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Accents & Dialects (A Voice of Reason Part 2)

Accents & Dialects (A Voice of Reason Part 2)

by | Feb 24, 2016 | A Voice of Reason

Editor’s note: this column on accents first appeared on the Xchyler Publishing blog.

Accents & Dialects

BY PENNY FREEMAN

In my last post, we talked about how choosing the words your characters say helps to develop not only their history, but that of the world around them. In reviewing it, one perfect example of this popped into my head: TV’s Firefly, and its spin-off movie, Serenity. In this series, the screenwriters created an interesting historical backstory simply with the characters’ vocabulary. They interspersed the English with Chinese explicatives and other easily decoded words to hint at a world where the Chinese culture had become dominant.

Today, we’ll discuss how to give your characters regional or cultural “accents” to help develop your writing voice. This can be a perilous proposition, and is done badly far more often than done well. The author must learn to strike a delicate balance between communicating with the reader, allowing the reader to forget the author exists, and giving their characters the desired patois.

The trick: moderation. In spelling, choose one or two particular characteristics of the dialect you want to reproduce, and use it consistently. DO NOT go all out and try and write phonetically. It just doesn’t work. For the reader, the focus then becomes about the letters on the page, rather than the character’s voice in their head.

Here’s an excellent example of how not to do it. (Fortunately for Ms. Talbot, Josie makes only one appearance in the story that goes on to redeem itself.)

Mechanized MasterpiecesFrom “Tropic of Cancer” by Neve Talbot, in Mechanized Masterpieces: a Steampunk Anthology (2013)

Returning to the house from the lagoon, as I strode around the veranda, the sound of voices coming through the open windows of Bertha’s bedchamber arrested my steps.

“I tell you, Josie, the man has the touch. He sets me ablaze.”

“Dat leedle toad, madame? Oh, no. How cood he?”

Bertha laughed. “Not all men can be breeding studs, Josie.”

“Eben so . . . I would nebbah—”

“You do not understand, my girl. The man is an engineer. He makes a science of pleasure. I have never before had such a lover.”

“And Meestah Rochestah?”

“Mr. Rochester is a silly little boy, afraid of his own shadow.”

“Den, why do ye let dat ape touch ye?”

“Because Rottstieger is not here, wantwit. And Rochester—his physique surpasses Julian’s—all of Julian. He is not without promise.”

“Den, ye muds let me hab Julian. You hab no fuddah use ub him.”

“There you are wrong. Should I find the perfect man, with Herr Professor’s technique, Julian’s good looks, and Rochester’s stamina . . . well. Then, you could have my black. But until then, I require all three, especially since Rottstieger has been away for so long.”

“But Rochestah—he will find ye out.”

“Josie, one simply disappears into the cane fields, and Julian has such an appetite by noonday.”

“Rochestah—he promise us a house een down—a proper English house. Ye must mek heem do eet.”

“Patience, my girl. He cannot keep us here forever. After I have trained him up, then you shall have him for a plaything. And then, he shall be so wracked with his silly English guilt, I shall have him wrapped around my finger. He shall have you every night and do whatever I say all day long.”

The maid tittered. “Oh, madam. I could nebbah like heem. He be far too oogly.”

“Close your eyes, you simple thing. The face is not the business end of a man . . . or an ape for that matter.” A chuckle, deep and sensuous. “. . . and betimes one simply must have the beast.”

So, what’s the right way to convey cultural diversity in language—your character’s voice? Here are a few tips:

  • Spelling: choose one or two common phonetic alterations in your spelling. For instance, Ms. Talbot could have chosen to substitute ‘a’ for ‘er’ at the end of sentences, so ‘never’ would have been ‘neva’. However, be consistent, and be sparing.
  • Foreign words: slide in one or two foreign words in contexts the reader will understand, such as endearments or explicatives as in Firefly. Again, use moderation. Often authors will tell themselves that since they’re repeating the English translation in the very next sentence, they have addressed the difficulty while giving the story an “authentic” feel. Yes, it improves the reader’s comprehension/understanding, but it also jerks them out of the narrative as they look to the author to enlighten them. In good writing, the author vanishes; they become the unseen puppetmaster allowing the reader to suspend their disbelief. Don’t spoil that by making the strings obvious, or, worse still, demand the reader follow your directives, expecting them to make the puppets dance. They won’t. That’s not the show they came to see.
  • Idioms. Does your foreigner mangle common phrases? Is it raining dogs and cats? Agatha Christie’s Poirot, for all his brilliance, is great at this.
  • Speech patterns. Different languages follow different rules, but often times the speaker doesn’t quite perfect the translation. For instance, some languages might not use ‘be’ verbs. Others might not use pronouns but always use proper nouns, even in when speaking of themselves. Some languages invert the subject and predicate of a sentence. Easily name an example of this you can. You hear Yoda’s voice in your head. Admit it. Allow these differences to seep into the English and you give the speaker a foreign flair.
  • Vocabulary. Never mind foreign languages. Regional dialects can be just as distinctive. Does your character eat potatoes or spuds or taters? Cookies or biscuits? Do they drink soda or pop or Coke? Fizzy drink, anyone? Do deliveries come in a lorry or truck or van? Would they say, “I slept in this morning because I caught a cold,” or “I had a lie in as I took a chill?” For that matter, do they vomit, throw up, or get sick?
  • Punctuation. Is your character terse? Do they talk in short, clipped sentences, or do they run on and on at lightning speed and never seem to pause to draw breath so you just want to wave your hands and scream STOP! Are they always quick with an answer . . . or, do they pause to think? D-d-d-do they st-st-stutter? Or . . . or . . . or do they stammer now . . . now and again? Do they flit about from one thought to another—this is one of my worse habits—too many dashes. Even silence can speak volumes about a character. All these examples are crammed into one paragraph, and, as you can see, use the tactic too much and it starts to look gimmicky. Moderation.

The Accidental Apprentice by Anika ArringtonMy last example is an excellent one. Author Anika Arrington achieves the near impossible by writing in the vernacular, in first person, in present tense, all while allowing the reader to forget she’s even there. Without stooping to write a crusty old salt’s dialect phonetically, she allows the reader to hear his voice in their head, in all its sea dog glory.

The following excerpt is from the short story, “Sense and Cyborgs,” also found in Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology (2013). As you read it, note how she follows the above rules. (I’m making this long as she’s such a pleasure to read).

From “SENSE AND CYBORGS” by Anika Arrington

No one makes cyborgs like they does in Singapore. That’s why we set sail there when the Cap’n lost his leg. We were sailin’ round the Horn, see, takin’ ships as they come for Her Majesty’s Navy. Privateerin’ ain’t exactly the most honest way for a sailor to make his wage, but least it’s legal.

Well, one great Portuguese tub proved too spirited. One minute we had them on the run, pullin’ the best of their cargo from the hold, the next, our first mate is screamin’ to heaven on high. In all fairness, the cap’n is her husband, but the shrill nature of the female voice ain’t exactly intimidatin’.

“Harris! Harris! Help me!” she’s wailin’ and there’s all manner of fear in her face and blood on her hands. We gets him to his cabin, and she turns to me like I got to know which way’s north now.

“He’ll be all right, Dashwood,” I tells her. “Just do what ye can for him, and I’ll get the crew goin’. Where’re we bound?”

“The Orient,” she says, without no waitin’.

“There’s only one man that can do what we need.”

The only question be’n would the Cap’n make it, and it’s dicey there for a bit. Caught a storm not twelve hours after he regained consciousness, at which point he passed right back out, if you please. The first mate’s still screamin’, but in the way that meant we ain’t moving fast enough for her tastes.

They say it’s bad luck havin’ a woman aboard, but when Mrs. Margaret Dashwood-Campbell gets in high dudgeon, it’s like sailin’ under the command of that Greek Athena, Goddess of War and Wisdom, a thing out o’ legend.

