The Cirrendale Constabulary

A continuation of the character pieces for Cirrendale, this one looks at Inspector Cliffe and Constable Evans, the police officers investigating the events of the story. I tried being a bit more descriptive in this, but I'm not sure how well that went. At any rate, enjoy!

Despite Cirrendale’s reputation as a city where large amounts of coin and commodity is traded, the constabulary wasn’t the most well funded in the business. It was functional, certainly, but the warped mahogany furniture was beginning to show its age, and it was getting rather irritating for Inspector Cliffe. He had worked for almost ten years now, and he had seen exactly one instance of updated furniture. The Chief’s perfectly polished desk sat facing the rest, watching over the others while flaunting its superiority. Cliffe had been working at the station for the near-decade it had been active, but go ahead, he thought. Give the newly-instated chief a shiny new desk. He certainly didn’t mind. Nor did he care about the fact that the council completely ignored all the other problems they had, focusing their attention on their fancy airdock they love so much…
“Inspector Cliffe?” Chief Watkins stood in front of Cliffe’s desk, looking quite confused.
“Yes, Chief?” Cliffe responded, thankful she couldn’t hear his internal ranting.
“We have a new member of staff I’d like you to meet. I figured, considering your extensive experience, you’d make a fine partner for him.” She gestured to the person standing beside her that Cliffe had only just noticed; a small stick of a lad with an unkempt mop of dirty blonde hair.
“This is Jordan Evans, a scholar at the Cirrendale Academic Institute with a personal recommendation from Professor Jacobs.” Cliffe usually respected the thoughts of the head of Criminal Studies, but he just couldn’t see this one having the heart as a constable. Lucky for him, there was a ways to go before that; new faces in the force start off organising paperwork and such for one of the bobbies, a form of squire and knight relationship. Those working under constables were only promoted when their mentor deemed them ready, but Cliffe wasn’t sure this one would ever make it.
“How do you do?” The scamp asked, offering his hand in greeting. Cliffe took the offer, repaying the pleasantries with a “Fine, thank you.” The young one’s grip wasn’t strong in the slightest, another thing to work on.
“I’ve shown him around the place, explained all the basics to him, et cetera. If either of you need help, you know where to find me,” She said, returning to that infernal desk of hers. The young lad-Evans, she said? He stayed where he was, looking rather unsure of himself. What exactly did Jacobs see in him?
“So...You’re an Institute boy, are you?” He asked, more to break the silence than out of curiosity. Evans nodded in response. “What do you study?”
“History and literature, mainly.” If this was a library, Cliffe would be much more willing to let the scamp work for him but as it stood…
“Inspector Cliffe, sir?” Officer Bentley burst through the door, panting as if he had run here from the other side of town. “There’s been another mugging, down over on Fleet Street. We’re thinking it might be your man.” Granted, it was just as possible it wasn’t; in a city of commerce and goods, wannabe pickpockets weren’t exactly uncommon. But, long time enemy or no, Cliffe was going to look into it.
“Ready for your debut, Evans?” he asked as he grabbed his coat from the the back of his seat. As far as first jobs go, this was significantly better than being called in to sort out agitated drunks.

From what Evans could understand, while many try to lighten other people’s pockets, very few manage to evade police capture. So while there wasn’t anything officially connecting the string of cleanly-done muggings Cliffe was investigating, Evans couldn’t fault the inspector for suspecting a link. “Most get caught after their first felony,” The veteran had explained on the carriage ride over. “A string like this is peculiar on its own.” When they arrived, the scene mirrored the other crime scenes Cliffe had described; A man lured to a discreet place, in this case, entering a side alley to aid who he thought was a man in distress. Being accosted by someone he couldn’t look at for fear of incurring the wrath of the gun at his head. Finally, the use of multiple ropers. The woman outside crying for help, the faux-mugger and muggee, all there to draw the victim in, and potentially take the fall for the mastermind. While Cliffe interrogated the poor man, Evans was told to talk to the various shop owners, but to no avail; nothing out of the ordinary was seen before that woman ran out of the alley in hysterics. No one even seemed to recognise her, their descriptions vague and unhelpful. He searched for every detail he could, worried about what the inspector would think if he turned up empty-handed. He even ended up asking the restaurant what meal the victim ordered, as if the toasted sandwich he had would shed light on anything. His luck turned when a hairdresser recalled seeing a masked figure entering the alley before the crime. Evans milked this lead for all it was worth; clothes, identifying characteristics, anything. When he relayed this back to the inspector, his raised eyebrows and widened eyes told him he had done his job.
“Evans, I believe I know exactly who you’re talking about. We’ve heard about a few of these people, potential suspects of various larcenies.”
“Do you think they’re connected?” The boy inquired.
“Don’t believe so. Two separate strings of crimes. It is curious that they were there, though…” Cliffe mused as he flipped through his notes. “We’ll need to head back to the station. Can’t remember who’s looking into the masked men right now, but they’ll want to hear this.” He looked up from his notepad and gave the kid an affirming nod. “Nice to see you’re making yourself useful.” Evans figured that would be the greatest sign of gratitude he’d see from the inspector for a good while.

