World Building 1-0-1: Tiers of location-creation

An easy way

When making locations for your story, the balance between how much detail to put into each one, for the story to still flow naturally, can be a tricky obstacle. When I write, I consider all locations as part of a tier-based system.

Without thinking about it, you can end up with a lot of locations for a story. To some people, the amount of detail for each location comes naturally. But if that is not the case for you, here is the way I help myself when creating locations for a story.

First tier
Second tier
Third tier
Fourth tier
Fifth tier

Each location falls into one of these, making a note of how much detail I should pour into the description of each place. Even when I don’t know the name of a place yet, if I know what part of the story a location is going to be, I can start out by thinking it into the tier-system. Naturally the tier system is fluid, a location isn’t locked into a tier once placed; in fact, it often makes for a very good idea to have a location appear as being of minor importance at first, and then later on, move it up to another tier.

The tiers can also be used in a setting that isn’t made up, though obviously you need to keep the locations true to the reality of their original story.

First tier

As you can probably guess, the first tier is the most important one to the story. However this doesn’t mean that it is crowded with locations. First tier locations require as much detail as possible, the reader practically needs to, through your story, “live” in that location in that very moment. This means that the first tier locations can break the flow of the story entirely, something that’s normally considered as a “no-go” within writing, but do not be fooled; first tier locations requires attention when writing. Any lengthier story will have at least three first tier locations: The introduction, the point-of-no-return and the ending. Adding more can work, but you risk breaking the story where it should be flowing. A first tier location needs to not only tell the writer of the time of day (if relevant), small things like smells, how the air feels, sounds, anything. I will go as far as arguing that a first tier location can NEVER have too much detail.

A description of a first tier location needs to tell the reader the size of the location. You also need to convey lighting, smells, moisture, sounds, colours, plant-life, and the texture of surfaces.

Second tier

Second tier locations are similar to first tier locations, in that they need to be thoroughly described. However where first tier locations cannot have too much detail, the second tier can. As such it is important to consider the flow of the story, when plotting these locations down. They are still important to the story, but where first tier locations set the frame of the story, second tier locations works more like a helpful road-sign, leading the reader in the direction of the story, or telling the reader to stop and look in a different direction for a moment. Second tier locations can often be reoccurring in a story, this means that you don’t have to describe everything from the start. This can also help creating suspence in the story, by bringing the reader back to a place already known to them.

A second tier location needs to be immersive enough, to let the reader feel that this is important, but not so overly detailed, that the story comes to a complete halt. An example of a second tier location could be the police station in a detective story; a lot of time is spent in and around this place, but the story doesn’t start, end, or have the most important event in this location. The reader in this example needs to feel the bustle of a busy police station, through reading your story.

Second tier locations also include landmarks or other eye-catching details, even if they aren’t actually part of the story. This helps building the world up, giving the reader a momentary sense of immersion. In such moments, perspective is very important. Are you standing on a glass-framed balcony, looking out and down over a bristling night-time city, or are you walking along the pavement, shadowed by towering, grey skyscrapers on either side of the road.

Third tier

Depending on how you want to tell a story, chances are that the third tier locations are going to be the most numerous. Where both first and second tier locations aim to break, or slow, the story for the sake of immersion, third tier locations are there to move the story along. For this reason I like to nickname third tier locations as “transition locations”. A transition location’s most prominent detail is how long the story “moves” within it. Obviously the longer it takes to “move” through a location, the more details needs to be added to it’s description.

An example could be a long, tiled subway hallway below the streets of Berlin. A couple of the lights flicker unsteadily, and the clicking of the journalist’s high heels against the floor echo down, only to be cut of by the distant rumble of an arriving train. Her sweet-scented parfume mixes with the smell of old cigarette buds and dried urine. She quickens her pacing till she gets to the stairs leading down to the tracks, looking over her shoulder, she lets out a sigh of relief.

In the example used here, I’ve given the reader a vague idea of the location itself, without actually describing the location very much at all. Yet, hopefully, the reader gets the idea of being with this nondescript journalist, in this walkway tunnel leading down to a subway. So despite this being just a short example, we’ve still added immersion to it. If you add immersion to pieces like this, throughout the story, your reader will be more inclined to keep reading. Immersion is a word that you’ll find me mentioning a lot through my posts, because it, to me, is perhaps THE MOST IMPORTANT PART of any story.

Third tier locations also encompasses moving through a bland environment, regardless of it being a dark fir-tree forest, or a rainy day in a small outback town. Here the mayor part of the surrounding scene is non-descript, anything that stands out should be described, but in a way to fit the story’s pacing at that moment; are your characters walking through it slowly, trying to lose a persuer, or maybe slowly driving through at night? Obviously in night, or other darkened, situations, the description of light, if any, is of great importance.

Fourth tier

A fourth tier location is mostly undefined, it doesn’t play a major role in the story as a whole, but it is still being interacted with by characters or events in the story. A fourth tier location is the one location that can hold the smallest “area”. However, any fourth tier location must not be overly detailed, at least not if they are to remain a fourth tier location. Where a third tier location doesn’t break the pace of the story, it may alter the pacing slightly, only for the pacing to return to “normal” after the characters are done moving “through” it. In opposition to that, a fourth tier location should barely be noticed.