“Mr. Harris, get that sail into position, or your wrinkled brow will spend the journey to Singapore on the Maiden’s head!”

“Aye, Dashwood!” is all you can say, and hop to it.

We all knew she were worried for the cap’n, so we soldiered on, but two days of tossing on the high seas was nearly all we could take. Lucky for us, the storm blew itself out without leaving us becalmed.

Tweren’t easy makin’ fast sail at half rations for so long. Even havin’ the monsoons wid us, there’s more than a few unkind things said ‘bout the cap’n and his first mate.

“Ain’t right sailin’ under a woman,” says Beakman one day at mess. “It’s her bein’ on board got the cap’n hurt. Now only God knows where we’re sailin’ to. I don’t like it. I won’t stand it much longer.”

“Beakman, you are as daft as Harris is old,” says Martin—who ain’t more than three summer’s my junior. “It was Dashwood saved the captain’s life, and we’re sailin’ to Singapore. Everyone knows that.”

“So she says, how do we know she ain’t sailin’ us all to our doom?” Beakman pipes back.

“’Cuz more than one man on this boat can navigate, you great lump,” I puts in. “Just cause you gots kelp and not much else ‘tween yer ears don’t mean the rest of us can’t read a star or two. Now quit yer yammerin’ ‘fore Dashwood finds outs, and decides to clean her knives on yer face.”

In the end, we touched the docks in west Singapore, sweet as you please, ‘bout an hour before sundown, and not sixteen days after the cap’n was injured.

Singapore is a swarm of bodies bumpin’ and jostlin’—a great mix o’ peoples wid all different faces. First Mate Dashwood sets us a haulin’ them heavy crates of goods down, and in the midst of the bustle she calls Martin, Beakman, Boarhead, and meself aside. I enters the cabin, and there’s the captain all laid out in a wooden box. His face beat up and the color of the sail. His leg is missin’, just a great wad of bandages. Next to him is a long package wrapped up so’s we can’t tell what’s in it, but mark me if it ain’t just the size to be the leg that ain’t there.

“He’s dead?!” I asks.

“Of course I’m not dead, you water-logged moron!” he sits up, and shouts at me before he winces and drops back down.

“You think we can just move him through the streets, and no one will say a word?” Dashwood says looking me in the eye. “You think Captain “Dagger” Campbell would be allowed to hobble about looking for someone to bolt him up?”

I feel the shame of my stupidity burnin’ me neck.

“’Course not, ma’am.”

“Do I look like a ma’am to you, Harris?!” she hollers. She grabs the nearest object, being a sexton with all the fine etching, and heaves it right for my face. She’s a dapper hand with the thrownin’ knives she is, but the sexton’s a mite big, see?

I catch the sexton, and cut me hand in the process. Ain’t nothin’ worse than a cut in a man’s hand. Makes all work harder, goes to infection faster than anything I know. Well, I suppose the cap’n’s leg is awful bad, but my cut hand feels like a stiff price for callin’ the first mate “ma’am”.

“Sorry Dashwood, just trying to be ‘spectful.”

“Well, you can ‘spect me by putting the lid on and shouldering my husband off this tub.” She gestures at all of us, and we goes to work.

When a man is bein’ lifted in the glory after a skirmish or durin’ some good drinkin’, he’ll stay perched up on the shoulders of two men and hardly weigh two stone. But when he’s near death like the cap’n, laid out in the wooden box, it took all four of us to bear him aloft. And no light thing it were, neither. The dock swayed ‘neath our feet as we left the gangway. Beakman’s knees buckled, and the captain nearly hit the drink.

“Move it along, you louts!” Dashwood hollers, and we know there’s a man out of a job or worse if the cap’n goes tumblin’.

We follows Dashwood away from the crush of the pier, the hawkers of the markets, and the patrols. More than once we had to hold up while some group or other went past, the stillness addin’ to the cap’n’s weight. And I notices that we go straight past the surgeon’s street. I see a few walkin’ past us there with a bit of work done on an arm or a leg. You see a man with a bandage or a rag holdin’ some bit of hisself together, and you knows he’s goin’ straight for the street of the butcher surgeons. That’s where they can patch any hurt.

A man crosses our path, so’s we come up short, and you can hear the heavy fall of one foot that’s made of something weightier than flesh and bone. Each physic puts his mark on his work. Some you can see, like the lad with the tree of cogs etched in platin’ on his arm, but others don’t like folk knowin’ where their work been done.

That’s Dashwood. No one knows why or when or what for, but when her gloves and her sleeves part a bit you can see there’s something shinin’ where the flesh ought to be. But she don’t turn for the street of the medics.

We wanders back alleys and weaves ‘tween houses barely standin’. It’s darker here, no lamps, and we stumbles more than walks as we carries the cap’n onwards. The smell of opium slithers about here and there. We huffs and gasps as we does our best to keep the cap’n from banging about in his injured state. Finally, Dashwood stops at a door. It’s all bamboo and thatch, and there’s an elephant with a dirty great cog rising off its back painted in gold. She knocks twice, and the door opens ever so slightly.

Legends & Lore: An Anthology of Mythic Proportion“Please tell the admiral that Dashwood begs a favor, and expects a return on her investment.” The words is crisp and sharp with the tension only a long history of deeds and words with a person brings.

Name an example of the best writing of dialects you have come across? What is the worst? I’ll get you started. Worst: Sir Walter Scott doing Scottish accents. Best: Charles Dickens. Or, worst, Charles Dickens doing Cockney accents;, best Sir Walter Scott. Both gentlemen came on too strong early on, then refined their craft as their careers progressed.

Editor-in-chief Penny Freeman lives, writes, edits, and markets from her home in southeast Texas. She currently supervises several editorial projects, including our most recent invitation-only anthology contest, Mechanized Masterpieces 2: An American Anthology. Her latest release, Legends and Lore: An Anthology of Mythic Proportions, was released October 2014.

Penny Freeman lives, writes, edits, and markets from her home in southeast Texas. She currently supervises several editorial projects, including our most recent invitation-only anthology contest, Mechanized Masterpieces 2: An American Anthology. Her latest release, Legends and Lore: An Anthology of Mythic Proportions, was released October 2014.

Re-blog: What Color is a Polar Bear? Redefining ‘adult’ in ‘adult fiction.’

Re-blog: What Color is a Polar Bear? Redefining ‘adult’ in ‘adult fiction.’

by | Feb 17, 2016 | Jots & Tittles

Editor’s note: I originally wrote this blog in June of 2015, and it was posted on the Association of Mormon Letters‘ blog “The Dawning of a Brighter Day.” I reposted the article on my pennyfreeman.com website. However, the site imploded for some reason, and everything was lost. Therefore, I am reposting it here, as an example of my writing, but primarily as an explanation of my philosophy.
\ 3 COMMENTS \ BY

Today’s guest post is by Penny Freeman, editor-in-chief at Xchyler Publishing.

Xchyler PublishingAlthough Andrew asked me to write a blog post for his site some time ago, the date of publication came and went with me still staring at the monitor, unable to formulate my thoughts—or, at the very least, unable to figure out how to adequately express my thoughts in a way that would communicate my intent. Then, I read an op-ed in the New York Times about university students who are so intent on protecting [insert special interest group of choice here] from any sort of offense or emotional turmoil, they are campaigning to restrict freedom of speech and the actual texts used in courses.

Huckleberry Finn had to go because of the N-word. Guest lecturers must be un-invited from speaking because they used the N-word in discussing the evolution of the N-word and its social acceptability. Euclid could not be taught in humanities classes because it might trigger emotional responses in victims of violent crime. Such persons may not feel safe or sheltered in such discussions, so those discussions must not occur. Anywhere. Ever.