A character establishment piece for Cirrendale

In an effort to convince myself to work more regularly, I'm trying out writing small pieces focused on a certain character or characters to try and get a sense of what they're like and how they do things. In this case, I've worked on one starring two people from Cirrendale; Cyril and Andria Blackwood, two of a long line of hunters of supernatural artifacts and combatants against just as supernatural threats. This one might be a bit rough around the edges, this piece in particular is a bit experimental, so forgive me if it's not that good.

Oh, and as for the Dan Davin writing competition, I unfortunately didn't get a placing. Felt it was worth mentioning, but I couldn't really tie it into what I was saying before. Anyway, enjoy!

Cyril Blackwood had never been to a soiree, and he didn’t think he’d ever like to go to another one afterwards. The amount of people that their host managed to fit in a single ballroom was astonishing, but being in such a crowd had a whole slew of problems he didn’t even want to think about.

“Nervous?” Andria asked, giving him a reassuring smile as they walked across the room.

“I just can’t see how we’re going to get our target on her own with all these people around. Surely someone will notice?” Not to mention finding the target in question, with all these people here…

“Not to worry, people run off to other rooms in pairs all the time, no one’s going to bother you.” She pulled Cyril along through the sea of people, chasing after a glimpse of their mark; Charlotte Webley, daughter of the renowned jewelry trader, Marcus Webley. Upon seeing them, she smiled, greeting Andria with a hug.

“There you are, I was wondering when you’d show up!” Charlotte grinned as they finished embracing. “And who’s this handsome thing?” She asked, sizing Cyril up.

“I’m...her brother,” He corrected, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. “Andria told me you had a most peculiar necklace, and I decided I had to see for myself.”

“Lucky for you, I’m wearing it right now,” She smiled, unclasping it from her neck and handing it over to him. “It’s one of my favourites, I wear it almost all the time!” The gem’s colour was a peculiar swirl of purple and red, held by a chain of gold.

“Where did you get this?” Cyril asked, studying it intently.

“Some archeologists uncovered it when they were exploring some ruins. They didn’t see much historical value in it, so they came to us.”

“What about monetarily?”

“We bought it for five hundred, although Father thinks it’s worth much more,” She held out her hand, requesting to take the necklace back. “What’s curious is that we’ve had anonymous letters requesting it, with a meeting place and everything. Father’s suspicious, so we’re turning them down for now.” A wise choice; if Cyril was correct, the sender of those letters was exactly the type you wouldn’t to possess the necklace.

“Miss Webley, do you mind if we go somewhere more private for a spell? To talk,” he clarifies, seeing Charlotte’s raised eyebrow. “I know who’s been sending you letters, and I can help you deal with them.” Charlotte looks to Andria, who nods in agreement.

“Alright. If Andria believes you, so do I.”

Charlotte’s bedroom was everything you’d expect from an upper class jeweler's daughter; rich, elegant, and in Cyril’s view, mostly unnecessary. He figured there were far more reasonable ways to spend money than paintings, but on the other hand, it was something people outside his profession had the luxury of being able to do. Charlotte herself sat on the foot of her bed, awaiting Cyril’s explanation.

