Write new fiction for at least ten minutes everyday. It’s so simple. Turn off everything else, but all the other projects away, and just write for ten minutes. — Shaunta Grimes, “The One Thing That Matters for Fiction Writers”

Challenge accepted. I probably won’t post all, or even nearly all, my exercises of this sort here, but I figure if I kick off with one and then fall silent for an extended period, one or more of you will kick my ass back into gear.

Until and unless I get my teeth into a specific project, these will likely be “frags” — fragments, little pieces of plot or dialogue that run around in my head with some frequency but haven’t started to grow the surrounding stories around them.

So …

[In previous unwritten sequence Asa Pine (who is sort of but not quite exactly a “real cop”) accosts Eddie (without physical contact) to ask him some questions and Eddie goes after Pine with a “push dagger”]

—–

The scuffle was over almost before it began. Eddie dabbed at a bloody lip with one shirt sleeve. I adjusted my tie and dropped the knife in my pocket.

“Just what the hell do you want from me, Pine?” he asked.

“Answers. Starting with exactly where you were circa 10 pm on Friday night.”

Smirk. “Well, let’s just say I was enjoying some female companionship.”

“Not good enough. Until I have a real alibi that I can confirm, you’re a suspect. In fact, you’re the suspect.”

“No can do. The lady wouldn’t want our relationship out in the open.”

“Why not?”

“Pillar of the community stuff. Married to someone else stuff. Playing for the other team considerations. And so on, and so forth.”

“I don’t care about any of that unless it’s relevant to who killed Ronnie Storm. If it is, I’ll find out anyway. If it isn’t, your secrets are safe with me.”

“Yeah, but who decides whether or not it’s relevant? And why should I give a shit?”

“Me. Because I can make not giving a shit hurt worse than telling me what I need to know will.”

“Like I said, no can do. There’s more going on here than you know. More than you want to know. Believe me.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s just say …”

Knee in his groin. One hand grasping his collar. Up against the wall. Finger aligned with the bridge of his nose, hovering about an inch from the space separating his eyes.

“No, Eddie, let’s not just say anything. Let’s say the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  Get your part in this over with, before the games begin in earnest.”

“You think you know games, Pine? You don’t know shit. If anyone’s seen me with you, I’m probably dead already. If the wrong people think I talked, there’s no ‘probably’ about it. Speaking of which, you’re probably dead already too.”
—–

Imported from the original KN@PPSTER