I believe this is where we, as Mormon writers, too often find ourselves, and why the term “Mormon literature” causes some readers to roll their eyes in frustration. We are so intent on sheltering the reader from offensive material, we wrap them up in cotton and set them in a cozy egg carton, safely deposited on a high shelf. The problem: when readers happen upon stories that refuse to admit life rarely comes equipped with bubble wrap and packing peanuts, they find the writing shallow and dissatisfying, with little dimension and no color.

I grew up (as I’m sure did you all), with this old chestnut:

Q: Do you know what this is?

empty-square

A: A polar bear in a snowstorm.

Because we’re LDS and we want to portray the virtuous, lovely, and of good report and praiseworthy, do we only write white-out blizzards and the camouflaged animals inhabiting arctic regions? Or, to put it in Texan terms, are we terrified of the burn of habanero, so we refuse to use paprika?

Don’t get me wrong. As a book blogger, I received requests from many authors to read and review their books on my website. At the time, I was devouring three or four books a week. I have been approached by those who insisted their work was worth the trauma I would undergo reading it. One particular gentleman attempted to convince me his story about the gritty underbelly of the California prison system was all about redemption, etc., etc., etc. I had no reason to disbelieve him, and he should be commended for his personal successes. However, I know it would be impossible to write about the subject without lacing it heavily with obscenities and profanities, with violence, anger, and verbal and emotional assault. I don’t need that in my life. I took a pass.

Another author sent me a book called The Littlest Angel, a story of a father who cooked and dealt crack and how it affected his five-year-old daughter who underwent severe physical abuse at the hands of her addict mother. I got through about half the book. While his gritty reality proved compelling and well-written, and the work probably deserves more attention than it received, ultimately, it just hurt too much to read, especially as he wrote it in the first-person, from the point of view of the child.

I have turned down books with LGBT agendas, angry feminists with nothing good to say about men, horror, demons, and erotica. I believe some people thought me a Pollyanna. My sons insisted I refused to read any author who hadn’t been dead for at least a hundred years—which is a fair bit of truth. Jane Austen wrote in an era when sexual gratification wasn’t the be-all and end-all of every relationship, and not everyone was irreparably broken. She wrote about love and hope while still acknowledging the unseemly and sometimes downright evil in the world.

Having read Flowers for Algernon and Ordinary People as high school assignments, I decided some things went on in the world in which I didn’t need to immerse myself to be a better person. Another time, my online reading group extolled the virtues of Kurt Vonnegut, so when my son came home with his senior reading list, finding the author on it, I picked up a paperback at my local Barnes & Noble. Imagine my horror when a few days later, he returned it to me, saying, “Mom, I don’t think I should read this.” He refused to tell me why, but just shoved the book at me. As soon as I flipped it open, Vonnegut’s obscene graffiti stared me in the face. You just aren’t assaulted thus with Charles Dickens or James Fennimore Cooper.

Often times, I read offerings from members of the American Night Writers’ Association (ANWA), a group founded to provide LDS women exclusively an uplifting and edifying environment in which to share their work and receive positive criticism—to improve their craft. It is a very worthy organization, one to which I owe a great deal. However, the authors who truly excel are those who eventually abandon those safe confines and interact with writers and readers of both genders and from a multiplicity of belief systems. For some LDS authors, perhaps those warm nursery shoals are the best place to linger. The problem is, following such a tack, a writer never gets anywhere. The best feeding grounds—those places with the most opportunities to grow—are closer to the poles, in cold, rough, and open sea.

ANWA is populated with some especially talented authors, most specifically its founder, Marsha Ward, a prolific writer who wrote the Owen Family Saga (my review of her first book, The Man from Shenandoah) and steadily improves her craft, and Tanya Parker Mills who wrote The Reckoning (my review), which speaks for itself.

I also discovered C. S. Lakin as a blogger, an non-LDS author who also believes “Christian” isn’t equivalent to “cotton-balled.” Her book Intended for Harm (my review) is a modern-day adaptation of the story of Jacob and Joseph, and is anything but sugarcoated. Conundrum (my review), a master work, explores personal growth, resolution of conflict, family dynamics, and finding peace with the past. While ultimately uplifting, Lakin ventures with an unflinching gaze into the darkest reaches of mental illness and its effect on entire families. She evaluates, explores, engages, then allows her protagonist to emerge into a light unlike any she had ever known.

Because Lakin dares to take this journey, because Ward and Parker Mills brave similar unfriendly waters, because all three deftly weave in the narrative their own personal faith, I remember their work. While I’m certain there are flaws, I don’t remember them. Their words, their thoughts, their insight have settled in my heart and spoken to my soul. The others? Ummm . . . give me a minute to go look them up.

As a non-LDS publisher with an LDS majority in both the staff and signed authors, but who also works with authors ranging from atheists to Catholics and everything in between, we have learned the importance of finding ways for authors to express themselves and convey their message but also allow the reader to emerge from the experience feeling uplifted and edified, if not entirely protected from the buffetings of real life. It’s a delicate balance to strike, particularly when dealing with pervasive use of profanity and obscenities, or, on the flip side, with too little dimension and not enough complexity of character. But it is attainable, if sometimes a negotiation. In my experience, both parties come away better writers for the exercise.

Just as “Mormon” should not mean “whitewashed,” we don’t believe “adult” should be the equivalent of “obscene.” Adult should mean intelligent writing, complex themes, engaging characters, engrossing plots, and well-written and relevant prose, even set in imaginary worlds or eras that never were. Adult should mean a work challenging to the intellect, satisfying to the sensibilities, and likely to leave the reader a better person for the experience.

I believe we at Xchyler Publishing have achieved this goal. While some are not appropriate for readers who demand a featureless landscape, we are proud of every book we have produced. None are dependent upon titillation to sell books. Every title offers the reader expanded horizons. It may not be a painless journey, but each leads to a worthwhile destination. We refuse to pander to society’s most base instincts.

Polar Bear on Pack Ice in the Arctic Ocean Ursus maritimus

Polar Bear on Pack Ice in the Arctic Ocean
Ursus maritimus

Lehi made the point perfectly clear: for light to exist, there must be darkness. With sunshine comes shadow. Like the world in which they inhabit, even polar bears aren’t perfectly white. They have shades of color. The play of light accentuates their features. They even have dirt and stains. They have substance.

When we, as authors, demonstrate our personal acquaintance with pain, when we acknowledge temptation and struggle and failure, when we don’t assume that being LDS gives us a pass for good writing, then we can far better convince our readers there is also hope, faith, compassion, and redemption. As members of the LDS faith, we should be strong proponents of light, but to coax anyone from the darkness, we must reach out and take them by the hand. To do so demands a willingness to acknowledge its existence.

Prominent LDS author Orson Scott Card  allows himself the presumption of making real people out of personages we revere: Joseph Smith and Emma Smith, Moses, Aaron, and Miriam, Jacob, Rachel, and Leah, Sarah and Abraham, and Rebecca and Isaac. None of them are perfect, all of them are flawed, all of them find redemption and purpose in their faith in God, and isn’t this for which we all strive?

Card also uses fantasy and science fiction to preach eternal truths. He finds ways for his religion to live in his work, while still embracing those who live outside it. Unless we, as authors, learn to do the same, we’re pretty much preaching to the choir, and most of them are asleep. Perhaps we, as a people, should write as if we believe the world is actually listening.

Penny describes her company as follows. “Founded in 2012, Xchyler Publishing is the speculative fiction imprint of Hamilton Springs Press, a boutique publisher owned and operated by Heidi Birch and Penny Freeman, both members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The X Team strives to provide the public with the quality writing we like to read ourselves: engaging plots, intriguing characters, and finely crafted prose that uplifts and edifies. Our authors, editors, graphic artists and marketers hail from around the world and adhere to a wide rage of belief systems. We celebrate and reinforce our similarities and respect our differences, learn from one another, and strive to make our small corner of the literary world a better place.”