“I have been told that lately you have shown the uncanny ability to sense when someone is lying.” She nodded in affirmation.

“Do you believe it’s connected to the necklace?”

“Indeed. I also have reason to believe that the group sending you those letters wish to either destroy the necklace or use it maliciously. This group will likely break into your home to steal it if you ignore their requests much longer. It is in your bests interests for you to give me the necklace in order to hide it from them. Once I have it, they’ll have no reason to go after you.”

Charlotte looked at the necklace, then back to Cyril, her lips parsed.

“As much as I know you’re telling the truth, I can’t simply give it away without any compen-”

“How much do you want for it? We can give you up to five thousand if needed.” The man’s immediate offer both surprised and impressed Charlotte.

“I’ll take it. Just one more question; are you working with this group? How do I know you’re not playing good cop to their bad cop?”

“I assure you, I have no affiliation with them, nor do I intend to swindle you in any sense of the word. I intend to keep this artifact from the hands of destruction, and that includes those currently harassing you.”

Charlotte took a moment to stare Cyril down before answering. “Alright. I trust you.” He’d bloody hope so; he had given her more information than he was comfortable with her knowing, but if it meant he got the necklace, it was worth it. She handed the necklace to him, and he promised she would be compensated in full.

“Should we return to the ballroom, then? If anyone asks about the necklace, I’ll just say I got worried and hid it.” Cyril didn’t mind either way, but Charlotte’s plans were dashed by the appearance of a frowning Andria slipping through the door.

“Change of plans, we have to go; spotted a few of them downstairs. Looks like your ‘clients’ wanted to meet in person,” She nodded at Charlotte, which simply confused her more. “I don’t think they’ve realised you’re not in the main hall, so we’ve got ample time to leave.”

“Hang on, what’s going-”

“Charlotte, love, I promise I’ll explain everything when we’re not being pursued.” Andria grabbed Charlotte by the hand, leading her through mostly empty hallways with Cyril keeping guard from behind. What the occasional steward and maid thought as Andria frantically pulled her friend through the manor, she didn’t give a damn about. Charlotte and her necklace were too important to lose. The back door wasn’t nearly as impressive as the front entrance, but nevertheless it served as the trio’s escape route as they fled the estate, hailing the first hansom cab they met on the road back to the main city.

“So, Charlotte,” Andria said once they were all cooped up inside. “Your place, or mine?”

Marcus Webley was shocked to see Charlotte back before midnight, but Andria was ready with an impressively woven tale about wanting to buy the necklace, the sudden appearance of Andria’s ex-lover, and a cheese-based conflict. Had it been Marcus wearing the amulet, they would have been doomed, but his relief that they were all safe overcame any suspicion. Andria embraced Charlotte as they said goodbye, thanking her for the amulet and being thanked in return for delivering her from those fiends. They parted ways, promising to deliver the money by tomorrow, and reassuring Marcus that, with the necklace gone, the anonymous letters would stop.

“You certainly seemed fond of her,” Cyril pointed out as they walked down the near-empty streets.

“She’s a lovely friend, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“That’s not-”

“I think she was rather interested in you, though,” Andria ribbed, both figuratively and literally. “Do you usually have that effect on women?”

“What, negotiating a business deal?” Cyril rebutted.

“I was referring to her bringing you into her bedroom.”

“Alright, that’s twisting words, and you know it.” If it weren’t for the possibility of being ambushed for the necklace, Cyril would have hailed the first carriage he saw, so he endured Andria’s teasing for now, promising to himself that he’d never attend another soiree with her as long as he lived.

My entry for the Dan Davin Writing Competition

For the past few weeks, I've been working on a piece for the Dan Davin writing competition, a locally-run writing competition with a prize of the opportunity to participate in an online writing course. This contest had the same 1500 word limit as the Power of Words writing competition, so the constraints were something I was comfortable with. I was going to write a piece about an armless wanderer being ambushed by a woman in the woods, but then changed focus to something I had been considering working on for a while; the story of a woman who lives every day twice. Enjoy!