Fourth tier location includes furniture, doors, windows and so on. Where a nondescript door is just told as, example: “He nervously reloaded two slugs into his shotgun, and entered the house.” In this example the door may not be there at all, it doesn’t change the story or the scene, if there is a door or not. This is what I like to call a “negative location”. By this I’m refering to the fact that it’s a location that’s in “use” in the story, however as a reader we have absolutely no idea of the door’s condition, colour, or if there’s only some badly bent hinges left of it. Negative locations CAN be changed into a fourth tier location, but you should not see a negative location as a bad thing; it depends on the environment in which the location is taking place. Using the example from before, if the door looked like any other door, and there where several doors to chose from, you would need to describe how the character, in this case the man with the shotgun, chose that specific door. However, if the man with the shotgun is entering the only house for miles, it’s fairly obvious, and thus doesn’t need a description of the door. A negative location can be a good way of speeding the pace of the story up a bit; if you’re looking for a place to hide, your character probably won’t notice the colouring of a door. Of course, if you’re in a concrete basement, and there’s a long, straight walkway to a red fire-escape, it’s always a good idea to mention anything that would catch a person’s eye.

Typically, as a rule for fourth tier locations; you can see them, the level of interaction with them is minimal, and the amount of detail is thus limited.

Fifth tier

Obviously the fifth tier locations must be vague, as a fourth tier location can be as brief as a glance through a window. In fact, fifth tier locations aren’t even a part of the story at all. But still, a story without any fifth tier locations, would be hard to immerse yourself in. A fifth tier location is only mentioned in passing, and never more than that. So why even include it?

Well, fifth tier locations, just like the closer second and third tiers, helps with world building in the sense that it gives the reader a feeling of world’s overall size. Naturally, fifth tier locations in a story based in the real world, can easy throw the name of a city, country or even the ocean, into the story, without any characters ever actually going there. For example: “Carmen looked out through the scratched glass of her bus window; Boston looked no different through it, on this stormy Thursday in October. She thought about how her parents where doing back in New York.” In the example, New York is our fifth tier location. Despite even the name giving images in the mind of the reader, if the story never reaches New York, it serves as a fifth tier location. It gives us a sense of distance and time, which in turn helps to make the non-fictional world come to life in this fictional story.

If you’re dealing with a completely fictional setting, it can be a little harder to fully understand the “size” of your world. For example, would you be able to tell how far Pomfornob is away from Orchella Shore? Most likely not. Here it can help adding a little more detail. This can be done by having a character (or a sign-post) say that “Pomfornob is about six hours on horseback from Orchella Shore.” Even without putting numbers down, we’ve created an idea in the mind of a reader, about the distance between these two named locations.

But both of these examples have been with a fairly large, and rather distant locations. A fifth tier location can be, potentially, any space or area, as long as the story doesn’t actually enter them. Example: “Billy knows that the girls’ locker room is on the first floor of the dorm, but Billy never goes in there, and because Billy is a goldfish, he probably doesn’t fantasize about how it looks in there.” Here the locker room is the fifth tier location. To one of the girls in there, the fifth tier location could be one the lockers that isn’t her own. She knows of the locker, but not what it contains. And she was the one that messed up the girls’ cheerleading practice that day, so her thoughts aren’t going about what could be in that one locker, even if she have seen it.

So with these tiers of locations, you should be able to create your story in a way that immerses your readers as much as you want.

Fur in the Flux Capacitor, part 2

As if to look behind the ship, Alexander glanced over his shoulder, I guess that was more common in cruisers and luxury ships, so I thought nothing further of it. Alexander had found a handkerchief from seemingly nowhere, “The Tyze system, Tyze 5, to be exact. I have my office there, it’s nice and a bit more… secluded. I’m certain a person of your character can appreciate that.” That last remark was probably a slight stab at scrap-sellers. Not all scrap-sellers were able to find wrecked ships, and it was a lot easier to get the exact part, if they were taken from perfectly functional ships. Where could one such person find a lot of ships, just sitting there? The answer; a ship-seller’s lot. I had never scrapped anything from functional ships, too much risk, and I prefer my tail un-zinged by laser-blasts. I decided to not let the words get to me, and started typing in the coordinates for Tyze 5 into the dashboard, the autopilot would handle most of journey anyway.

The Tyze system wasn’t a place for a girl like me, well not unless I was looking to act as a gold-digger, I would stand out like a pulsar at an anti-matter gathering. A central system, Tyze was home to wealthy persons, Tyze 13 was commonly known as “The Imperial Holiday Planet”, high-ranking Imperial officers would enjoy time off from their duties to the Bufadeach Empire. Tyze 13 was as such the only planet to not be guarded by the TDM, the Treaty for Mutual Defense corp, a private army, funded by merchants and philanthropists seeking refuge and solitude from a galaxy in turmoil. TDM was currently responsible for upholding law and order for the Tyze, Jahilt and Emeryne systems, a total of 35 planets, more than a 100 moons and several other objects, protecting the daily lives of about 63 billion lifeforms. Despite their high-class client-group, TDM aren’t likely to shoot on sight, and will only use force in response to force. It was vastly different to the standards under the Empire, part of the reason I made plans to stay far away from the Empire at all times.