“West End” by Neve Talbot

“West End” by Neve Talbot

by | Feb 16, 2016 | Neve Talbot, Writing Excerpts

The idea of “West End” came to me when we decided as a company to produce a sequel to Mechanized Masterpieces, our best-selling anthology and one of our all-time best-selling titles. With American literature as our point of reference, my love for the original made Little Women the natural choice for my source material. Again, the greatest challenge in writing this story was keeping within the required length. Even now, as I read through it more than a year after the final edits, I relive the deleted scenes and mourn their passing. The themes of war, imperialism, greed, and unfettered technology running rampant are rich veins to mine, and the Steampunk palette provides vivid colors and stark contrasts with which to paint.

As mentioned in my previous post, “Tropic of Cancer” will one day become a full-length novel, of which the characters of Little Women will be an integral part. However, unlike my pastiche of Jane Eyre which held true to the characters’ ultimate fates, in my treatment of Little Women, I could not help but take the fan-girl approach. At the time of its publication, the book was actually published in two separate volumes, with the first ending immediately after Meg’s engagement to Mr. Brook. Miss Alcott’s fans were desperate to know what happened to Jo and Laurie, and so she wrote the succeeding volume, only to disappoint her audience when the pair failed to wed.

Granted, Miss Alcott’s version is by far the more adult ending: not every story ends in pink-cloud-shrouded castles in the sky, doves on wing, and peeling wedding bells, and that’s a good thing. For most of the world (and the literature it reads), the best endings are those true to life: common sense and ordinary, with affirmation of love that is deep-seated and abiding, solid and mature, rather than ablaze with passion but all too fleeting. Such is the Professor Bhaer Allcott gives Jo March. Life consists primarily of the mundane, broken intermittently with the apexes of elation and the nadirs of despair. Just think how exhausting it would be if it were otherwise.

But, I didn’t read Little Women as an adult. I read it as a ten-year-old girl who had just finished reading every book Laura Ingalls Wilder had ever written, and could see and had learned to watch for the seeds of love for Manly developing within the heart and soul of her autobiographical character over the course of several installments (or so it felt at the time). To come off that high—that solid affirmation of my own hyper-romantic notions—and tumble into the heartbreak of Little Women was too much for my tweenie heart to ever recover from. Beth died. Jo rejected Laurie, and while she at least eventually gained the satisfaction of an intellectual equal (if not superior), poor Laurie was forced to settle for shallow and self-centered Amy! Alcott sold Laurie down the river!

It was too much to be born.

Then, with maturity comes the increased understanding that Little Women bears some strong autobiographical elements itself, and with that realization comes a bit of melancholy knowing that Alcott never found her Professor Bhaer . . . at least, not that she was free to wed. One has to wonder if there was a Theodore Laurence in her youth, and if she ever regretted turning him away.

Thus, for a good forty years, the Laurie in my heart has demanded a better fate than afforded him by the author, and when the opportunity arose for him to join forces with Edward Rochester, it was a temptation too great to resist. And, of course Rochester being the man he is, accustomed to getting what he wants . . . well, Laurie’s fate was pretty much sealed the first time the Cassiopeia landed in the March family’s cow pasture.

Do-overs: Not much, really, but there are some fine deleted scenes that will flesh out the book nicely. “West End” will be the second act, so to speak, to “Tropic of Cancer’s” first act. When I figure out the third, I’ll write the book.

An excerpt from Mechanized Masterpieces 2

West End

by Neve Talbot

Styled after Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Theodore Laurence loved Josephine March. That was the cold, hard truth. He had loved her since that first time he laid eyes on her. Sitting at his desk, he had stared out over the hedge, and there she had sat in her attic window next door. Her laughing eyes had reached out and claimed him. His mates all called him Laurie, but she began calling him ‘Teddie’ when he was but sixteen, as if she owned him, and he knew then and there she did.

Thoughts of that day five years gone filled his mind as he closed the door and left his grandfather’s house behind him. Before him, a new life, a new adventure, and the Cassiopeia: a massive triple-envelope airship unlike anything else in the skies, then tethered not a hundred yards off on the March family’s farmland, out of reach of milling crowds and prying eyes. The legendary inventor, Edward Rochester, had developed its revolutionary alloys and unique design; the crystal arrays that captured the light of the sun and transformed it into power; and the engines that translated that power into speed with maximum efficiency.

Laurie would depart that very hour. He had graduated with the highest honors from the new Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and in the process gained the notice of the genius Rochester who made himself Laurie’s mentor. Laurie would continue his education at Rochester’s foundries in Great Britain. It should have been a day full of joy. He should have been giddy with anticipation.

Should have been.

Laurie followed the automaton that propelled a trolley overladen with steamer trunks and bandboxes across the garden lawn. Such menials were hardly new, but the machine before him resembled nothing ever before put into service. Sleek and graceful, strong and durable, with technology unmatched elsewhere, the Mandroids could accomplish nearly any physical task capable of man—all but intentionally harm or inflict death. That they would never do.

The warmongers had their rail guns and cannon, their armored trains and incendiary devices, their fifteen-foot-tall mechanized monsters with Gatling guns for appendages, euphemistically dubbed ‘Peacekeepers,’ that mindlessly trammeled friend and foe alike. After the devastation of the American Civil War, in the face of British, French, and Dutch empiric brutality and conquest, Rochester swore the world needed no help from him to slaughter wholesale. He would never invent a weapon nor allow his technology to be used as such. He maintained an uneasy peace with the British Empire by allowing his foundries to remain in its territories; they smelted the alloys and fabricated the shells, but nothing more.

Instead of selling killing machines, he sought the help of Laurie’s grandfather, Mr. Laurence, and Jo’s father, Reverend March, in giving away the Mandroids to the war-ravaged refugees of the New American Alliance, the tattered remains of the United States, still destitute and starving two years after the end of the war. The two friends had become integral to the operation and true partners in the venture. Profit would come after the devastated nation got back on its feet, but the Mandroids would first change the world. They would plow fields and harvest crops, build roads and clear away rubble, and provide much-needed manpower for the decimated population.

Laurie pressed one of several glowing crystals set in a small brass box that he held, and the machine immediately halted at the gap in the hedge between his grandfather’s estate and Orchard House, the March family property. Since his first day in Concord, Laurie had known he belonged there. How many hours over the past five years had he spent snug in the attic with Jo and her sisters, acting out Jo’s ridiculous plays? Meg and Beth were like his own sisters. Little Amy was his pet. But Jo—Jo was part of him. She ever would be.

Not even her denial of him the previous morning would change it, and therein lay the rub.

Laurie huffed at himself and his pining, and reactivated the Mandroid. A simple sequence of commands directed it through the hedge, across the Marches’ kitchen garden, and into the cow pasture to the Cassiopeia. Another flick of a switch, and the machine effortlessly moved its burden up the cargo ramp and into the hold. As he stood at the bottom, staring up into the cavernous expanse, it felt empty without Jo’s luggage beside his own, despite it being filled with rack upon rack of factory-new Mandroids awaiting dispersal.

Laurie would never begrudge Beth the support of her sisters, but she made a terribly convenient screen for Jo. They all had come to take their leave: Jo, Beth, Amy; even Meg had dragged her new husband, John Brooke, away from his morning coffee to be there. Mrs. March—Marmee to the girls—stood with her husband, the good reverend, as he consulted with Rochester.

Laurie deeply felt the family’s notice, but Jo’s dodge sent him a clear message to keep at arm’s length. But then, he didn’t need her words to understand her. Her thoughts came across perfectly clear.

Well, he would do her one better: never mind arm’s length. He refused to see her at all.

He could be too busy to notice. His old school chum, Freddie Vaughn, made that easy enough. Laurie had to brief him on preflight procedures. Freddie only got the nod for the venture to England because Mr. Vaughn, a major investor in the Mandroid project, demanded it, but Freddie was thick as a brick. Rochester carefully chose his battles with the father, and Laurie must suffer the son.

