it may be worth as an orientation tool, the articles in my WordPress writing blog are mostly based on that Swain book, and meant as an overview of the issues.

So dig in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep-on-writing. If nothing else it keps us of the streets at night.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/