I turned to Alexander, I don’t think he noticed that I slowed the ship down a bit, “So, a three stock drive flux capacitor for a cruiser, eh? How many do you get in the net with that one?” I had a blaster hidden under the seat, just in case. The whole ordeal, and how nervous Alexander appeared, something had to be fishy. He looked genuinely surprised however, “Pardon? I’m not sure what you are implying here…” I waggled a finger at him, “There is something you’re not telling me, about this job, about yourself, or perhaps why you’d ask a scrapper at a Nexus station for aid. I don’t know what it is that you’re hiding, but, and trust me on this” I showed him a fanged grin, “I would have no qualms ejecting you into the void, should you fail to tell me the truth.” Alexander now looked more worried than before, he was unarmed, and probably aware that you don’t usually want to corner a black tiger. Or was that a rat? I can never remember, but my message seemed to have gone through, Alexander was now actually looking scared, “Uhh, whoa now, there’s no need for such rash deeds, I can assure you. I will tell you everything right away, no secrets, I-i-i promise.” My tail was swishing, I had always slightly enjoyed scaring and interrogating people, a useful skill when it came to haggling the price of something down or up. “Good, I’m glad we could reach an agreement on that.”

Alexander took some time to wipe his brow once more, trying to get himself comfortable. “So, what knowledge do you have of the Knives of Darkmantle?” This was surprising, coming from someone like Alexander, Darkmantle was a system on the edge of galaxy, it’s three dark planets housing different horrors in their own. The Knives were known as the best, deadliest and most expensive bounty-hunters and assassins in the Galaxy, the dark-feathered crows were known for cruelty and for their intelligence; few survived having a mark of execution on them, when the Knives made their moves. Their ships silent, cloaked on most radars, their units swift and stealthy. “So, what in the name of Tongudd, would a salesman like you be worth for someone to send the Knives after you? Made a bad deal? Sold a faulty ship?” Alexander sighed, “No, well a bad deal is the right word for it, alright… So, you know of Zymwah 2, the planet where the young Bufadeachan Officers receive their new grades after finishing the academy? Well, the yearly party where the officers celebrate is good for business, the officers have plenty of money at ready, and many of them are influenced by SwampVodka, I’ve gone for three years in a row and made good money every time. But this time was different, there were several high ranking officers from outside the academy, I’m still not sure why exactly. Anyway, so I make a couple of deals for some speed-cruisers, ships that’d violate several Imperial laws, when this one young frog coming up to me, showing the Mark of the Knives, saying if I could not deliver a luxury cruiser with a three stock flux capacitor, I was a dead man within a year.”

Alexander spoke fast, but I think I understood what had happened, I needed clearance though before I was going to agree to help him out of that pickle, “So this frog… He wouldn’t happen to have bight yellow markings around his eyes, pale-blue skin elsewhere?” Alexander looked surprised, “Yes, in fact, very much so… How did you know?” Well, this was bad, I reached over with a serious glance, padding Alexander’s shoulder lightly, “Well, let’s just say that I keep notes on who important Imperial people are, and how they look. You’ve gotten into a deal with a bad one of the kind. The yellow markings are the Emperors own clan-markings, and the pale-blue skin, plus the dubious deals… That would be Galreth Prime, the Emperor’s highest ranking spawn, and the potentially Emperor-to-be. He have been scouring Imperial space for objects of power to secure his position, or perhaps take over from his father. Best advice is to stay as far away from that one as possible, but that advice is a little late to give now.” Alexander’s look of worry was now even more visible. I nodded understandingly, “So, I can see the problem you have… Now, normally I’d stay out of any and all deals regarding the Empire, but you have yet to say how much you think this job is worth. Let’s just say that I COULD be interested, but as you can guess, this won’t be cheap…” Alexander nodded, his worry had turned into determination, I’m guessing he wasn’t good at backing out of deals, even if they were bad. To be fair, it didn’t sound like he had much of a choice though.

The Scrap Eagle’s CommsUnit beeped, and began to glow, someone was hailing my ship. I looked to Alexander, “You expecting someone? My radars are not picking up any signals of ships nearby.” Alexander nodded, “We should be close to TDM protected space, I know they have orbital stations cloaked around, it is most likely one of those. Does my seat appear on the holo-projector?” I shook my head and turned to the console, the “accept call” button was buzzing slightly, I gingerly pressed it, and the holo-screen lid up in my face. A part of the ship’s front-window turned green, then dark and finally lit up with a helmeted, white-uniformed person. “Tidings pilot, this space is under the protection of the TDM, the Treaty for Mutual Defense corp, a file have been sent to your ship detailing laws and etiquette, while faring in TDM protected space. Can you please state your name, gender, occupation, ship-type and ship-name for identification.” I hesitated slightly, but seeing as I had no prior history with the TDM, I saw no reason to not comply, “Jade Khezad, Female, ship-parts merchant, custom built cargo-ship, the Scrap Eagle. So, as good customs go, who am I talking to?” The guard on the other end seemed to be busy, possibly typing my information in, he didn’t even look up as he spoke, “This is TDM OG3 station speaking,” he paused, seemingly running the data into the computer, “well, we have no prior data on you, miss Khezad, enjoy your time in TDM space, OG3 station, out.”

With that the screen turned off again. As if used to dealing with the TDM, Alexander, reassuringly said, “Do not worry, you can trust the TDM, they are notoriously hard to bribe, I have tried, and they are generally honest about their methods.” I nodded and looked at the autopilot’s monitor, there was still a small amount of time till the Tyze system, with it’s crowded 22 planets. Tyze-A itself was a dim, dark-blue star of decent size, I looked out the window; far in the distance I could see the vague blue light. A bit closer to the ship was a bright green star and a massive, off-pink/purple star a bit off to the right; Emeryne-A and Jahilt-A. The Emeryne system had a lot of luxury companies, such as the Olbany Cruiser Head-Quarters and main factory was the only thing present on Emeryne 5. As for the Jahilt system, things seemed a bit shadier, with only three planets, and all of them far from the star and always covered in thick atmospheres, they rarely saw as much traffic as Emeryne and Tyze. The awkward silence in the cockpit after the call eventually got to me, I needed something to talk about.