Rochester’s experiments with mechanical prostheses and neuro-electric implants fired Laurie’s imagination, and he considered medical school as another option across the pond. Whatever he did, he would follow in the footsteps of the brilliant young inventor. Like Rochester, he would do some good in the world. With Jo by his side, he knew he could not fail.

Except, Jo had no interest in England or Scotland or taking the Grand Tour—at least, not with him. She had always dreamed of going, but when he asked her to accompany him, she turned him down flat. As she put it, she didn’t love him—not enough, not that way, and she had no interest in playing wifey with a ruffled pinafore and a calico cat, sitting alone by the fire for who knew how many years while he engrossed himself in his studies yet again.

All through university, whenever he returned home, Laurie could not disgorge what he had learned fast enough for Jo. If she could not go herself, his attendance was the next best thing, or so she said. He felt he went to university for her as much as himself.

But that wasn’t good enough any longer—he wasn’t good enough—and not even the promise of Europe could tempt her to accept him. It had never before occurred to him that she would deem his offering unworthy of her, and the stark realization blindsided him. Of a sudden, they were strangers, and Laurie’s expansive, glorious horizons felt dark, gloomy, and hopeless.

Laurie tried to focus on Freddie, but his thoughts would turn to the sisters haunting the periphery of the field. Even so, he had his pride, however wounded; he would not go begging—not again. England and the Empire beckoned, and he would show her nothing but defiance, while he inwardly prayed she would somehow change her mind.

“Will you not part well with me, Teddie?” Laurie wheeled at the sound of Beth’s gentle voice. She looked too pale. Jo, so strong and hale beside her, accentuated Beth’s air of frailty as she clung to her sister’s arm. “Do you mean to go without saying goodbye?”

“You should not have come out, Little Bit,” he chided. “The morning damp will do you no good.”

The trace of an impish grin flitted over Beth’s face. “If Mohammed will not go to the mountain—”

“I would have come to you had you given me half a chance.”

Beth wagged her head and clicked her tongue in mock severity. Laurie felt the heat rush to his cheeks. To cover his prevarication, he took Beth’s free arm and threaded it through his own, despite Jo’s continued support of her. “Come with me, Miss Insolence, or I’ll bodily remove you to the house.”

Beth acquiesced far more easily than her brave front should have allowed, and within a few steps, she leaned heavily upon him, although she stubbornly maintained hold of her sister. The uneven terrain of the cow pasture caused her to stumble, and put her in constant danger of falling to the ground. “Shall I carry you, darling?”

Beth denied him but leaned her head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her waist to keep her on her feet, and knew Jo resisted the urge to do the same. “You should not have come out,” he chided. He shot a look of indictment at Jo for allowing it.

“Mr. Laurence,” Beth answered, “I am not so vain as to believe that your love for me is stronger than your . . . disappointment—than your awkward situation with my sister. You would not have come to the house, and I could not allow matters to remain thus between you. I will not have it. So I came to meet you halfway.” She gave a little shrug. “She could attend me or stew in the attic—a simple choice, really, for I know she loves me quite nearly as much as—”

“Beth, you go too far,” Jo snapped, the first word Laurie had heard her say all morning.

“—as much as she will miss you when you’re gone.”

Laurie eyed Jo askance, although he avoided revealing the weakness. “You mistake her, Beth. She’s glad to see me go so I will no longer hang about to bother her.”

“I am right here,” Jo protested.

“There you are wrong,” Beth persisted. “She already misses you.”

Laurie jerked his chin in denial and let the matter drop. Jo still glared at the ground as she plodded along beside them. For all of Beth’s good intentions, the ploy accomplished nothing.

Beth tripped once more, and Laurie scooped her up in his arms. “Don’t bother to protest,” he growled softly.

Beth buried her face in his neck. “Don’t let Marmee see.”

Laurie hurried to Orchard House in great, ground-chewing strides and Jo scampered along beside him. Of all the injustices in the world, Beth’s bout with scarlet fever and subsequent weakened heart angered him the most. There had to be something someone could do. The medical profession could perform miracles. Why had they not yet invented a mechanical heart?

Jo bustled about in the kitchen putting the kettle on as Laurie gently laid Beth on her sofa beside the fire. He quickly had her tucked snugly in a counterpane, propped in pillows, and breathing more easily. Next step, a roaring fire.

Laurie realized the house had gone silent but for his own muttering at a bank of stubborn coals. He looked up—straight into Jo’s tender eyes, the silence rich and redolent between them. If he could bottle that look that professed all her voice could not, he could endure his time away—the time she needed to reconcile her mind to her heart.

The fire popped and a clinker bounced out onto the hearthrug. Jo dropped to the floor to fetch it, but he scooped it up and threw it onto the grate before she burned herself.

She reached out to warm her hands. “I think the fire is hot enough.” She smiled gently to soften her words.

“Perhaps,” he answered, “but we want it to last.”

“We do,” Jo murmured.

“Just the kindling catching the flame isn’t enough.”

“No . . .”

“A good fire takes time. It must get hold of the logs.”

Jo nodded, her words scarcely breathed. “It will. I am certain . . .”

“I can wait,” Laurie whispered.

Each word had drawn them closer, until the space between them charged electric, like one of Mr. Tesla’s famous coils. Her swimming eyes bespoke her wishes and Laurie leaned to close the distance, but she ducked her head and rested her forehead against his, as much surrender as she allowed herself.

Far too soon, she moved to rise, but he took her hands to retain her. “Marry me.”

“I just can’t,” she whimpered.

“No. Of course not.” His words fell harshly—more harshly than he intended. He tried to force it back, but the surging anger and frustration propelled him to his feet. “We belong together. You know it, Jo, as well as do I, but your blasted pride won’t allow you to admit it. Well, I wish you the best of luck with it, but it has brought me naught but heartache.”

He turned to storm away and met the sight of Beth on her sofa, feigning sleep. His sadness washed over his anger, dampening the flame. He bent to kiss her head. “I’m sorry, Bethy,” he breathed, but his words caught in his throat. Beth opened her eyes and threw her arms about his neck and he dropped to his knees to hold her. “You’d best be here when I return, or I’ll fight the archangels themselves to fetch you back again.”

The Cassiopeia’s steam whistle blew, demanding his return to the ship. Beth released him without a word, offering only a sad smile. “Goodbye, you scamp,” he murmured softly. He kissed her once more, then strode away, leaving Jo and his hopes behind him.

scenebreak

Four years. How had four years come and gone in that instant—less than a blink of an eye? The first year felt as if it flew by as he and Freddie Vaughn studied metallurgy with Rochester’s partner, Rottstieger. That is, Laurie studied. Freddie primarily took up with lordlings and courtesans, and only caused trouble when he did show at the foundry.

Laurie marked the time by posts from home, letters Jo sent him that allowed him to hope. Long, chatty, light-filled letters that between every line seemed to count the days until he would return to make her his own.

But then, as that year drew to a close, the University of Edinburgh came calling. They had seen his designs. They liked his ideas. The advances in metallurgy and electricity made them more than fanciful dreams. Surely, he wished to expand his studies into medicine and press his theories as far as they would go.

Such opportunities did not simply fall from the sky. Laurie never imagined they would come seeking him out. Surely Jo would understand. Surely. Surely she would now join him.

Surely not.

Instead of Jo, only a cold denial met Laurie and his roses at Liverpool, in the form of her passage refunded by the booking agent. Her formal answer to his cable came after weeks of waiting. The letter left no doubt of her intent and dispelled the last of his self-deception.

Laurie occupied his mind with his studies, but his heart felt a lead weight within his chest. For three years, he plodded through the damp and dreary cold of Scotland, enveloped in the darkness. The long winter nights felt eternities. The short span of long summer days were only torment.

Freddie Vaughn remained in England as he polished his libertine credentials, paid lip service to the company, and advanced from lazy and spoiled to corrupt and malignant. His friendship with Laurie grew caustic, and soured more whenever business took Laurie to London and they met in society.

