Sticky: TABLE OF CONTENTS

You'd expect a book to start on the first page and go from there, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, a blog doesn't work that way: the first post you see is the most recent. So, if you haven't been following the story, you'll need to begin with the last post (which was the first) and move toward the beginning of the blog (which is closest to the end of the story!).

That would be a pain... if it weren't for the clickable table of contents, which can be found in the sidebar, beneath "Followers."

Speaking of "Followers," you ought to be one.

Anyway, I'll try to keep that table of contents up to date.

This particular post is dated far into the future, making it "sticky"-- it'll remain at the top of the blog.

Installment 6, by Caleb Kimbrough

“Young master Douglas, has not your mom taught you that he who leaves his mouth agate welcomes in the ornate?” stated Nigel in a nonchalant fashion, while filling the pipe which he unofficially bequeathed unto his own personship.
Time suddenly became relative in the life of Constable Douglas. So did space for that matter. He could not have told you how long he sat there. He could not have told you which direction was up; in fact, he could not speak at all. But he was very much able to turn a funny tint of streaked red and blue which reminded one of that preposterous flag belonging to those brash Yankes.
“Constable, I do believe it would behoove you to start breathing” said Gabriel with a splintered hint of concern. Mr. Bishop leaned over the table and poured an unknown substance from a pearly looking flask like contraption into the man’s tea. “Now then Douglas, drink your tea. It will work a wonder in, on, and around you.”
Not knowing what to do the constable picked up the cup with his quivering hands and took a large gulp. He cocked his head to the left in turtle fashion and a look of contorted horror commandeered his entire face. The best way to describe the happenings within this poor man’s body is that old poem by Robert Frost. First, his throat was destroyed by fire while a moment later his stomach became a furry of torrential ice causing him to shiver like a wet cat. Eventually the fire consumed his entire essence and it did suffice. Quickly he regained time, space, speech, and enough courage to help him run a rampage. “What the devil are you all on about? You come to my town, take my evidence, interrogate me, tell me I’m going on some tomfoolery adventure, fill me up with a liquid from the pit of Beelzebub, and expect me to obey your every command?!. Let me just tell you right here and now...”
“Pay the waiter constable” said Gabriel as he rose from his seat. “And be quick about it. I need you to show me over to Sam’s schooner. “Sam?” asked Douglas the dazed. “I believe you called him ‘Ol' Ferny.’”
At this Douglas the lion hearted tried to “put his foot down” as he had so many times seen his mother do to his father; however, at this point in history, he lacked her resolve of will. “Alright” he stated begrudgingly, “I will pay the bill, I will take you to Ol’ Fernie’s schooner, and I will even let old frumpy keep that blasted pipe, but will you please just leaVE ME ALONE?
“Mr. Douglas, do you really think that we could leave you in this frame of mind? It would be uncivil. Why, It would be quite pagan of us to leave you now”, winked Nigel.
Mr. Bishop straitened his jacket while arising to his complete height, “My dear Mr. Douglas, I have traversed this entire globe, seen that which no eye was made to behold, discovered knowledge beyond our century, and taken part in more joys and more hurts than your innocent mind can fathom..............

I am beyond all human redemption

...............” With that final statement a frozen mist eclipsed his blue eyes. Professor Gabriel Bishop stepped into a past nightmare, which hung heavy upon every drip of his present life, leaving his future dislocated and maimed. Quickly regaining his unwrinkled composure Mr. Bishop stated, “So believe me when I say: you will be a benefit to us, just as we shall be a benefit to you.”
This peculiar compliment from this peculiar soul, which seemed to be the slightest bit beyond mortality, pored a warming courage over the heart of constable Douglas; a courage which no strong liquid could have brought.

Installment 5, by Scott Cline

Looking at him, you'd have guessed him to be in his early thirties, but just possibly thirty-five. He was in fact forty-one. His blue eyes were striking against the dark brown of his mutton chops, and as penetrating as they were kindly. He wore a grey vest (complemented with gold buttons and pocketwatch chain), along with matching slacks and top hat. Moderately tall and fit, he always dressed this smartly and was always said to look in excellent health; in fact, the longer one was around him, the more "healthy" he seemed to be (years later the Constable told a colleague, "There was an energy about 'im, if you catch my meanin'; he sort o', well, exuded life. A magnetic chap.").