Obviously it shouldn’t be something that would make Alexander more wary of me than he already was at this point. “So, how long have you been dealing in luxury cruisers?” To my surprise, it seemed the silence wasn’t Alexander’s cup of tea either, he looked pleasantly happy with it being broken.

Fur in the Flux Capacitor, part 1

”Space… An endless void that we are all floating in, towards unknown borders, new frontiers or certain, impending doom? No one can truly know how far space is reaching; no one knows the final destination. Well… I’d hope the pilot of this goddamned vessel knows; we’ve been stuck in this cargo hold for three hours now!”

Oh, hi, didn’t quite see you there… Perhaps I should start by introducing myself; my name is Jade Khezad, I’m a black anthropomorphic tiger. I know, I know, that seems a bit weird, and frankly; there aren’t a lot of tigers around. At least not what I’ve seen so far. I’m mostly a merchant of pretty much whatever I can sell and buy. But in the most recent times I’ve also had a side-job, a side-job that got me into this situation; bound and chained to a make-shift bench, in the cargo-hold of an Imperial freighter, along with several other people. Let me go back to where it all started…

It was a regular day at the Nexus-8 trading station, many people coming around looking for items, for supplies, for a chat. Anything you’d expect from an intergalactic market, really. I had managed to acquire a stall for my wares this day, mostly tools and ship-parts left for scrap, but at the Nexus you could almost be certain to be able to sell pretty much anything and everything. A couple of hares bought a crate of laser-wielders, small but accurate and quick assembly tools. They were hover-racers, as it turned out, and due to a series of sabotages, many of the teams had lost most of their gear for the crew. I’ve made a standard out of never asking where my wares come from, of course it never hurts to be careful. With the Nexus being a neutral place, no planet or organisation had security forces at the station. But the Overseers, mostly storks and cranes, were always keen to follow requests on stolen or illegal equipment. Everyone at the Nexus was there for the sake of trade on equal terms, so other traders quickly disrupted the few attempts at attacks there had been over time. The station itself weren’t armed with any weapons, though it had an energy-shield, kept running by a massive hydrogen-plasma generator in the centre of the station, this was more meant against comets and meteors, rather than attacks from ships. The halls inside the Nexus were filled with wares and people looking to sell or buy, the brushed blue silver floors could almost not be seen from the bridge, located directly above the main hall. Several shops were permanent, by agreement with the Overseers, typically these shops had items that was needed at all times, such as food, fuel and stock exchange. I was about to close down to get some dinner, when a rather corpulent hippo in grey striped business suit approached me. As a merchant, you get accustomed to reading what people want from their looks. This guy however was hard to read, he seemed to be focused when he walked towards my stall, but when he got over, looking over my wares and me, he seemed confused and unsure about himself. The suit was neat, albeit a bit tight around his stomach. A pale red tie was fastened around his neck, and there were small pearls of sweat hiding in the folds of his grey skin. Having taken him for a businessman, on the wealthier side, and seeing as how he did not take contact, I decided to break the ice: “Can I help you, sir?”

He turned his gaze downwards, he was quite a bit taller than me, but he didn’t feel threatening. He spoke, a pleasant, somewhat deep (and slightly constipated) voice: “Ah well, err… Yes, maybe… You deal in ship-parts, yes?” Hmm… that was an odd approach, I had never a particular ware more than any other, and I didn’t really care much to let the Nexus know what I was selling. But, there was truth to it, I had been scavenging around for wrecked ships. Mostly because, through listening at other stalls, I discovered that there was a lot of scrappers around, so ship-parts in good condition would sell nicely. I would have to show that I wasn’t suspicious of his question, so completely unfazed, I replied: “Yes, on occasion, I do. Anything particular you’re looking for?” His small black eyes blinked for a couple of seconds, as if surprised no questions to the request were made. “Well, I am looking for a flux capacitor to a personal cruiser ship, three stock drive.” Okay… well, that was unexpected. Personal cruisers were more than often designed specifically to the buyer’s demands, this made them expensive and the parts equally so. A flux capacitor were almost only installed in much heavier and larger ships, typically war-ships. This complex technological engine part helps using the fuel much better for short usage, normally known as the ship “warping”. Before the first flux capacitors, invented by Jegarr D. Flux, larger ships used a so-called “burst-engines”, where the fuel consumption, when warping, often came with the risk of wrecking the engine, as many of the burst-engines weren’t built to perform that much. As for the stock drive, personal cruisers were meant for comfort, the stock drive allows the engine to filter more of the cosmic dusts out, thus making the flight smoother. For a “standard” cruiser, a single stock drive would be considered a luxury, two stock drives was very rare, and the mere existence of a third stock drive was to most people, a myth. So, naturally, I raised an eyebrow, “I am afraid that I cannot help you in that, it’s quite beyond what I have on display.” Expecting that amount of quality from a stall at a Nexus was a bit on the odd side. Strangely enough, the man just smiled, shaking his large head slightly, “I wasn’t expecting that either, but if you’d like a job offer that pays well, and” he added in a lower voice, as to hide it from other people nearby, “I mean REALLY well, come and see me at the loading bay in one hour. Here’s my card, with the frequency to my CommsUnit, if needed.”

