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A random story from my mind:
Chapter 1
The porter walked brisquely up and down the platform, not worried, just extremely flustered. The porter had been told that his day would finish early when the 11 train, form Boston to Chicago came in. Edward, the mans' name, was of course thrilled at the news, initially, but now he saw it was a plot, nah, a conspiracy to keep him two hours after his work had ended. "Silly fool", he thought to himself as he clocked the time on his pocketwatch as being 4.00, his suspicions confirmed. Although it is not relevant, a bit about Edward. Edward was a middle aged man of about fourty, who was a train condutor at the Chicago train station, he worked continuously as he was a poor man. Edwards' hair showed the strains of a working life, with his dark brown, niccotine stained, moustache already dappled with grey hairs. Edward had a short hair cut, for the warm Chicago and a knitted jumper for the cold winters ; Edward was wearing this despite the warmth of the summers day. He suspected he had the flu as he blew on his chapped and frozen hands. "Bloody summers", he chuntered to himself when he heard the whistle of the 11 train. "At bloody last",he said.
* * * * *
Chapter 2:
The train rocked and Mr.Auldays lunch was being continually jurked out of his hands, just when he forked his tuna. Mr. Audlay, or Bob as he was named, was an English born and bred journalist, who was used to first class train rides, not being bustled into his compartment, the wrong one, by some pushy yanks. It was with this stale thought in mind that he decided his mouth was dry, he finally decided to get up and buy a glass of port form the buffet carriage. He had been silently toying with the idea in his mind for hours, so it was now, with a slight resignation (as, for a punishment exercise, had decided not to spend his abundunce of money on these "Yanks")that he headed towards the front of the train.
As he passed the smokers in the carriage joins, why he didn't usually venture off in a train, he stooped his head and shoulders as he walked through the train's compartments. Bob Audlay stooped as he was a considerably tall man, and the carriages' were considerably small. Bob passed the lavatory on the way to freshen up (some vandal had written "bogs" on the door, but Bob was a rich, English, snob and disliked the term). He used his razor to make sure none of the scratchy stubble was left on his cheeks and he thought it untidy, especially as he was about to meet a smart business client.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a friendly, New Orleans, bred American. Bob had decided not to like him earlier, and he never changed his mind.
"Hi", said the American perkily
No response from the resolute Bob
The American tried again "Hello", he said tentatively
Again, no response
The American gave up and went to dry his hands.
"Well have a good day", the American persisted
This tugged a string "Oh do be quiet", exasperated Bob, as he had just considered he was on the wrong train.
Moodily, Bob swept out of the toilet. "Suit yourself", thought the American. Bob huffily strode down the corridior and angrily brushed agianst a tall man in an over coat, as he headed back to the relative safety of his compartment, for the remainder of the journey.
* * * * *
Chapter 3:
The usual hustle and bustle unsued as, finally, the number eleven train pulled up at Chicago station, at 11 0'clock, two hours behind schedule.
The afore mentioned porter, Edward, ran hurriedly along the platform to an enraged Bob Aulay, and he tryed to sooth him into submission, and Bob was having none of it. Bob had abandoned his silky and natured British accent and his face was a livid palour.
"Im bloody two hours late", he screamed at Edward
"Calm down, sir", soothed Edward
"Calm down, Calm bloody down!", Bob shrieked, "I'm two f%*@ing hours late"
"Yes, yes I know your' problem, sir....." said Edward calmly
"You don't understand my problem", rasped Bob in a now icy voice
"I think I do, I am late for my lunch", Edward, too, had abondoned politeness and formality
"We're all in the same boat, buddy", piped someone in the crowd
"Shutup", Bob rudely stated
"Now look here...."
"No you....",Bob was at a loss for words.
"Bloody yanks", he screamed as he stromed off down the platform
A tall man in an overcoat stepped out into the scene of chaos unfolding on the platform. Yet he wasn't phased by any of it. He stood in the middle of the platform and unwrapped a fine Cuban cigar, a rich clients' present, and dutifully lit the end. He reflectively stared into matters above the scene of chaos, into the sky. It was a bright, warm sunny day and the birds were circling, swooping and chirping. He was back. Stoat Muldoon back to run his families' legacy.
