It has now been over a month since my last post. Wow, the time really flies out the window. To the one dust-bunny out there keeping track of who actually writes everyday. I promise I have been, just not here. Well, almost everyday. Most days at least.
I’ve been working on a bit of a manuscript for a short novel, novella, story that isn’t quite short but isn’t long. Whatever label you want to put on that kind of thing. The story focuses on a group of friends, one of whom is a genius, drug-addicted scientist who invents a crazy drug that gives you a vision of your future and through that a time machine. But of course everything goes wrong the whole time.
Beyond that, I, me, myself have been deep into “Game of Thrones” (the actual first book, titled “Game of Thrones”) in eager anticipation for the return of the show on April 6. That show is just too too much, in every kind of good way. Besides that, I’ve been reading “Choose Yourself” by James Altucher. His blog is pretty fantastic. As usual, with human-life I can’t agree with everything he says, but for the most part it’s pretty great.
I don’t know what this post is about. I’m really just rambling on. WordPress sent me an e-mail reminding me that I started this thing and that I’ve been neglecting it like a baby in a crack house. Hm, maybe a quick little short story will come of this. Let us seeeeeeeeeeee! (voice trails off into the distance as a new adventure begins!)
This is just a short little story introducting an idea for a character I have for another story I plan to write. A down on his luck private investigator with a psychic sense of smell.
I Can Smell Your Future
“Depending on your own proclivities towards the reality in which we all preside, you may or may not be aware of the ‘psychic’ phenomenon. A psychic is a person with the fantastical ability to see or sense things that would otherwise be undetectable to the average layperson. Some would say that they see the future or the past, some would say they can sense the presence of spirits, some even hear and speak to the dead or the ‘never-alive’.
“I don’t have any of those particular gifts, but I do have a gift that allows me to call myself a ‘psychic’. I am what the psychic community would call a ‘clairalient’. I smell the presence of the past and future, the dead and the ‘never-alive’. Unfortunately, because of this ability I can’t smell the things that are actually physically around me. I can’t ‘stop and smell the roses’ because I’d actually be stopping to smell what someone 1,500 miles away is having for dinner a week from now.
“Sometimes it is a random sort of ability, giving me strange experiences at strange, usually inopportune times. However, after many years of meditation and practice, I have become fairly in-tune with the ability and can use it for my benefit most of the time. Which makes me realize now that I’m sitting here telling you all of this and I haven’t even introduced myself.
“My name is John Hobbes. I’m a private investigator. John Hobbes, P.I.
“It was only after years of failing at job after job after job that I finally realized my extraordinary sense of smell was only an aside to my actual extraordinary ability to piece together the clues that people leave behind in their daily lives. The clairalience, that’s the psychic smelling, if you forgot, does come in handy on certain cases. Such as the type in which a worried wife comes to me to follow her husband. The smell of a sweaty, fat old-man paying for a younger woman’s college education on the side of his marriage extends fairly well through space-time I’ve come to find.
“I’m sorry. I can’t continue, you really look like you want to say something. Did you want to interject?”
An old woman sat across the table from Mr. John Hobbes, awestruck. She was blinking madly with her lips twisted in a crooked line. “That’s all fine and well, Mr. Hobbes,” she spoke with a porcelain-like voice, “It’s just that I had thought this was the dentist’s office when I came in.”
John Hobbes was in his early 30’s. With shaggy blonde hair, roughly 6 foot tall, and not in nearly as good of shape as he should be for his job. He gave the woman a pouty, frown back. “So you’re telling me, you just sat there and let me explain all of that for no reason?”
“Well, you just seemed so happy to do so. I didn’t want to interrupt.” The old woman gave him a short half smile and then her face turned to a look of concern. “You just seemed like a bit of a lonely man.”
John coughed at that and turned away and he stood up and walked to the opposite side of the room.
“So you have no need of any investigative services?” He had quickly become irritated by the whole situation. There was a new police chief in town who’s brother was also a private detective and the duo had effectively put John Hobbes, P.I. out of business. He noticed people tended to trust the police chief’s brother a bit more than a “psychic detective”.
“Well, no. I just have a pain in my jaw.” The woman reached up and touched her face. “It’s just here. It’s been throbbing a while now and I just can’t hardly sleep because of it.”
John Hobbes sighed a deep breath and raised on eyebrow. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a look at it for half what you pay at your other dentist.”
Before the woman could object, John had turned on his “interrogation light” and had it nearly shoved down her throat. “So will this be cash or credit?”