- Home
- Alexander Danner
After The Wedding and The Woman Who Could Smell the Future: Two Stories Page 2
After The Wedding and The Woman Who Could Smell the Future: Two Stories Read online
Page 2
those are the pertinent details that lead up to Jordan’s present situation, hiding in an empty room across from the office of a magazine editor, long after business hours, hoping to prevent a murder. Yes, she’d actually “sniffed out crime” for once—even she rolled her eyes at that realization.
The editor’s name was Elliot Clark, and Jordan had been in his office twelve hours earlier interviewing for a freelance gig with the publishing house’s new magazine on container gardening. It was dull work, but Jordan had an opening in her schedule and was really hoping to put aside some money for a trip to Wisconsin (she’d always enjoyed both cold weather and cheese, so Wisconsin seemed something of a Shangri-La to her.). The interview was proceeding well—Jordan was personable and well qualified, so she had a better than fair chance at the job. Halfway through the interview, however, Jordan became distracted by an unmistakable odor; the acrid tang of gunpowder hung about the room, roughly twelve hours hence. She recognized the odor immediately—she’d been shot once herself, when she broke into a paper warehouse to put out a fire started by a faulty coffee pot. The night watchmen naturally felt awful once he found out that the intruder he’d shot had actually saved the warehouse—but then he was fired, and he didn’t worry so much about Jordan after that.
Jordan was fortunate in that instance; the shot had only grazed her arm and the paper company had been only too happy to cover her medical expenses, in light of the major catastrophe she had averted. Still, it had been among the most frightening experiences of her life, and the associated scent had stayed with her ever since.
So, now, here she was, hiding in a conference room, spying on her potential future employer, whom she still hoped was going to hire her to write three thousand words about stupid little potted herbs. For the moment, Clark was alone, which suggested the possibility of suicide rather than murder. But Clark didn’t look much like he was planning to kill himself—he was working at his computer, plugged into an iPod, bobbing his head to whatever tune he was listening to. He was obviously under deadline pressure, or he wouldn’t be at the office so late at night, but he didn’t much seem to mind being there either.
Sure enough, after several minutes, another figure appeared. A woman in her mid-thirties, decidedly peeved in expression, and carrying—surprise—a modest handgun. At least now Jordan knew who was planning to shoot whom. That question had given her some worry; it would be humiliating to come to the aid of the wrong person, only to make the killer’s work that much easier.
And so, with all pertinent mysteries resolved, it was officially time for the ridiculous part. Jordan sighed heavily and hefted her fire extinguisher (she had no real weapons, so she had decided to just stick with the equipment she already knew), and quietly waited for the woman to turn her back. She didn’t have to wait long—the woman was quite direct about her task, heading straight to Clark’s door and raising the gun. A short blast from the fire extinguisher was enough to distract her. As she began to turn, Jordan brought the extinguisher down on her head, hard enough to knock her out, though (she hoped) not hard enough to cause any permanent damage. The gun discharged once, as she had known it would have to, but the bullet passed harmlessly through a wall into the empty office next door, where it lodged in the side of another editor’s desk.
Jordan kicked the gun away from the woman, across the hall, and into the conference room she’d been hiding in.
Clark, finally on his feet by this point, was looking back and forth between Jordan and the shooter with some distress.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No,” said Jordan before making her exit.
Back home, she deposited her shoes, coat, and fire extinguisher in the coat closet, as she did every evening. It was late, and Mark had already eaten. Now he was relaxing with glass of beer, something dark and malty that he had brewed himself. The basement was perpetually cluttered with bottles and vats of his ongoing projects. (If only she had such a practical skill!).
“How was the interview?” he asked, putting the beer down on the coffee table.
Jordan sighed as she dropped down beside him on the couch. “It went fine at first, but the guy seemed pretty distracted by the end,” said Jordan. “Honestly, I’m not sure he’ll even be that focused on filling the position.”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said, winding his arms around her from the side, as he placed his chin on her shoulder. “But it really didn’t sound like an assignment you’d have enjoyed anyway. You can do better.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’d like to.”
She sniffed, not really meaning to spy on the future, but there it was anyway: Blueberries. Blueberry pancakes several hours off. Breakfast. And a few days after that…dirt?
Dirt and basil? Oregano?
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it went better than I thought.”
After a moment, she stood and stretched. “Anyway, I think I’ll turn in early,” she said, leaving Mark to his beer.
She wasn’t long in falling asleep, and in her sleep she dreamed that she could do better, that she was better. In her dream she could outrun bullets, or snatch them from the air. In her dream, Wisconsin was within her grasp, any time she wanted it; in her dream, she could fly.
About the Author
Alexander Danner's fiction has appeared in the science fiction anthologies Machine of Death and The Girl at the End of the World, as well as the audio fiction magazine Bound Off, with stories forthcoming in Fantasy Scroll and Event. He also writes comics, and is a contributor to the Colonial Comics anthology series.
He teaches courses in the craft and literature of graphic novels at Emerson College, and is a bookseller at Porter Square Books in Cambridge, MA.
Danner is also President of The Writers' Room of Boston, a non-profit organization dedicated to providing secure, affordable workspace for Boston-area writers.
Find me online at www.TwentySevenLetters.com and TwoForNo.net.
Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/alexanderdanner
E-mail him at [email protected]
Books by Alexander Danner
Plays
Parens.