There was a slight chill on the platform, despite the fact that it was a warm day, and Stoat was glad of his "trademark" overcoat. Stoat looked the part of his families' job down to every minute detail, his waxed and curled moustache down to (or rather, up to) his scanning, bright blue eyes. His tiny goatee pointed the way of his face, out towards the inner sanctums of Chicago. His overcoat flapped loosely over his grey flannel shirt, which bore the Muldoon detective agency emblem, a rose behind wire. Simple, unique and stunning ; yet unfathomable...
And so unfolds the tale of Detective Stoat Muldoon...
Hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to comment on it.
Handy Man
Chapter 1
The porter walked brisquely up and down the platform, not worried, just extremely flustered. The porter had been told that his day would finish early when the 11 train, form Boston to Chicago came in. Edward, the mans' name, was of course thrilled at the news, initially, but now he saw it was a plot, nah, a conspiracy to keep him two hours after his work had ended. "Silly fool", he thought to himself as he clocked the time on his pocketwatch as being 4.00, his suspicions confirmed. Although it is not relevant, a bit about Edward. Edward was a middle aged man of about fourty, who was a train condutor at the Chicago train station, he worked continuously as he was a poor man. Edwards' hair showed the strains of a working life, with his dark brown, niccotine stained, moustache already dappled with grey hairs. Edward had a short hair cut, for the warm Chicago and a knitted jumper for the cold winters ; Edward was wearing this despite the warmth of the summers day. He suspected he had the flu as he blew on his chapped and frozen hands. "Bloody summers", he chuntered to himself when he heard the whistle of the 11 train. "At bloody last",he said.
* * * * *
Chapter 2:
The train rocked and Mr.Auldays lunch was being continually jurked out of his hands, just when he forked his tuna. Mr. Audlay, or Bob as he was named, was an English born and bred journalist, who was used to first class train rides, not being bustled into his compartment, the wrong one, by some pushy yanks. It was with this stale thought in mind that he decided his mouth was dry, he finally decided to get up and buy a glass of port form the buffet carriage. He had been silently toying with the idea in his mind for hours, so it was now, with a slight resignation (as, for a punishment exercise, had decided not to spend his abundunce of money on these "Yanks")that he headed towards the front of the train.
As he passed the smokers in the carriage joins, why he didn't usually venture off in a train, he stooped his head and shoulders as he walked through the train's compartments. Bob Audlay stooped as he was a considerably tall man, and the carriages' were considerably small. Bob passed the lavatory on the way to freshen up (some vandal had written "bogs" on the door, but Bob was a rich, English, snob and disliked the term). He used his razor to make sure none of the scratchy stubble was left on his cheeks and he thought it untidy, especially as he was about to meet a smart business client.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a friendly, New Orleans, bred American. Bob had decided not to like him earlier, and he never changed his mind.
"Hi", said the American perkily
No response from the resolute Bob
The American tried again "Hello", he said tentatively
Again, no response
The American gave up and went to dry his hands.
"Well have a good day", the American persisted
This tugged a string "Oh do be quiet", exasperated Bob, as he had just considered he was on the wrong train.
Moodily, Bob swept out of the toilet. "Suit yourself", thought the American. Bob huffily strode down the corridior and angrily brushed agianst a tall man in an over coat, as he headed back to the relative safety of his compartment, for the remainder of the journey.
* * * * *
Chapter 3:
The usual hustle and bustle unsued as, finally, the number eleven train pulled up at Chicago station, at 11 0'clock, two hours behind schedule.
The afore mentioned porter, Edward, ran hurriedly along the platform to an enraged Bob Aulay, and he tryed to sooth him into submission, and Bob was having none of it. Bob had abandoned his silky and natured British accent and his face was a livid palour.