Casey Miller hated Mondays, and hated two Mondays in a row even more. It took her a while to realise that her day had started over, as her morning routine never had much variance. Throwing on yesterday’s clothes, washing her face, and quickly grabbing a piece of bread on the way through the door were all natural to her. It was when her walk to work was interrupted by the exact same scuffle that occurred yesterday that she began to catch on. Her arrival at the library confirmed this, as Mr. Fenwick had told her to unpack a shipment of books she knew she placed on the shelves the day before. The task was no less gruelling the second time, and left her just as exhausted from the repeated day’s work. Everything else repeated itself; The customers, the walk to her favourite cafe, the small talk she and the waitress engaged in. It even rained just before dusk, although she made a point to be home before then. From there, she sat in her living room, unsure of what the future held, or even if there WAS a future. She was scared that she’d fall asleep to wake up to an eternity of Mondays, that her life would never progress from that point. As the hours went by, sleep tugged at her, and she did her best to fight it, but eventually she succumbed, the day’s work having worn her down.

When Casey woke up, she realised two things; One being that she had fallen off her couch in her sleep, and the other being that her lying on the floor indicated a slight possibility of a Tuesday. Granted, she fell asleep in her own bed on the first Monday as well as last Sunday, so she couldn’t tell whether her waking up in a different place meant anything, but it was something, and that something gave her hope. She hurriedly changed into something semi-presentable and headed off to work, seeing faces on the way that she may or may not have seen yesterday. It was when she saw the front doors of the library that she was finally convinced she wasn’t stuck. The simple fact that Mr. Fenwick was running late proved to her that time had indeed progressed, leaving her feel more elated than a locked door had ever made her feel. Once Mr. Fenwick appeared, believing instead that she was early, Casey did her usual assistant duties, which went remarkably well despite a few mishaps. She celebrated her newly regained continuum with a cup of wine when she got home, which turned into a couple of bottles, which turned into falling asleep on her couch again.

Mr. Fenwick was shocked to see Casey late for work, but explaining exactly why she was would take too long, so she just apologised and went to her help desk where someone was already.
“Ah, Miss Goji. You’ve finished Pride and Prejudice already, have you?” She asked, getting a strange look from her customer.
“I haven’t gotten it out yet, that’s why I’m here.” She said, shocking Casey.
“You...got it out yesterday, didn’t you?” Her eyes widened as Miss Goji denied her claim, realising the exact nature of her problem. To make sure, she went to find her client’s book, not in the romance aisle where any sane person would put it, but in the non-fiction section she found it in last Tuesday. She lent the book to Miss Goji, apologising for the confusion. The rest of her day confirmed her suspicions; she seemed cursed to live every day twice, everything happening as it did before. At the very least, this meant a chance to correct mistakes, something she dedicated today to doing. She dealt with her jobs much more efficiently, knowing what she needed to do before she needed to do it, and even prevented a minor coffee disaster. She went home appreciating that there were SOME benefits to her situation, and that maybe her earlier panic was for nothing.

However, an undeniable downside to it was that it was already Wednesday, and yet Casey was exhausted from a week of work. With every step she took towards the library, the idea of calling in sick became more and more tempting. The idea that the second run of a given day was the only one that seemed to matter, judging by the somehow still full wine bottles in her fridge, didn’t help at all. In fact, it made the idea seem better and better; No one would notice anything going wrong, so long as the next day went as normal. And with that, she abandoned her usual course, setting off for the nearest restaurant. After a significantly more extravagant breakfast than her usual pieces of bread, Casey spent the rest of her day exploring the city she barely got the chance to see. She wandered through the park she always had to pass by on the way to work, sat at the lakefront on the edge of town, watching ships pull in and out of harbour. All the wonders of the city, just a few streets away from the library. She returned home satisfied with her day, looking forward to more of these breaks between working days.