A CommsUnit is a small, but hugely practical, device. It uses a set of twelve-symbol frequency code, using both letters and numbers; this gives a total of 3.379.220.508.056.640.625 possible combinations, and thus it’s nearly impossible to just guess a frequency. Typically, a CommsUnit is placed in a bracelet or as a small trinket, placed on the side of the head. CommsUnits come with a holographic projector, which allows them to receive messages, with both sound and visual input.

I glanced at the card, as the man turned around and walked, or rather waddled, towards other stands. “Alexander Swift Jr., We’ll find a ship suiting your needs.” I took some time to consider it, and as the only trade I had, was a badger looking for hull plating for his cargo-ship, I had plenty of time to think things through regarding the offer. I began thinking about how much I disliked being at the Nexus, not that the people were bad or hostile… It was just… Boring. I enjoyed scavenging for parts and other items a lot more. Especially when the scavenging wasn’t exactly legal, that always got the adrenaline flowing through me. Flinging my leather jacket over my shoulder, after having locked my stall down with the remaining wares, I headed for the loading bay. The ramps from the main hall were mostly empty, though the Nexus was open for trade all the time. This was mainly due to the fact that it kept itself out of planetary orbit and maintained it’s own gravity, this also meant that there was no “days” and no “nights” on the Nexus. The loading bay was, naturally, connected to the docking area, where the ships were located. I quickly spotted Alexander; he was talking to a pit-bull in overalls, part of the docking crew, no doubt. The pit-bull signed on a clipboard, and slugged himself towards another merchant and another ship. Alexander looked up at me, and then at his CommsUnit, “You’re about seven minutes too early. That is good, that is good. I was half expecting you to not show up at all.” I shrugged my shoulders, it was in general a good idea to not straight-out trust a ship-salesman, he spoke again, not awaiting an answer, “Can we take your ship? I’ll have some-one bring my own back to the shop. We can discuss the terms of the job on the way.” There was nothing of a threat in his voice, but still you quickly got the feeling of Alexander not being a man you said no to. I was inclined to hear more though, so I just signalled for Alexander to follow.

My ship was of somewhat elder date, a lot of the plating was considered as “old-fashioned”, even though most of the parts weren’t more than a couple of years old… Tops. The oldest part, and probably what I loved the most of the quirks to my ship, was the dashboard. I had stripped it from a newly wrecked Hunter-7X fighter, a very fast and agile single-pilot fighter, with a fuel-consumption like a black hole. The few of them that were even put into service, had a short lifespan, most crashed because of the Hunter-7X’s high speed, but also because the fuel containers were largely exposed, turning the Hunter-7X into a potential superfast fire-bomb, rather than a sleek fighter. And verily, not long after I had gotten into the damn thing, it started reeking of gas; the tanks were gonna blow. In fact, much of my ship had scrapped or scavenged parts, to say nothing of the countless moderations added and removed again. Alexander raised a brow on his grey, wrinkly head, it was easy to see as his stubby hairs were few and far apart. “Might not look it, but she’s reliable, mostly built her myself.” I padded the under-side of the “Scrap Eagle” (as I had come to call her), to ensure Alexander that my ship was sturdy. Pressing a hidden panel, three buttons appeared, pressing the middle one (the two others were meant to do something, but those functions was not a part of the Scrap Eagle). A hydraulic gasp came, as the entry hatch into the small cargo hold of my ship opened up. “Pardon the mess, I practically live in this ship, so things are a bit cramped.” Alexander had to duck, squeeze and push his way through, but for his size, he was surprisingly nimble. Closing the hatch behind us again, Alexander made room, so I could take the lead. For me, I could manoeuvre the mess and other stuff, pretty much in my sleep, but I had to slow down for Alexander to follow, I noticed him taking into account many details about my ship.

Finally we reached the cockpit, I conveniently closed the side-room with my bunk and clothing; a girl’s gotta have some privacy. A total of eight chairs were present in the cockpit; two by the controls and six in two rows of three. I had taken odd-jobs like freighting passengers back and forth, usually shady stuff, but also pretty rewarding in the end. Had a few rough batches, not so much with passengers themselves, except for that one turkey, who tried to have his way with me while piloting the ship. He got into a lovely and very close relationship with the pipe-wrench that I kept under my own chair. Paid a little less on delivery, but it was worth it. Mostly the trouble was either with getting passengers on, or when the “welcoming party” were greeting my passengers. The two chairs by the controls were comfy and soft, kind of a need if you are to sit on your own tail for hours on end. While it was comfy for me, Alexander sank deep into his chair beside me, as I began warming the engine up. Signalling to one of the Overseer cranes, a hatch soon opened up into outer space, and as the Scrap Eagle began taking off, I turned to Alexander, “So, where’re we headed?”

Redwoods at Nightfall, part 2

I grabbed another coffee for the ride, and a lid to put on it in the rain, asked if Jim wanted something as well, but he already had a bottle of water with protein in it. Some cops took to drinking massive amounts of coffee, others took to alcohol. I remember my wife, rest her soul, had tried to get me to eat healthier. Protein was good for building muscle mass or something like that, but the only thing I’d really need muscles for, was for the occasional fist fight or tackle with a suspect, and those were few and far between these days. The Washington rumbled into action, and it made me think of my old car. I used to have an Albany Emperor, a classic box-shaped car with a soft suspension, old girl had to call the quits after I stopped a fleeing bank-robber’s muscle car with it. A damn shame, I liked that car. I had gotten the Washington on offer, from the county no less. Some booser in a suit had fucked up an order for the FIB, added an extra zero, so they suddenly stood with way too many cars for their agents. Looks like your average sleek sedan, but it’s got a good acceleration and turns like a dream too. I could have coughed up another 80.000 dollars, and gotten the federal agent version, tinted glass, reinforced tires, enhanced engine performance, but why would I ever want that? Back in my younger days it might have interested me, but I saw no point in sprucing cars up like that. If it could drive, had a roof and functional air-condition, that was pretty much all I needed in a car.