"Im bloody two hours late", he screamed at Edward
"Calm down, sir", soothed Edward
"Calm down, Calm bloody down!", Bob shrieked, "I'm two f%*@ing hours late"
"Yes, yes I know your' problem, sir....." said Edward calmly
"You don't understand my problem", rasped Bob in a now icy voice
"I think I do, I am late for my lunch", Edward, too, had abondoned politeness and formality
"We're all in the same boat, buddy", piped someone in the crowd
"Shutup", Bob rudely stated
"Now look here...."
"No you....",Bob was at a loss for words.
"Bloody yanks", he screamed as he stromed off down the platform
A tall man in an overcoat stepped out into the scene of chaos unfolding on the platform. Yet he wasn't phased by any of it. He stood in the middle of the platform and unwrapped a fine Cuban cigar, a rich clients' present, and dutifully lit the end. He reflectively stared into matters above the scene of chaos, into the sky. It was a bright, warm sunny day and the birds were circling, swooping and chirping. He was back. Stoat Muldoon back to run his families' legacy.
There was a slight chill on the platform, despite the fact that it was a warm day, and Stoat was glad of his "trademark" overcoat. Stoat looked the part of his families' job down to every minute detail, his waxed and curled moustache down to (or rather, up to) his scanning, bright blue eyes. His tiny goatee pointed the way of his face, out towards the inner sanctums of Chicago. His overcoat flapped loosely over his grey flannel shirt, which bore the Muldoon detective agency emblem, a rose behind wire. Simple, unique and stunning ; yet unfathomable...
And so unfolds the tale of Detective Stoat Muldoon...
Hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to comment on it.
Handy Man
Black Glove wrote:
> And the name, Stoat Muldoon, I ain't never heard a man named after a
> small Eurasian mammal with a brown coat and a black tipped tail,
> closely related to the weasel...
Its the name of an alien hunter guy in butt ugly martians, it was on CITV.
> And the name, Stoat Muldoon, I ain't never heard a man named after a
> small Eurasian mammal with a brown coat and a black tipped tail,
> closely related to the weasel...
Its the name of an alien hunter guy in butt ugly martians, it was on CITV.
Thanks, I guess...
A couple of sentences knocked me off balance, but the mini-chapters meant it was direct and moved along swiftly in an easy to visualize manner.
And the name, Stoat Muldoon, I ain't never heard a man named after a small Eurasian mammal with a brown coat and a black tipped tail, closely related to the weasel...
And the name, Stoat Muldoon, I ain't never heard a man named after a small Eurasian mammal with a brown coat and a black tipped tail, closely related to the weasel...
A random story from my mind:
Chapter 1
The porter walked brisquely up and down the platform, not worried, just extremely flustered. The porter had been told that his day would finish early when the 11 train, form Boston to Chicago came in. Edward, the mans' name, was of course thrilled at the news, initially, but now he saw it was a plot, nah, a conspiracy to keep him two hours after his work had ended. "Silly fool", he thought to himself as he clocked the time on his pocketwatch as being 4.00, his suspicions confirmed. Although it is not relevant, a bit about Edward. Edward was a middle aged man of about fourty, who was a train condutor at the Chicago train station, he worked continuously as he was a poor man. Edwards' hair showed the strains of a working life, with his dark brown, niccotine stained, moustache already dappled with grey hairs. Edward had a short hair cut, for the warm Chicago and a knitted jumper for the cold winters ; Edward was wearing this despite the warmth of the summers day. He suspected he had the flu as he blew on his chapped and frozen hands. "Bloody summers", he chuntered to himself when he heard the whistle of the 11 train. "At bloody last",he said.
* * * * *
Chapter 2:
The train rocked and Mr.Auldays lunch was being continually jurked out of his hands, just when he forked his tuna. Mr. Audlay, or Bob as he was named, was an English born and bred journalist, who was used to first class train rides, not being bustled into his compartment, the wrong one, by some pushy yanks. It was with this stale thought in mind that he decided his mouth was dry, he finally decided to get up and buy a glass of port form the buffet carriage. He had been silently toying with the idea in his mind for hours, so it was now, with a slight resignation (as, for a punishment exercise, had decided not to spend his abundunce of money on these "Yanks")that he headed towards the front of the train.