Come the following Wednesday, Casey was perfectly happy with manning the library again after her technically nonexistent escapade. When she got out of bed, her wallet was as full as it had been the last time she woke, with no evidence of her rampant splurging. The thought of doing something like that again got her through her admittedly dull work day, and she rewarded herself on Thursday by visiting the local marketplace, tasting all the various foods on offer. Exotic fruits, pastries cooked on the spot, it was all so wonderful she lost track of how much she had spent until she tried to buy one of those mood rings that always fascinated her when she was young. Flat broke, she had no choice but to turn away from the store...or did she? This day wasn’t real for anyone else, there wasn’t any consequences if she simply wanted to see what one of them were like…

Casey didn’t have nearly as much work to do the next day as she thought; barely anyone came in to get books out, and Mr. Fenwick didn’t have any menial tasks for her to do. It was getting unbearably boring, and she couldn’t wait for another of her ‘break days’. Then, for the first time in an hour, the door opened, inviting in two cross looking coat-clad constables. Wondering if they were on duty or here for leisure, she greeted them.
“No time to chat, we’re looking for a suspected thief, I’m afraid,” He answered in the most worrying way. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about any stolen jewelry, would you?” she shook her head, not wanting to risk speaking. They can’t have known about the mood ring, as far as they should have been concerned, it never happened.
“Are you sure?” The other policeman raised an eyebrow at her, Casey staring back as she became more and more aware of a small item still tucked in her pocket.
“I’m sorry, we’re going to have to take you into custody for suspicious behaviour.” They said, approaching her with a pair of handcuffs. Casey beg and screamed, tried to wrestle out of the grip of the enforcers, but that didn’t stop them from subduing her, both of them taking her by an arm and pulling her out of the library.

When Casey woke up, she immediately checked her pockets to verify that it all was a dream.The next thing she did was curse her imagination for scaring her to death with a vision like that. It stuck with her all throughout her working day, worrying that the next person who entered the library would try to arrest her for a crime that technically never happened. It was incredibly silly to fret so much over it, she knew, but stranger things have happened. She did her job the best she could regardless, hoping no one noticed her nervousness. On her way home, she decided to take a detour down to the other side of town; to the marketplace. Thankfully, the stalls hadn’t packed up quite yet, and the jewellery store selling mood rings was no exception.
“How much for one of those?” She asked, gesturing to the rings before noticing the sign beside them stating their price of $25. She took $50 out of her pockets to give to the shopkeeper, telling her to keep the change as they parted ways. Yes, she was atoning for an imaginary crime, but it took a huge weight off her chest. She decided that she wouldn’t use her break days as justification for wrongdoing; while there weren’t any consequences, that fact wasn’t enough to keep her conscience clear. She headed home, wondering what her Fridays would bring her.

The Tale of The Madame's Parlour, among other things.

Hello again! Now I'm on holiday, I have time to write more creatively rather than having to slave over a keyboard writing an assessment. Now I can slave over a keyboard trying to finish my story in Cirrendale! Here's something I wrote up while bored, about the urban legends surrounding a strange ice cream vendor. Not the most...orthodox of short stories, but I wrote it, it's here, and hopefully you're reading it.

The Madame’s Parlour was one of the more curious stalls in the commercial district, due to the equally curious mannerisms of the shopkeeper. The woman, referred to only as The Madame as her establishment's name would suggest, would never speak, only wait behind the counter for customers, day in and day out. When someone came in to order, she’d get to work before one could give her their request. Once she was paid, you were given a cone with exactly what you wanted, despite never giving your order. She even seemed to know when you changed your mind, changing the scoops as soon as you started having second thoughts. No one knew exactly how she managed it, but this peculiarity bred dozens of rumours, with many visiting the Parlour to see this phenomenon themselves. One of the more commonly held beliefs is that The Madame was some form of telepath, and that her silence was the price she had paid for this gift. Others had noticed how quickly she replaces the ice cream when you change your mind, and suggested that the ice cream itself changes somehow, by her will or on its own. Still others suggest that we’re deceived into thinking we’re eating the flavour we want. From there, more wild theories spread. Perhaps The Madame was a witch in hiding, or some cosmic being who simply wanted to get into the dairy treat business. Maybe she was just a woman who lost her tongue in some catastrophe and was trying to make a living, but no one found that idea to be very entertaining. So the customers kept coming in, eating ice cream and speculating on the nature of the being known as The Madame.

You've probably noticed by now that the entire colour scheme of the page is changed. I'm going to be experimenting with different looks until I find one I like. It's kind of like going to the store and buying fifty different types of hair dye with the intent of figuring out which absurd colour works best. So if this page ends up shocking pink at some point, now you know why.