The letters from home stopped coming. Even Laurie’s grandfather had become terse and uncommunicative. The news that did come, which should have given Laurie comfort—given him joy—bored a canker in his soul. Meg had given John twins. Twins. That should have been him. That should have been him and Jo.

But all that was over and done, just like medical school. He had to move forward. He had no other choice. And, when push came to shove, he could move on to places far worse than Jamaica. The crystal blue seas, clear skies, and verdant hills leeched the tension from him and scrubbed the taint of martial, mechanized, greasy, smoke-choked London from his soul. Powered by Rochester’s sootless solar arrays, free of slavery and oppression, clean and sunny Kingston seemed an Eden by comparison.

An army of orderlies swarmed the Cassiopeia once it touched ground, and Laurie stood at the bottom of the gangplank handing out credentials as each ex-soldier amputee filed past. He admired Rochester for purchasing their freedom; enslavement of debtors more evidence of the Empire’s oppression. As the agents for the absentee buyer, Laurie hoped they had filled the commission well, for he hadn’t the least inkling of Rochester’s plans for them. He supposed he would find out soon enough. Surely, the man would meet the flight.

“Quite the entourage, Doctor. Fifty-three new patients . . . ambitious.”

Laurie turned to the deep voice that assaulted him from behind. Not overly tall but broad of shoulder and ramrod straight, Edward Rochester made Laurie think of a bulldog: not the most comely breed but compact and strong, elegant in its own manner. Coupled with his dark, saturnine features and high, intelligent brow, he appeared severe and aloof despite his mere thirty years. His changeable moods and erratic actions made him difficult to know, but he was a good man, benevolent, passionate, fiercely protective of his friends and his inventions, stalwart in his beliefs, a formidable foe to cross. At that moment, he wore a smirk of self-satisfaction.

Laurie hesitated. “Of a truth . . . we brought fifty-six.”

“Do tell.”

Laurie nudged his chin the direction of the three men detained at the top of the gangway: one small, wiry miscreant whose eye-patch enhanced his sinister air, and two sidekicks.

“We were halfway to the Azores when we discovered them. After all the burglaries at the foundry and the fire at the warehouse, we felt you would wish to see them. It’s the closest we’ve come to any answers.”

“We know Vaughn has been lobbying for the Empire for four years,” Rochester growled. “We know that blighter will stop at nothing to achieve his own ends, and none else but that worthless son of his had the necessary access to get as far as they did. I trusted Freddie and he betrays us all. He makes himself the Empire’s stooge. We know the answers, Dr. Laurence. What I need is proof!”

“As I said, these blokes may be worth interrogating.”

“No papers. Stowaways.”

“Indeed, sir. And certainly spies. We found several restricted areas breached.”

Rochester’s looks darkened. “And the schematics I sent Julian to collect?”

“Safe and sound, but we redoubled security and strengthened protocols.”

A storm brewed on Rochester’s visage. “Get them off my ship,” he snarled at the guard. “Throw them in the gaol—what in Hades is that?”

Laurie need not follow Rochester’s gaze to the cargo ramp. He had anticipated that moment for days. “A Mandroid, sir.”

Rochester strode to the automaton. “Mandroid,” he barked as he closed the distance. “What is your designation?”

The thing turned its head, then the rest of its body to face its Maker. “Mr. Rochester?” it answered in a tinny, mechanical voice.

“Your designation, now.”

“Mandroid 69-0257NA-D, under contract to Mercedes March, Plumfield, Concord, Massachusetts.”

Rochester spun on Laurie. “March’s blasted aunt took my Mandroid—my Delta to London for the Empire to get their hands on?”

Laurie fished into his pocket and surrendered the machine’s large control crystal hanging from a long silver chain. “Yes, sir. She took the Mandroid with her when she and Amy embarked on the Grand Tour. We discovered it the evening of our departure. The old lady knew well enough to keep it out of sight when I visited Amy, but apparently, showing off to society outweighed any sense—”

“What need has the Empire of thugs and felons to commit industrial espionage when vain old dowagers deliver my secrets to them hand over fist?”

“When we confiscated hers, she complained that the Vaughns yet had their Delta in London—”

Rochester’s upraised hand brought Laurie’s briefing to an abrupt halt. His steely eyes locked Laurie’s own as he produced a newspaper tucked beneath his arm, then carefully unfolded it. A blazing headline and a Daguerreotype of a mighty conflagration filled the space above the fold, dated a week since. “EXPLOSIONS ROCK SKY-HARBOR, SABOTAGE FEARED!”

“Tell me, Dr. Laurence,” he demanded, his voice menacing. “Where exactly is the Vaughns’ Delta model?”

“We speculate that it has been decommissioned, sir.”

“Tell me I am imagining it. Tell me this catastrophe”—he jabbed his finger at the paper—“was not the product of a Mandroid self-destruct.”

Laurie stood firm. “We have every reason to believe it was, sir. We activated the universal recall function as soon as we confiscated the March Delta, but the countdown expired before the Vaughns’ machine reported to the Cassiopeia. . . . Then, BLAM! We scarcely got away. Another moment’s delay and we would have been caught in the sky-harbor lock-down.”

Rochester scowled first at the newspaper, then at the Mandroid, then at the paper again. Laurie watched as his visage softened and his eyes began to twinkle. “Blazes! I wish I had been there to see it. Was it as terrific as I imagine?”

“More, sir. It seemed they stored it at a munitions dump.”

Rochester barked a laugh. “Serves them right, the fools!” he snorted. “What will it take for the Empire to get the message? My Mandroids will never fight their wars for them.” He looked up from the paper. “What of the warning signals for the self-destruct? They had not disabled them, surely.”

“We heard them, sir, and we were a half mile out. Anyone closer would run away just to escape the sound.”

Rochester nodded in satisfaction. “Blasted Brits.”

Laurie wondered exactly when he had ceased to consider himself a citizen of his homeland. Rochester spun on his heel and strode away. “Come!”

Laurie fell in beside him just as Rochester stopped abruptly to look him in the eye. “Tell me: are you content?”

Laurie hesitated as his mentor set out once again for the low bungalows which skirted the landing field. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

Rochester eyed him askance. “It has been four years since we made these plans. Men grow, change. You have been abroad, seen a bit of the world. Is this still what you want?”

“I would have wasted a great deal of time and money were it not.”

“Indeed,” Rochester smirked. “So, how do you like the Royal London? What of Edinburgh?”

“Frankly, they lack vision, sir. They would never attempt what you did when Julian Meeks broke his back and lost his leg. They would have written him off, but you put him back on his feet. You restored his future.”

“The man is my friend. Should I live to be a hundred, I’ll owe him a debt that cannot be repaid.”

“But that’s just it, sir. It’s about quality of life. I do not mean to solely follow either metallurgy or medicine. The two together should be taken more seriously. Those Edinburgh chaps believe if they strap steel and brass and gears and leather onto a man, with no regard for what he suffers, he should be grateful. But that is not enough, sir. It is inhumane, inefficient, and barbarous.”

Rochester grinned. “And you believe you could do better. You would marry the disciplines.”

“Aye, sir. I am here because of what you did for Julian. You did better with him than they ever could, and you never went to medical school. Perhaps that makes you more qualified than any of them—you are not limited by preconceptions.”

“You are correct, Mr. Laurence, I am no physician. I am most fortunate that we didn’t kill Julian in our efforts to help him. The doctors I brought here didn’t know enough, and I was arrogant and reckless, but we muddled it out. But that was six years gone.

“We have learned a great deal since then. I have brought likeminded physicians, metallurgists, electrochemical engineers, all to my estate at West End to study the matter. But you, my friend, are the only one who has studied both metals and medicine. You are uniquely qualified. Julian’s patch job begins to wear down, but with your help, we will be ready—well and truly ready—when he needs us again.”