Cubicles: A Post-Apocalyptic Office Comedy
Stories
Aneurysm and The Glacier's Stone, the Mammoth's Ivory
Online
Comics
Gingerbread Houses (Illustrated by Edward J. Grug III)
In Print
Textbook
Comics: A Global History, 1968 to the Present (with Dan Mazur)
Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
Share this book with friends
The editor’s name was Elliot Clark, and Jordan had been in his office twelve hours earlier interviewing for a freelance gig with the publishing house’s new magazine on container gardening. It was dull work, but Jordan had an opening in her schedule and was really hoping to put aside some money for a trip to Wisconsin (she’d always enjoyed both cold weather and cheese, so Wisconsin seemed something of a Shangri-La to her.). The interview was proceeding well—Jordan was personable and well qualified, so she had a better than fair chance at the job. Halfway through the interview, however, Jordan became distracted by an unmistakable odor; the acrid tang of gunpowder hung about the room, roughly twelve hours hence. She recognized the odor immediately—she’d been shot once herself, when she broke into a paper warehouse to put out a fire started by a faulty coffee pot. The night watchmen naturally felt awful once he found out that the intruder he’d shot had actually saved the warehouse—but then he was fired, and he didn’t worry so much about Jordan after that.
Jordan was fortunate in that instance; the shot had only grazed her arm and the paper company had been only too happy to cover her medical expenses, in light of the major catastrophe she had averted. Still, it had been among the most frightening experiences of her life, and the associated scent had stayed with her ever since.
So, now, here she was, hiding in a conference room, spying on her potential future employer, whom she still hoped was going to hire her to write three thousand words about stupid little potted herbs. For the moment, Clark was alone, which suggested the possibility of suicide rather than murder. But Clark didn’t look much like he was planning to kill himself—he was working at his computer, plugged into an iPod, bobbing his head to whatever tune he was listening to. He was obviously under deadline pressure, or he wouldn’t be at the office so late at night, but he didn’t much seem to mind being there either.
Sure enough, after several minutes, another figure appeared. A woman in her mid-thirties, decidedly peeved in expression, and carrying—surprise—a modest handgun. At least now Jordan knew who was planning to shoot whom. That question had given her some worry; it would be humiliating to come to the aid of the wrong person, only to make the killer’s work that much easier.
And so, with all pertinent mysteries resolved, it was officially time for the ridiculous part. Jordan sighed heavily and hefted her fire extinguisher (she had no real weapons, so she had decided to just stick with the equipment she already knew), and quietly waited for the woman to turn her back. She didn’t have to wait long—the woman was quite direct about her task, heading straight to Clark’s door and raising the gun. A short blast from the fire extinguisher was enough to distract her. As she began to turn, Jordan brought the extinguisher down on her head, hard enough to knock her out, though (she hoped) not hard enough to cause any permanent damage. The gun discharged once, as she had known it would have to, but the bullet passed harmlessly through a wall into the empty office next door, where it lodged in the side of another editor’s desk.
Jordan kicked the gun away from the woman, across the hall, and into the conference room she’d been hiding in.
Clark, finally on his feet by this point, was looking back and forth between Jordan and the shooter with some distress.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No,” said Jordan before making her exit.
Back home, she deposited her shoes, coat, and fire extinguisher in the coat closet, as she did every evening. It was late, and Mark had already eaten. Now he was relaxing with glass of beer, something dark and malty that he had brewed himself. The basement was perpetually cluttered with bottles and vats of his ongoing projects. (If only she had such a practical skill!).
“How was the interview?” he asked, putting the beer down on the coffee table.
Jordan sighed as she dropped down beside him on the couch. “It went fine at first, but the guy seemed pretty distracted by the end,” said Jordan. “Honestly, I’m not sure he’ll even be that focused on filling the position.”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said, winding his arms around her from the side, as he placed his chin on her shoulder. “But it really didn’t sound like an assignment you’d have enjoyed anyway. You can do better.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’d like to.”
She sniffed, not really meaning to spy on the future, but there it was anyway: Blueberries. Blueberry pancakes several hours off. Breakfast. And a few days after that…dirt?
Dirt and basil? Oregano?
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it went better than I thought.”
After a moment, she stood and stretched. “Anyway, I think I’ll turn in early,” she said, leaving Mark to his beer.
She wasn’t long in falling asleep, and in her sleep she dreamed that she could do better, that she was better. In her dream she could outrun bullets, or snatch them from the air. In her dream, Wisconsin was within her grasp, any time she wanted it; in her dream, she could fly.
About the Author
Alexander Danner's fiction has appeared in the science fiction anthologies Machine of Death and The Girl at the End of the World, as well as the audio fiction magazine Bound Off, with stories forthcoming in Fantasy Scroll and Event. He also writes comics, and is a contributor to the Colonial Comics anthology series.
He teaches courses in the craft and literature of graphic novels at Emerson College, and is a bookseller at Porter Square Books in Cambridge, MA.
Danner is also President of The Writers' Room of Boston, a non-profit organization dedicated to providing secure, affordable workspace for Boston-area writers.
Find me online at www.TwentySevenLetters.com and TwoForNo.net.
Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/alexanderdanner
E-mail him at [email protected]
Books by Alexander Danner
Plays
Parens.
Cubicles: A Post-Apocalyptic Office Comedy
Stories
Aneurysm and The Glacier's Stone, the Mammoth's Ivory
Online
Comics
Gingerbread Houses (Illustrated by Edward J. Grug III)
In Print
Textbook
Comics: A Global History, 1968 to the Present (with Dan Mazur)
Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
Share this book with friends
After The Wedding and The Woman Who Could Smell the Future: Two Stories