As he passed the smokers in the carriage joins, why he didn't usually venture off in a train, he stooped his head and shoulders as he walked through the train's compartments. Bob Audlay stooped as he was a considerably tall man, and the carriages' were considerably small. Bob passed the lavatory on the way to freshen up (some vandal had written "bogs" on the door, but Bob was a rich, English, snob and disliked the term). He used his razor to make sure none of the scratchy stubble was left on his cheeks and he thought it untidy, especially as he was about to meet a smart business client.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a friendly, New Orleans, bred American. Bob had decided not to like him earlier, and he never changed his mind.
"Hi", said the American perkily
No response from the resolute Bob
The American tried again "Hello", he said tentatively
Again, no response
The American gave up and went to dry his hands.
"Well have a good day", the American persisted
This tugged a string "Oh do be quiet", exasperated Bob, as he had just considered he was on the wrong train.
Moodily, Bob swept out of the toilet. "Suit yourself", thought the American. Bob huffily strode down the corridior and angrily brushed agianst a tall man in an over coat, as he headed back to the relative safety of his compartment, for the remainder of the journey.
* * * * *
Chapter 3:
The usual hustle and bustle unsued as, finally, the number eleven train pulled up at Chicago station, at 11 0'clock, two hours behind schedule.
The afore mentioned porter, Edward, ran hurriedly along the platform to an enraged Bob Aulay, and he tryed to sooth him into submission, and Bob was having none of it. Bob had abandoned his silky and natured British accent and his face was a livid palour.
"Im bloody two hours late", he screamed at Edward
"Calm down, sir", soothed Edward
"Calm down, Calm bloody down!", Bob shrieked, "I'm two f%*@ing hours late"
"Yes, yes I know your' problem, sir....." said Edward calmly
"You don't understand my problem", rasped Bob in a now icy voice
"I think I do, I am late for my lunch", Edward, too, had abondoned politeness and formality
"We're all in the same boat, buddy", piped someone in the crowd
"Shutup", Bob rudely stated
"Now look here...."
"No you....",Bob was at a loss for words.
"Bloody yanks", he screamed as he stromed off down the platform
A tall man in an overcoat stepped out into the scene of chaos unfolding on the platform. Yet he wasn't phased by any of it. He stood in the middle of the platform and unwrapped a fine Cuban cigar, a rich clients' present, and dutifully lit the end. He reflectively stared into matters above the scene of chaos, into the sky. It was a bright, warm sunny day and the birds were circling, swooping and chirping. He was back. Stoat Muldoon back to run his families' legacy.
There was a slight chill on the platform, despite the fact that it was a warm day, and Stoat was glad of his "trademark" overcoat. Stoat looked the part of his families' job down to every minute detail, his waxed and curled moustache down to (or rather, up to) his scanning, bright blue eyes. His tiny goatee pointed the way of his face, out towards the inner sanctums of Chicago. His overcoat flapped loosely over his grey flannel shirt, which bore the Muldoon detective agency emblem, a rose behind wire. Simple, unique and stunning ; yet unfathomable...
And so unfolds the tale of Detective Stoat Muldoon...
Hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to comment on it.
Handy Man
Chapter 1
The porter walked brisquely up and down the platform, not worried, just extremely flustered. The porter had been told that his day would finish early when the 11 train, form Boston to Chicago came in. Edward, the mans' name, was of course thrilled at the news, initially, but now he saw it was a plot, nah, a conspiracy to keep him two hours after his work had ended. "Silly fool", he thought to himself as he clocked the time on his pocketwatch as being 4.00, his suspicions confirmed. Although it is not relevant, a bit about Edward. Edward was a middle aged man of about fourty, who was a train condutor at the Chicago train station, he worked continuously as he was a poor man. Edwards' hair showed the strains of a working life, with his dark brown, niccotine stained, moustache already dappled with grey hairs. Edward had a short hair cut, for the warm Chicago and a knitted jumper for the cold winters ; Edward was wearing this despite the warmth of the summers day. He suspected he had the flu as he blew on his chapped and frozen hands. "Bloody summers", he chuntered to himself when he heard the whistle of the 11 train. "At bloody last",he said.