I had met Jim a couple of days prior this case, he and some other young officers had all passed the academy. Turns out his instructor was none other than my old partner, Johnathan Chesterfield, so Jim knew a lot about me, well he knew whatever nonsense John had stuffed his ears full off. As I told him, when he began to ask about the numbers of case that I had worked on, “Son, I don’t give a crap about how many, I’m here to do my job and that’s it.” Jim understood, it seems, and began to ask about more technical stuff, I told him what I could remember. As I turned the car off of Mission Row, looking for service entries to the river along the Little Bighorn Avenue, I calmly asked him, “So, have you heard of Carlos? Or did John skip that part?” Jim looked puzzled, no wonder, John had never been keen on seeing dead bodies, but in a gang-town like Los Santos, you’d get used to it pretty quick. “Well, Carlos is Mission Row’s forensic expert, perhaps the best in Los Santos, he’s a fucking lunatic with bodies, but he knows his stuff. He likes to creep out greenhorns, just a heads up. You don’t have to get close to the body though, if you don’t want to. If you do want to see, don’t touch anything unless Carlos says you can. I finally found the chain-link fence with a gate. “Ah shucks, figures Carlos would have an assistant close this again,” I tucked my coat up around my neck, “hey, check the glove compartment, there should be a set of service keys in there.” Jim reached in, past my service 9 millimeter, and found the set of mostly green keys. I nodded as he showed them, “Alright, they should be labeled, one that says “river access” will be the one you need, I’ll drive the car through when you’ve open the gate, and will wait for you to close it up again.”

Jim tucked his raincoat over him, no complaints about going out in the rain. The gate was narrow, and as civilians weren’t really meant to be running around along the river, it wasn’t an obvious entrance. The light from the front-lights helped Jim find the padlock and open it, he pushed one side of the doors open, then the other, for me to slowly pull the car through. Behind me, Jim closed and locked the gate once more, and rushed to get into the car. The narrow concrete entrance was steep, but soon we reached the river, dark and close to the secondary plateau, if this weather carried on much longer, the entire river would be full. The dim purple lights under the bridge to Mission Row mixed together with a brighter white light coming from some standing spotlights. We could see two small yellow canvas-tents. I parked under the bridge, no need to get it wetter than it already was. An unmarked white van, a Vapid Speedo, was parked near the furthest of the two tents. Yellow and black tape on the entrance to the closest one, told me that the body was in there. Carlos could be in either tent, preparing the body or waiting with his assistants in the other.

The dry warmth of the car was switched out for a drenched, eerie cold, I had the cigarette in my mouth and lit it. The fabric of the tents was thick, waterproof and it wasn’t possible to see if anyone was inside of them or not. Jim was on my heels, a big kid, 6′2″ or so, back in my days as a greenhorn, big guys like that usually didn’t end up in homicide. I had noticed a small notes-block and a pen in one of his pockets, so he wasn’t for taking notes on his phone then. While walking towards the non-taped tent, I spoke, loudly enough to penetrate the rain, and presumably for Carlos and his team to hear me, “So, you want to look at the body first or after we’ve talked to Carlos?” Jim shrugged, “I don’t know, sir, but shouldn’t we hear the forensics first, before starting the investigation?” Just as we approached, a person stuck their head out. “This is a murder… Oh, hey Graham, do come in. New assistant?” As always, Carlos was not one to care much for grade, rank or anything, as he once said; “if you end up on my table, you’re going to be a corpse either way.” Carlos opened the tent’s zipper-door for us to enter.

Inside the tent was cramped. Carlos, and his two assistants, had two tables and a miniature version of a whiteboard set up inside, from what I could tell, they had scribbled down what they had gathered so far, and the personal belongings was placed on one of the tables. The two assistants, both young-looking, a man and a woman, both stood up from the table. It seems all they had been waiting for, was for a detective to call the shots, and tell them to haul the body back to the station. Carlos looked Jim over shortly, then turned to me, “So, Bulldog’s got you to take it? I can tell you this much straight away; there’s not a whole lot to go on. But, you’re used to that by now. Alright, Ted and Ellen, move the van closer, prepare the boxes for belongings, and get the stretcher out. Ted, make sure the camera is protected from this weather, don’t want to lose the photos or have them damaged.” The assistants both moved out of the tent, and Carlos signalled for me and Jim to follow. Carlos had some blue latex gloves on his hands, as per usual really. I sighed, just having gotten used to the dryness of the tent, oh well it was part of the job.