“It seems too good to be true.”

Rochester grinned. “Wait until you see West End.”

They had reached the largest bungalow and made their way through open, airy rooms, and past segregated offices. Rochester paused with his hand on the latch of a louvered door. “I’ve pressing matters to attend. Wait for me here, and when I return, we’ll discuss your new discipline of physiological metallurgic engineering.” He turned the handle and pushed open the door, then strode down the passage without another word.

Laurie stepped into what seemed an antechamber of some sort, with a broad bank of windows opening the prospect directly before him, chairs against the wall to his right, facing a desk on the left, which sat before several cabinets beside a second door. His back to Laurie, a young man absorbed himself with filing stacks of manila folders and accounting ledgers in the drawers.

“Pardon me,” Laurie hesitated. “Mr. Rochester told me to wait.”

“We’re all in an uproar because of this new doctor just arriving,” the boy answered without turning from his work. “Make yourself at home.”

The voice fell with comfortable familiarity on Laurie’s ears, and he cursed himself and his weakness. Despite the intervening years, now and again some random sight or sound reminded him of Jo, and the old wound would ache.

However, the thought forced him to look beyond the cropped riding pants and tall boots the boy wore, to the curves that filled them out so nicely, and the loose blouse that revealed not the slight form of a sprouting youth but the shapely form of a young woman well grown. She wore her hair in a short, loose mop of curls, and a leather jacket and goggled helmet hung from a hat rack in the corner.

“We are all in a muddle, but feel free to help yourself.” She waved a file over her shoulder toward the general direction of a sideboard. “There’s no telling when Mr. Rochester will return.”

Laurie attempted to say something, but he could only think of Jo and how she would have reveled in the freedom of such attire. Jo, who was three thousand miles away and hadn’t thought of him from one year to the next.

Rather than indulge in a useless bout of self-pity, Laurie turned to the windows. The airfield resembled a kicked anthill as all the workers scurried about and unladed the Cassiopeia’s cargo.

“I suppose you’re quite used to this sight.” He nodded at the bustle of enterprise. “For you, that is business as usual.”

“Of a truth—”

Laurie turned at the sound of stacks of paper hitting the floor. The lady, his own Josephine March, stood and stared at him, dumbstruck. He blinked at her, willing the vision away. He had been from home for far too long. His eyes surely conjured that which he most desired. “Of a truth?” he choked.

“You?”

“Whom did you expect?”

Jo blinked at him, and Laurie watched as she flushed as pink as she had been pale but a moment before, but a visible act of will pushed back her astonishment, replaced by a familiar consternation. She set her jaw, her shoulders stiffened, and her voice took on a decided edge.

“Of a truth, Mister Laurence,” she pecked out, as if her tongue had become the hammers of the typewriting machine on the desk before her, “I never gave it a second thought, except to curse the man who brought this down upon our heads.”

Her eyes shot daggers as sharp as her tone, then she dropped to the floor to collect the records. “This is not business as usual. Fifty unexpected soldiers in need of immediate medical attention have strained our facilities to breaking.”

“What are you doing here?” Laurie managed. He hurried around the desk to assist her. “Jo, what are you doing here?”

“Mr. Laurence—” she replied coldly, “or is it Doctor Laurence now? I’ve lost track of the time.”

“Which you would not have done had you come to me.”

“Which I need not have done had you returned when you promised.”

Laurie bit down on his angry reply. “It is Doctor Laurence,” he said instead. “It has been for some time. Surely Amy told you.”

“But of course,” Jo laughed bitterly. “Amy. How could I possibly forget Amy? How is my dearest sister?” She scooped up the remaining papers to prevent his reaching them, then threw the shambles onto the desktop. She began slamming the packets, one atop the next, in cadence with her words.

“Beautiful Amy, charming Amy, Amy the pet of Aunt March. Amy, who stole my Grand Tour because she is beautiful and elegant and worthy. Amy would never shame our family. You finally finish medical school and what do you do? Rush straight to London—to Amy, the perfect match for you and all of high society!”

“I finally finished medical school and moved on to my exams at The Royal London. Amy just happened to be there. I was there scarcely three months—”

“And spent every spare moment with her, escorting her into society. Making a great show of sporting her about town.”

“I have no idea where you get such preposterous notions.”

“Where else would I get them? From Amy, who writes once a week specifically to tell me how much time you spend together, how charming you are, how brilliant in society, and how intimate you have grown. Surely by the end of your residency there, you will be ready to settle down.”

Laurie forced his jaw shut. Her accusations left him stymied. “I spent twenty hours a day at hospital, Jo. When exactly was I supposed to be this gadabout?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Why don’t you ask Amy?”

“What the devil do I care about Amy?”

His exasperated tone brought her up short. She blinked at him. He pushed back his hair with both fists and stepped away. He folded his arms across his chest, his legs braced for impact, and stared out at the Cassiopeia. “And my residency is here,” he muttered. “At least get your facts straight.”

Stillness settled over the room, he knew not how long—probably only moments. It felt an eternity. “If you do not care for her, you should not toy with her thus,” Jo said at last. An angst-riddled mixture of empathy and compassion weighed heavily in her soft tone. “You will break her heart.”

“Perhaps Amy interpreted things the way she wanted to see them,” he told the windows. “Perhaps she would have done no matter my actions.” He turned to her. “Or, perhaps what she wrote and what you read were two different things. But by my life, Jo, I never courted your sister. She only made me want . . .”

Laurie bit down on his accursed tongue. He refused to make a fool of himself yet again. After her three-year silence, he owed her nothing. She lost the right to be jealous of anyone after his disappointment at Liverpool. “What are you doing here?”

“Surely Amy kept you well enough informed,” Jo retorted.

“Apparently she felt no need. Perhaps she assumed we communicated. Perhaps you never told her of your directive to stay away.”

“My directive? You mean to put the blame on me?”

“Forgive me, but it sounded very much a directive to me. When a man asks a woman to be his wife—”

“Your wife? You booked my passage and sent me a cable that said ‘come.’ ”       

“—when he asks and gets nothing but an empty cabin and silence in reply—”

“What are you on about?”

“Do you know what it’s like to search a luxury liner for a bride who never boarded it—who never so much as declined the invitation?”

“I wrote, Laurie. As soon as your cable came, I wrote.”

Laurie wagged his head in denial. “Whatever you did, I waited for two months for word, and ‘I value your friendship more than I can say, make sure to keep in touch,’ at the end of it left no doubt of my banishment.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Indeed I am, for once upon a time I believed your words and your intent were one and the same.”

“Once upon a time, we required no words to understand one another.”

“And just see how well I profited from that bit of felicity.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Was ‘yes’ too much to ask?”

“Was your presence?”

He proffered no reply, and she turned again to mutilating Rochester’s reports.

“Jo,” Laurie insisted. “Jo!” He took her shoulders to turn her to him, but her look was all fire and ice. Her eyes scalded to the touch, and he dropped his hands. “Jo,” he said more gently. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here? I would have come as soon as I had word.”

“And make me responsible for you giving up your studies? I think not. You got on with your life. I got on with mine.”

“There are places far more suitable for a young lady to exert her independence—places close to home, where her family can protect her, or come to her rescue when she gets herself into scrapes.”

Jo’s eyes grew narrow and flinty, her voice low and still. “Do I appear to need rescuing, Dr. Laurence?”

Laurie blinked at her. She appeared strong and self-confident, a vision from heaven, bloomed into full, breathtaking womanhood, the glow of the tropical sun golden on her skin and setting fire to her thick brown hair. He drank in the sight of her, and she again flushed and turned to her filing.

“Perhaps I should have said, where fools can reach you when they stand in need of rescuing—fools rather prone to getting into scrapes.”

“I have no time for fools,” she spat, and slammed another drawer.

