The Writing Lab of Axel Cushing

The next morning found Edward Lewin well removed from the streets of Polaris.  Walmsley felt a bit put out by that fact as he worked on his breakfast.  Still, it showed Lewin was at least smart enough to realize Walmsley wasn’t making idle threats over the dinner table last night.  It would probably make Walmsley’s mission a little more difficult, since Lewin would almost certainly report to the line boss heading for Polaris, but Walmsley had never been promised the job would go smoothly. Chance came up from the basement with a small brass birdcage in one hand.  Inside was a clockwork canary, its polished feathers gleaming as the mechanical head turned randomly and let out ringing little metallic chirps.  She set the cage down on the table with a smile and a flourish.  “Behold, your medicine.” Walmsley cocked his head to one side.  The bird mimicked the motion and chirped twice.  “And what, pray tell, is this?” “The bird will withdraw aether...

“Seems like an awful lot of people to decide a man’s going to hang,” remarked Horatio Adair dryly. “If he’s going to hang, you mean.”  Wilfred Beverley, being one of the town’s few lawyers, was a stickler for proper use of language.  Particularly when it related to his profession. “Oh come on, Wil!” Adair countered.  “The man’s guilty as hell!  Those quack patent medicines aren’t worth the glass used to bottle them or the paper wasted to label them.” A petite throat cleared to Adair’s left.  “I wouldn’t say that’s entirely accurate, Horatio,” began Vertiline Ruskin slowly.  “Admittedly, some of his wares are useless to say the least.  But whether by accident or design, he has come up with some genuinely useful tonics.  I just hate the idea of him wasting his talents on such chicanery.” “Because that’s a greater crime than what he tried to pull over at Eldon Watson’s place?” asked Thaddeus Causer witheringly.  “Vertie, Eldon’s still not co...

Back in 2016, when National Novel Writing Month was coming around again, I felt like I needed to change things up.  I'd gone through two NaNoWriMos working on the same project (and didn't "finish" it despite making the word count both times), and while I had a great deal of affection for the characters and world I had created in that project, I didn't want to get stuck in a rut creatively.  So, I decided I'd stretch my muscles by doing something in the vein of Deadlands , a supernatural "Weird West" story. I grew up watching Western movies, but strangely hadn't ever particularly enjoyed Western books.  Writers like Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour have never been able to grab me, and Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian was a slog (a well written slog, but not a page turner) for me.  It's always bothered me a little, given my interest in post-Civil War history, that I couldn't get into the popular fiction set in a time period I was so f...

“Where are we with our negotiations in Polaris, Mr. Arwood?” Stedman Arwood struck a match and brought it to the freshly cut cigar, drawing deeply for a few moments.  “To be frank, Mr. Darby, those folks just are not interested in our offer.  Can’t exactly say as I blame them.  After all, they’re dug in pretty heavily, good walls, and those wards of theirs are fit to fry anybody who tries to force their way in.  We’re not precisely offering them anything better.” “We’re offering them survival, Mr. Arwood,” replied Darby over the televox, his normally melodious tenor sounding slightly tinny.  “In this part of the continent, that is a better deal than most get.” “And I don’t disagree, Sir.  But it’s not my disagreement which is a cause for concern.” “They are . . .reluctant to agree?” “No, sir.  They are absolutely intransigent in their disagreement.  And they are putting up a very united front.  I don’t imagine we’re going to be able to g...