One-Shot Robot – Part 1
Sometimes, you have grand ideas and ambitions. Sometimes you paint the sky of your imagination with a fresco that would rival the Sistine Chapel.
Other days you realize that what you want to do and what you actually write are two different things. Sometimes you recognize that the only way out of a project is to finish it, no matter how ugly it is, and move on with your writing life. Do everything you can to make it as good as you’re able, then write it off and move on.
That last one is hard. Especially in my case, where it’s my first book. I want, no I need, this release to be something memorable. Something amazing. I already feel like I’ve wasted every single first impression that I’ve gotten to make so far in my career. I also feel like this is my one chance to prove to myself that I’m not just wasting my time with this dream.
It’s been rough, this final edit. This last chance to turn Temple into something good. So far, I haven’t been able to get out of my own way enough to get the job done. I sent the story to the editor I will be working with, but so far I’m certain I’ll get back a bigger pile of questions than I had when I started. However, I think the structure and suggestions will be enough for me to move forward.
ADDITIONAL NOTE: There is now an open submission process for a novella to be reviewed by the Tor team. I am doing this thing, and doing it with Bullets From the Heart. I am beyond excited. I am beyond nervous. All is pain. All is wonder.
Life is weird.
One-Shot Robot – Part 1
The water didn’t stop dripping.
I had gone through hell and back, my broken body lay on the floor, my blood decorated the walls, and I was slowly losing consciousness as I bled out. As blackness grew at the edges, as my attackers footfalls thudded away, all I could hear was that damned faucet.
I just knew I should’ve fixed it weeks ago. None of this would’ve happened if I had.
Light flashed then. Not the bright white light of the end of a tunnel. Not the awe-inspiring light of an Afterlife. Capital A.
No, this light hurt. It stung. It probed at my eyes and the beat up brain-matter behind them in an insultingly insistent fashion. I cringed, as much as a person who can’t move their head can cringe.
My universe exploded in pain. I hurt. Everywhere. Not the normal kind of hurt, either. It felt like the worst of my workout sessions at the bag mixed in with every fight I’d ever been in. Everywhere, all at once. If I hadn’t had so much practice with pain, I might’ve gone mad right there.
As it stands, all I could do was start wheezing. The wheezing grew louder, slightly rhythmic. The holder of the knife-light relented, and I could see it retreat into the pocket that had spawned it. The rhythmic wheezing increased, some blood flecking onto the hospital gown from the effort.
“Well. If we’re getting a laugh out of you, it can’t be all bad.”
I almost convulsed with the strength of my wheezing laughter, but it helped keep the pain at bay. It helped me stay sharp, it helped everything seem within my control.
“Did you get the license plate of the truck that hit me?”
The words were a shamble, crawling from my mouth like the undead from freshly churned earth, but the joke registered. A flash of white, an obnoxiously bright and good looking smile all things considered. I grinned harder as it shone down on me, gums splitting and face protesting at the gesture. I didn’t care: they worked for me, not the other way around.
“We did actually” came the laconic rejoinder “It was registered to Louisville. And it was one heck of a slugger, let me tell you.”
I hacked my way through more laughter, and it eased the anger and guilt that had begun to fester at losing so thoroughly. You can’t throw any punches when you get sucker-batted in the dome. I was lucky all the tubes upstairs had kept on ticking. Guess my father had been good for something after all. According to legend, his head had been harder than the strongest steel.
I leaned back, pain at tolerable levels between the joking and sheer stubborn pride, face alight with the symphony of a thousand cuts and bruises. That song was old hat, though. The Doctor motioned towards a metal tower full of forgetfulness, and I waved him off.
“This isn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before. Save the psychedelics for those who need ’em more than I do.”
He shrugged, showing shoulders that were far more developed than your average doctor. My eyebrows quirked at that, and I motioned him back over.
“You got a pen doc? You left without getting my number. Careless mistake, I’m sure.”
The smile once more, then the pocket which had spawned the hateful light produced instead a pen, and a small tearing sound let me know he’d taken the corner off of one document or another.
I bludgeoned my fingers around the pen, and dashed off the number to my personal cell. I placed it in his outstretched hand, giving him a wink as I eyed him without the slightest hint of embarrassment or discretion. His grin got brighter, though how he managed that would have to be a topic for another time. A much later time, if the wolfish smile I got was any indication. I must look like a fright, but no one would’ve ever called my face a marvel, even before all the broken bones and scars.
I could fight my way through a dozen men though, and you didn’t get that strong without some benefits to go with it. I smiled again, smug as I settled in for a nice nap. He really did have a nice smile, and I caught a flash of a tight butt as he swirled his coat in a flourishing bow. Oh yes, fate had been kind to Margaret Smith on this day, I told myself as I burrowed into the pillow. Not dead, marbles in a row, and a nice evening of fun and adventure to look forward to.
Kind indeed. Shame I’d almost died, but that wasn’t the first time that’d happened
It wouldn’t be the last, either.
To be continued…
Smithfully,
Justin