We looked at the body, Carlos and his team had cleared up nicely, but it was still not a pretty sight. The man was Caucasian, relatively average in build with brownish hair. He had a blue designer polo-shirt tucked in his fitted cream coloured pants and a pair of white running shoes with reddish accents. His body was lying face down in a washed out puddle of blood. The rain had made the blood slowly trickle towards the river, but the main source of the blood wouldn’t be emptied that easy. Carlos grinned in his own creepy way, “That’s just his back, his face isn’t exactly pretty now.” Without further warning, Carlos latched a hand onto the corpse’s polo, and lifted him up by the shoulder. As his face left the concrete, we could see the smashed remains of his face, an open fracture had his cheekbone visible. “Jesus Christ!” Jim instinctively took a step back. Carlos chuckled his raspy laugh, “I should think not, he certainly didn’t fly coming off of the bridge. That, or someone hit his face really hard, with something really heavy.” Despite Carlos’ laugh, he wasn’t joking, never did. Jim regained his composure, fishing his note-block out of the pocket, “So, do you think he was pushed or fell off of the bridge? The fall would have been lethal with a fall like that, I presume.” Carlos dusted himself off slightly, but kept sitting by the corpse, “The fall probably would have killed with that landing yes, but I have my doubts to it being the cause of death,” with that, Carlos turned the man over on his side, “it’s more likely this, of course it’s too early to say for sure.” Carlos pointed towards a a darkened crimson slit in the light-blue polo; the head-wound was not what had caused the blood. This man had been stabbed. “There is only a single entry wound, but it’s very close to his heart, once I’ve gotten him on the slab in the lab, I’ll know if it was lethal.” Our small-talk about the body was interrupted as the beeping of the Speedo backing up, cleared through the rain. With that, Carlos let the man slump back down to the concrete, “Well, I’ll call you once I have the autopsy done. The personal items should be available within a few hours.”

The Iron Heart

The embers died out
And the anvil no longer sings
With the beating of the hammer
The mighty bellows
Once wielded a gust of progress
Now stand vacant
Empty

The long-since abandoned place
Is silent
And no weathered hand
Holds the tong steady

A bucket stands desolate and rusted
The handle went to better places
The bottom used to be covered
In the chilling liquid
From the dried-out well around the corner

The bricks stand
Yet they keep nothing neither in nor out
A bent pipe turned towards the sun
A wept quietly with an orange glow

Down the street, between the shelters
There’s this strange little girl
She watches me
Watches me work

One day, she took my hand
Softly, gentle
She gazed her olive-green eyes
Towards the horizon
And with a voice like a tiny harp
She asked me:
“Why are we here?
What did we do?
What did we do?”

The Day the Rain felt Good

Verse 1:

You said that you knew me
Said that you cared
You said you would never
Leave when I’m scared
You promised forever and then left me out here
A house that is empty, containing my fear
Verse 2:

It’s dark through the window
It’s dark in my heart
It’s dark in the places
Where you had a part
It’s quiet and lonely, now you are not here
And only the cold wind remembers your tears

Chorus:

‘Cause then he came
Out of the blue
He left no warning
And he dragged you
He took you away, the memory of you
Yea, then he came
Right out of the blue
He made no sound
And then he killed you
He just stood there, there’s blood on the wood
And on that day
The rain felt good
Verse 3:

Now it’s so cold outside
And I’m silent again
But when the rain falls
I know you was my friend
Why you took off, and made a final turn
And deep my in heart, my love still burns

Chorus:

Release:

Stone walls are calling me
Calling me, to make me see
That I was wrong to let you go
I’m sorry and I hope you know
But those walls keep calling me
And I know;
It was your destiny

Chorus:

And on that day
The Rain fell

Blood, Whiskey & Parfume

Last night
I looked up at your open windows
From the muddy yard, beneath the old, crooked yew
Your curtains seemed like yellow silk
In the rainy darkness

I was silent as the drunkard came through
And silent the chef took the maid from the restaurant
To the darkest corner of the yard
I was silent when the dogs chased some sap in the alleys
I was silent, because I was afraid that you’d hear me

The light from your windows
It was like angels in the night
I knew you were sleeping
But, standing in that light
Made me feel closer to you, somehow

I have seen you
Once, a hot summer night
You leaned out the window in a white night-dress
Like a ghost, I hid behind the trunk of the tree
The wind made the dress dance
And in the light from your room, the shadows danced too

When you stopped, I felt my mind dancing
Dancing to that lonely jig
I imagine your smile
Your lips
And I’ll come back here
Again, tomorrow

Redwoods at Nightfall

2:57 am, Graham Bates’ apartment, Lindsay Circus, Los Santos

It was 3 am, when was I brutally awakened by the noisy ringing of my phone. I thought about letting it ring, but the display told me it was my boss. Already having a hunch, about what the call would be about, I got out of my bed to get dressed while I was talking. The Bulldog sounded the same as always, his grumpy, baritone voice was pretty easy to remember: “Bates? Yeah, someone have found a body in the River… So, get yourself up and come down to the station, oh and give that Jim Richards a call, he could use the experience of some night-time work.” I didn’t get to say anything, not that I planned to really, when the Bulldog is talking, it is just so much easier to shut up. While I descended the staircase from my apartment on the third floor, I phoned Jim. Jim, or James as his name is, had applied to become a detective’s assistant, eventually hoping to become a detective himself one day. Some guys up high, even above the Bulldog, had decided that I should have the “honour”, of having a young, overly-eager officer running tail on my day. I was worried at first, but Jim turned out alright, he’s got a good head and he knows when to use it.

The phone didn’t ring for long, and Jim sounded a lot more awake than me, despite being woken up in the same way as me. “Hey Jim, boss says we’ve got a 419 down in the LS River, briefing’s at the station in one hour. I’m coming by to pick you up, so be ready, alright? Be there in 10.” Jim doesn’t have a driver’s license, and he refuses to borrow his wife’s Radius, until he have a license. Not that anyone would bat an eye if he didn’t. No-one really cares in this town.