But today, staring at him across the little round table on the café patio, Douglas was thinking nothing so highly of Mr. Bishop: he had just noticed a pair of goggles peeking out of the younger man's vest pocket-- the sort worn by young inventors when riding their contraptions. "Jove blast 'im," he thought with contempt, "the progressive sort." But the Constable could not have been further from the truth.

Mr. Bishop certainly had been the progressive sort. Among the first at his university, actually, while studying on the Continent. His peers--those who comprised the "Au Courant Element" of the student body, anyway--had looked to him as something of a visionary. But, as the movement had become popular, his profound disinclination to be an intellectual sheep (the very disinclination which had resulted in his acceptance of Au Courant thought in the first place) quickly positioned him to reevaluate it; and, upon reevaluating it, he found it to be all bosh. When he said as much, the others leeringly labeled him "Ancienne Courant;" which, although bequeathed as a term of derision, was accepted as a badge of honor. You see, everybody now lived on the edge; therefore, nobody did. The only way to be a rebel anymore was not to be one: backward was the new forward.

"Well now, Mr. Bishop..." The Constable began, removing his bobby with one hand while smoothing his mustache with the other.

"Gabriel," came the abrupt interruption.

The officer squinted, slightly. "Gabriel," he continued after a moment, "Ol' Ferny there hadn't been seen in town for round about a year or so, I guess. Nor 'is schooner. As you claim to have some, uh, connection to 'im, and maybe to his passin'" (here he leaned forward and squinted harder) "I'll be needin' some answers from ya."

"And I'll be needing some from you, Douglas." replied Gabriel Bishop, tersely.

"Well I don't rightly know..." Douglas began.

"No, you don't." Gabriel interrupted again. "Are you in good health?"

Douglas looked even more confused than he normally did. "Well I don't know..."

"Yes, we've covered that," Gabriel cut in. "Now, are you in good health, man!"

Squinting harder than ever, Douglas finally replied, "I've got my mum's stomach is all, but it really only troubles me when my sister makes..."

"Splendid!" Gabriel exclaimed, "Then there's nothing else of note?"

The officer was now thoroughly befuddled. "I'd like to know why my health is of such precious concern to you, mister."

Gabriel gazed at him for a moment, smiling slyly. "Because you're coming with us, of course."

Installment 4, by Jacob Hanby

As our good constable turned, disturbed by the pseudo-investigator (not to mention rather flustered), he took note of an austere gentleman, Mr. Bishop by name, calmly approaching the scene. Accompanying him was a giant of a man, mysterious and mute, who seemed to be bound to the gentleman.

“I, uh, pray your pardon, sirs,” said Constable Douglas, “but we’ve a scene of investigation here. Police matters.”

“This,” answered Mr. Bishop, “is a matter of personal concern, Constable. The deceased is no stranger to me. As for you, Nigel,” addressing the vagabond who had lit the remainder of the admired leaf, “have a care. Honor the memory of our courageous captain.”

“Ah, so this dolt is under your command, eh? I’m looking to lock him up, tamperin’ with evidence and all.” Our constable feigned control, feeling reassured by the competency and command of Bishop. “Now, I’ll be needing to ask some questions of the both of you.”

“I count Nigel a friend, Constable,” answered Bishop. “You’ll accord him the respect of a gentleman,” now shooting a glance toward Nigel, “though his actions often warrant otherwise. Now, you shall hear our story. Be aware, you may find our account difficult to believe. It would do us all good to add a cup of tea into this equation. It’s half-past three, after all.”

After the constable put his deputy to caring for the scene, our company made their way into a nearby café. Now, a description of this Mr. Bishop is in order.

Installment 3, by PJ Wehry

NOTE: This is the only installment made by PJ Wehry. He decided not to continue with this project after this post.

“He's your grandfather?” exclaimed the constable.

The vagabond shrugged. “No, but he's got a great taste in pipes.”

“Put back the pipe, that's material evidence that is.”

“No!” The hobo was indignant. He held out the object in question.“This is a fine piece of work. My dad had one just like it.”

“He did, did he?” said the constable. The hobo just grunted and turned back to the corpse. “Where did you say that mark on your head came from again?”

“I didn't,” said the hobo, cocking his head to one side. “Here now, there's two little marks on his neck.”