Laurie placed his hand over hers as she reached for another file. “Miss March,” he said gently, “pray, what draws you here, of all places?” He eyed the door that he felt certain led to an inner office. “What would induce you to accept such an unprotected situation?”

She clutched several thick ledgers to her breast. “We brought Beth,” she finally conceded, “to see what could be done. They can do things here no one else can.”

Laurie blinked, startled, but before he could produce aught to say, she had pushed past him and assaulted the unexplored door. She shoved it open so forcefully, it bounced off the wall, but she caught it as she stood on the threshold and glared into the adjoining room. “You have done some low-down, despicable things, Edward Fairfax Rochester,” she accused, “but this is positively the worst. I will not be managed thus.”

A burst of deep laughter answered her indictment; her look professed she expected as much. She slammed the ledgers in her arms onto the floor. They scattered at her feet. “You think this is so funny, you clean it up. I am not your secretary.”

She spun on her heel and marched from the room, sparing a volley of javelin looks for Laurie as she grabbed her coat and helmet. He yet stood, dumbfounded, when she appeared out the window a moment later. Parked just outside the window, a motorized velocipede—the most elegant two-wheeler Laurie had ever seen—sprang into life as she climbed aboard, opened the throttle, and sped away in a hail of dust and gravel.

“How do you like my handiwork?” Rochester grinned from where he stood in the doorway. “I’ve just about got that filly trained to the bit.”

He chortled, deep and throaty, but paused as he turned back to his office. He gestured with his cigar to the scattered documents in both rooms. “Clear away your mess, Laurence. We’ve got work to do.”

Continued in Mechanized Masterpieces 2: An American Anthology (2015) edited by Penny Freeman

Mechanized Masterpieces 2: An American Anthology
Mechanized Masterpieces 2: An American Anthology

The final story, West End by Neve Talbot was also quite interesting, and should please steampunk fans in a big way. I really liked the alternate history in Talbot’s story.

Paul Genesse

Amazon Reviewer

. . . take a classic work of American literature, reimagine it, and give it the Steampunk treatment. The Xychler crew really stepped up to the challenge on this one.

Hellvis

Amazon Reviewer

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A Voice of Reason (part 1)

A Voice of Reason (part 1)

by | Feb 14, 2016 | A Voice of Reason

The following was written by Penny Freeman and is reposted from the blog of Xchyler Publishing, dated October 14, 2014.

A Voice of Reason

DEFINING VOICE

If you follow The X Blog at all, you may have noticed that our editors write about voice a lot. A lot. Why? Because finding your own voice as an author is critical. And, as an editor, respecting that voice is equally important. However, getting to that point where the voice is to be respected, rather than cultivated, is the tricky part.

So, what exactly is voice? A lot of things, actually. Here are a few ingredients that are thrown into that concoction we call ‘voice.’

  1. Your characters’ vocabulary. The words you put in their mouths.
  2. Your vocabulary. The words that you, as the writer, employ in your narrative.
  3. Your grammar. How do you follow the rules? How do you break (or employ) them with purpose?
  4. Your content. What do you write about? Do you develop rich, complex worlds or focus on keeping the action moving? Is your work character– or plot-driven? Do you get down in the trenches to really explore your character’s soul? Or do you analyze the action from a distance, carefully staying above the fray? Are you a ‘just the facts, ma’am’ sort of writer, or are you always asking why?
  5. Your genre. Stephen King, John Grisham, Michael Crichton, Tom Clancy, Nora Ephron, Danielle Steel, J. K. Rowling. You see these names on the cover and you instantly know what type of story is inside. Perhaps, if you have read that author extensively, you can hear their voice in your head without cracking the book.
  6. Your ethos. What do you believe in? What drives you? How does that influence infuse your writing? These authors leave no doubt as to their personal philosophies: C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkein, Ayn Rand. Whom else can you name off the top of your head?

That’s a fairly hefty list of ingredients, so let’s start with the easiest: character vocabulary and linguistic style.

A character’s ‘voice’ gives them history. Often times, allowing your reader to ‘hear’ them speak introduces your character, far better than a lengthy narrative. You can reveal their gender, their heritage, their level of education, their social strata, their attitudes about life, even the era in which they lived simply by putting the right words in their mouths. Let’s take a look at some examples.

Message to communicate: I’ve had a bad day. I can’t come.

Voice 1: Dear Sirs, I regret to inform you that, due to circumstances beyond my control, I am compelled to cancel our scheduled appointment. Please accept my most sincere apologies for this inconvenience. I hope you can recalendar our consultation. Please contact me at your earliest convenience, and I will adjust my schedule to accommodate yours.

Voice 2: Gah! I’ve had the most horrendous day! Everything has gone wrong and I’m about to explode. I’m stuck here at the garage while they fix a blowout, I’m already an hour late getting Jeff, and the kids are screaming for dinner. I spent 30 freaking minutes waiting for the tow truck!! OnStar my eye. I soooo need our night out, but I just can’t swing it. Please don’t hate me. We will do it, I swear.

Voice 3: Dude! Totally gnarly day and I’m slammed. Tonight’s tanked. Gotta catch some z’s. Call me back, bro, and we’ll hook up. We gotta hang!

In #1, your can see the executive sitting behind a huge desk, talking into a Dictaphone, her jacket probably thrown across an etegere, or the secretary stationed just outside the door, clacking away at the keyboard, well-trained in making his boss look good. #2 blares soccer mom, minivan, 2.5 kids, and a Labra-doodle. She’s probably texting on her smart phone. With #3, you can almost smell the board wax, Coppertone, and rubber wetsuits, and hear the beep from the answering machine. But the actual text mentioned none of these things.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, in a writing context, a quote is a snapshot of a character.

But, be careful. When developing a character’s voice, ask yourself these questions:

  • Would my character use these words? If you’re writing a street urchin growing up in the alleys of Whitechapel, he’s not going to have the vocabulary of Little Lord Fontleroy. Likewise, the Duke of Buckingham isn’t going to talk like a fishwife. Even when writing science fiction and fantasy, be consistent, and allow differences in speech patterns to give both your characters and your world history.
  • Will these words (or grammar) get in the way of the story? Will the ‘voice’ resonate with the reader and draw them deeper into the story? Or will they have to stop and reread a sentence or paragraph to try and understand your meaning? Be authentic—to a point. Be cognizant of when exacting is too much. Just, think how, maddening, it would, be, if someone, wrote the way, William Shatner, talks, in real life.
  • Am I accurate or insulting? Am I propogating a stereotype? People from different geographical regions talk differently, but learn about the area and its people you’re portraying before you put words in their mouths. Citizens of the South don’t all sound like rednecks, any more than all inner-city mavens speak gangsta, and just because a character uses either of these accents doesn’t mean they’re stupid. If you want to make someone sound intellectually challenged, do it with what they talk about, the questions they ask, how they express themselves, not their accent. Likewise, not all highly intelligent, well-educated people speak like a walking thesaurus from Nob Hill, and just because you’re from the Upper East Side doesn’t mean you can carry on a coherent conversation. Demonstrating your awareness of these nuances adds richness and texture to your writing that the reader will savor.

Legends & Lore: An Anthology of Mythic ProportionsIn my next post, we’ll discuss writing in the vernacular, some of the do’s, some of the don’ts, but most especially how to let your reader ‘hear’ the characters’ voice without you, the writer, getting in the way.

In the meantime, in the comments below, write ‘I have to cancel’ in a specific voice. How many characters can you create just by choosing the right constellation of words?

Editor-in-chief Penny Freeman lives, writes, edits, and markets from her home in southeast Texas. She currently supervises several editorial projects, including our most recent invitation-only anthology contest, Mechanized Masterpieces 2: An American Anthology. Her next release, Legends and Lore: An Anthology of Mythic Proportions, is slated for release October 22, 2014.

 

Penny Freeman

Penny Freeman

Author, Editor, Designer

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