* * * * *
Chapter 2:
The train rocked and Mr.Auldays lunch was being continually jurked out of his hands, just when he forked his tuna. Mr. Audlay, or Bob as he was named, was an English born and bred journalist, who was used to first class train rides, not being bustled into his compartment, the wrong one, by some pushy yanks. It was with this stale thought in mind that he decided his mouth was dry, he finally decided to get up and buy a glass of port form the buffet carriage. He had been silently toying with the idea in his mind for hours, so it was now, with a slight resignation (as, for a punishment exercise, had decided not to spend his abundunce of money on these "Yanks")that he headed towards the front of the train.
As he passed the smokers in the carriage joins, why he didn't usually venture off in a train, he stooped his head and shoulders as he walked through the train's compartments. Bob Audlay stooped as he was a considerably tall man, and the carriages' were considerably small. Bob passed the lavatory on the way to freshen up (some vandal had written "bogs" on the door, but Bob was a rich, English, snob and disliked the term). He used his razor to make sure none of the scratchy stubble was left on his cheeks and he thought it untidy, especially as he was about to meet a smart business client.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a friendly, New Orleans, bred American. Bob had decided not to like him earlier, and he never changed his mind.
"Hi", said the American perkily
No response from the resolute Bob
The American tried again "Hello", he said tentatively
Again, no response
The American gave up and went to dry his hands.
"Well have a good day", the American persisted
This tugged a string "Oh do be quiet", exasperated Bob, as he had just considered he was on the wrong train.
Moodily, Bob swept out of the toilet. "Suit yourself", thought the American. Bob huffily strode down the corridior and angrily brushed agianst a tall man in an over coat, as he headed back to the relative safety of his compartment, for the remainder of the journey.
* * * * *
Chapter 3:
The usual hustle and bustle unsued as, finally, the number eleven train pulled up at Chicago station, at 11 0'clock, two hours behind schedule.
The afore mentioned porter, Edward, ran hurriedly along the platform to an enraged Bob Aulay, and he tryed to sooth him into submission, and Bob was having none of it. Bob had abandoned his silky and natured British accent and his face was a livid palour.
"Im bloody two hours late", he screamed at Edward
"Calm down, sir", soothed Edward
"Calm down, Calm bloody down!", Bob shrieked, "I'm two f%*@ing hours late"
"Yes, yes I know your' problem, sir....." said Edward calmly
"You don't understand my problem", rasped Bob in a now icy voice
"I think I do, I am late for my lunch", Edward, too, had abondoned politeness and formality
"We're all in the same boat, buddy", piped someone in the crowd
"Shutup", Bob rudely stated
"Now look here...."
"No you....",Bob was at a loss for words.
"Bloody yanks", he screamed as he stromed off down the platform
A tall man in an overcoat stepped out into the scene of chaos unfolding on the platform. Yet he wasn't phased by any of it. He stood in the middle of the platform and unwrapped a fine Cuban cigar, a rich clients' present, and dutifully lit the end. He reflectively stared into matters above the scene of chaos, into the sky. It was a bright, warm sunny day and the birds were circling, swooping and chirping. He was back. Stoat Muldoon back to run his families' legacy.
There was a slight chill on the platform, despite the fact that it was a warm day, and Stoat was glad of his "trademark" overcoat. Stoat looked the part of his families' job down to every minute detail, his waxed and curled moustache down to (or rather, up to) his scanning, bright blue eyes. His tiny goatee pointed the way of his face, out towards the inner sanctums of Chicago. His overcoat flapped loosely over his grey flannel shirt, which bore the Muldoon detective agency emblem, a rose behind wire. Simple, unique and stunning ; yet unfathomable...
And so unfolds the tale of Detective Stoat Muldoon...
Hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to comment on it.
Handy Man