The constable craned his neck over, almost hitting the hobo. “Now what would do that?”

The constable shivered. “Vampire?”

The hobo rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Let's make that a decisive no before we have flocks of women screaming in the street and wearing their finest nightgowns to bed.” He tapped the pipe stem against his filthy unshaven lip. “What would do that?” he murmured to himself.

The constable pointed a finger at him. “Put back that pipe, or...” the constable thrust his hand at the hobo, “Give it here.”

The hobo waved him off with the pipe, still staring at the two marks on the dead man's neck. He leaned over and sniffed. Sticking out a finger, he touched the neck and gently patted his tongue. The constable gagged and turned away.

Installment 2, by Caleb Kimbrough

Now, by “unexpected fellow” you must realize that I mean unknown and untidy thus making him unwanted and unwelcomed. You can limn the middle aged constable to the king of beasts, but only if you’re familiar with dandy lions. He thrived under shelter; having once only strayed from his womblike town. The largest happening beneath his sworn duty was the evening O’Tullie drank seven too many and in his stooper of mind forced MacGregor’s sheep into an almost stampede through the more than empty road of this safe haven. The brave constable lost all nerve to punish young O’Tullie after witnessing the horrendous bum lashing given from granny Greene. This small town was gorgeous.

“Unique pipe” stated the stranger in an almost inquisitive fashion. “Not half so curious as that mark along your noggin, STRANGER.” retorted the constable in his barricade tone. Suddenly yet accidentally, “You can’t do that!” squeemed from the lips of the towns alfa-lion. “You expect me to allow such pipe weed to be wasted constable? Smear shame upon your nose for such thoughts” replied the smiling voice of the sojourner as he relit the deceased captain’s pipe.

The constable being embarrassed, and flustered blurted out “Leave now you...you unkept, grave robbing, vagabond. Have you no respect for the passed?” The constable’s sparkey temper put a rather pleasant twinkle in the stranger’s eyes. “Your beginnings do not end with you, Grandfather” spoke the life-liver as he kneeled before the dead; crossing himself most reverently.

Installment 1, by Scott Cline

Fog as thick and smooth as cream, cool but not bitter (unlike the occasional icy spray), shrouded every feature of the wharf; only the dim glow of a few street lamps, not too distant, illumined sparse patches of the night. Dark waters moved restlessly beneath the creaking timbers of the quay, while the relentless toll of some unseen buoy bell reinforced the vague impression that the world held more than the eye knew.

To one side and on a very old bench there sat an even older man. The upturned collar of his pea coat framed a white beard; unruly brows did the same for grey eyes--eyes which told everything and nothing. Sprawling irregularly from under his tweed cap were tussocks of snowy hair, and from the corner of his mouth there hung a curiously carved pipe. The ash which lined its bottom had lain cold for some time, already. So had its owner.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

That was how Constable Douglas found "Old Ferny" a few hours later, the morning’s first beams having begun their disenchanting work on the brume. "Gor!" he exclaimed after issuing a long, low whistle. "Uncanny man goes in an uncanny way. Fits."

Before many minutes had passed, a farrier’s apprentice, early on his way to work, had been sent for the appropriate help; and, before many more minutes had passed, Constable Douglas (who rather wished that he were enjoying a well earned spot of tea) found himself answering the questions of a most unexpected fellow indeed.

About the Project

Three authors...

Scott Cline












Caleb Kimbrough ("Foster")








Jacob Hanby

...are each, in that order, making installments toward a web-based novel.

A fourth...

François de la Culotte à Froufrous

...has offered to fill in whenever an installment is late in coming.

You see, each author is supposed to have one week from the time of the previous author's post to get his own online... if he doesn't, the tardy author misses his turn... and François de la Culotte à Froufrous may jump in.

Each installment will be of no fewer than 250 words and of no more than 750.

The authors may discuss the general trajectory of the meta-narrative... but that will be limited, and that will be all. They will not conspire together regarding specifics of the plot--any given installment might throw the other authors off (it's a bit of a game, and it's going to result in some disjointedness).

No author may edit another's post.

Anyway, if you don't see any action for a few weeks, don't lose heart-- it's coming.

Be sure to add yourself to the "Followers" in the sidebar.

Enjoy!