As I walked out onto Lindsay Circus, I lid a cigarette. As expected, the weather was awful, it was raining heavily, and the hot summer night made my overcoat stick to my body, like wet paper. Before getting into my car, a dark burgundy Washington, I checked the tires and the engine. just to be sure. The Korean Mobsters of Little Seoul usually wouldn’t tamper with such, instead they’d go straight to the man. However, the gangs had been on their toes recently. Apparently, shootout between the Lost MC and the Vagos happened on the parking lot next to the Del Peiro peer just last night. Of course, we got no notice from the hospitals, that someone had entered with a bullet wound.

I parked the Washington outside Jim’s house in the Vespucci Canals. I was in no mood to get out in this kind of weather, so I just honked the horn a couple of times. It didn’t take long for Jim to come, he was already in his uniform, with an apple in his one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. I had told him, he didn’t need the uniform as a detective, but as Jim pointed out; he wasn’t a detective yet. Considering the size of Los Santos, there were surprisingly few cars out on the streets. I guess the weather didn’t exactly call for a nightly drive. In my job though, I couldn’t really be that lucky to have a choice. Driving through Downtown was like a haunted house, only a few windows high up on skyscrapers, had the lights on. Like eerie, yellow eyes staring down on the little man.

The bridge across from Downtown to East Los Santos was empty, looming over Mission Row, as I turned the car in and down into the parking garage below the station. The rain could still be heard, battering at concrete and tarmac all the same. I looked at my watch, we were here fifteen minutes earlier than needed, so when we got up the stairs, I went to get a cup of coffee from the dispenser. Black, of course. As we passed the homicide department, I could see through the window, that the whiteboard for putting details onto, had already been cleaned up. Knowing the Bulldog, it would likely had been the first, the best, officer, he met as he came in. I knocked a few times on the tinted glass on the Bulldog’s door. The handle turned and the door opened.

The office was fairly large and well-lid, but the presence of the Bulldog, did take the focus off of the rest of the room. Besides the Bulldog himself, there was only one other person in the room, a young, red-haired police assistant, I didn’t know her name. Then again, most of the people I knew on the force, have now retired or perished from police work in other ways. A fancy overhead projector had been set up on a table, the dim blue light fitting on a whiteboard on the wall. Must have been the girl’s work, the Bulldog was notoriously bad at anything that resembled technology. Back in the old days, we used chalk and post-it notes on a black board for these info boards on cases. The Bulldog cleared his throat to gain our attention.

“Alright, we don’t know much about the body yet, other than it’s a Caucasian male. The body was discovered by some punks, racing dirt bikes on the slopes of the river, that was two hours ago, at 2 am. Carlos is already down there, setting up, so he can give you more details, I reckon. We assume that this is not a gang crime, but we cannot, as of yet, completely rule it out. We’ve got the punks sitting in the interview rooms, their bikes weren’t registered anywhere. But head down and talk to Carlos first, see what you can figure out.”

The Sensation of Nothing Inside

A painting, framed
Yet without concerns
For the art around it
Slowly, a hollow palette of colours, washed off
A blank slate, with a hint of teasing

Despite the brushes
And the countless spots
It feels as though
No thought was put into the creation of everything
Rather, the slate looks to me

I’m no painter
But I need the frame
It keeps me together
I’ve come to learn, that two parts of my frame remains
No matter where I turn or go

It matters to me
As I cling on to the frame
Trying to be strong
Even though when it comes to it, I’m only faking it all
I have no one to tell this to

Seeing a jar of paint
I hold the brush without
Knowing what to do
Or where to even begin to explain myself
If I only I knew what to do

I see my friends move
In life, in love, in death
Yet my world stands still
I’m scared to move on my own, I need someone to cling to
I need an extra frame

I look at the slate once more
I realise that time passes
And it dawns upon me
The world is moving alright, it is only me who don’t know how to follow
And the paint on the slate is not me

I stain the frame
As I try to paint myself
I cannot keep doing this
Running out of paint, out of hope, my misery seems to keep me afloat
Although it stops the painting

Once more this feeling
Of being left to handle myself
Without knowledge of how I’d do that
If I’d call out for help, I’d be rejected and my frames would move away
And so, I stay silent, like a painting, slowly losing it’s frames

Fifty Shades of Paws

So, someone tasked me to “Write a Fifty Shades of Grey-esque piece, but where Mr. Grey is a cat.” Now, I have never read Fifty Shades of Grey, so what I’ve made is entirely out of my own imagination, guessing my way ahead:

“She sat waiting in the dark office, her back towards the door. A silent click, a beam of light. She couldn’t see it, but she knew it was him. She could hear his soft paws on the hard office floor, her cheeks flushed.

Mr. Fluffykins smirked under his small, black nose. His pet was here, he had trained her well, she was silent until he said otherwise. Beside the smirk, his face showed no expression for or against her being there. He knew she would come sooner or later. Assuring his dominance over her, he rubbed his back against her bare calves, she wore a short skirt, and he could smell her scents. Knowingly, he brushed his soft tail up under her thigh, making her twitch in the chair. He didn’t say a thing, when he jumped into her lap, he was in control of that, anyway. A slight moan escaped her lips, and her cheeks flushed red again. A disapproving look from him quickly brought her to silence once more.”