Speculative Fictioneer and Blogger, Milo James Fowler, of In Medias Res
will be interviewed here at scribbleandedit
over three consecutive days from Monday 12th - Wednesday 14th August 2013.
Here's the opening to Milo's novella, Immaterial Evidence:
Excerpt Immaterial Evidence © Milo James Fowler
They say no good deed goes unpunished. I had two bullet holes in me to prove it.
My tale of woe, like so many others before and since, starts with a girl. But this one was just a kid—snatched off the street while out for an evening stroll with her parents. I should have known better than to take the case, considering how little I had to go on, but times were tough, and I needed the money.
I couldn’t have known how much it would cost me in the end—or how special that girl truly was.
“They’re here.” Wanda Wood, my part-time secretary and full-time confidant, let the drapes fall back in place on her front window. “You sure about this, Charlie? Leaving town? Ain’t like you.”
“Can’t stay here. Not with Ivan gunning for me.” I winced, adjusting the sling that held my right arm. I glanced around Wanda’s apartment—a nice place, but not nearly big enough for the both of us. Had it been a week already? “As much as I’ve appreciated it.”
“I wouldn’t let anybody come after you.” She sat down beside me on the sofa.
“My own personal bodyguard.” I chucked her under the chin.
She shook her head, blonde curls bobbing. “You save that little girl’s life, and you’re the one who pays for it. Office burned to the ground, your friend killed—” Just as her eyes started to glisten with tears, she turned away from me. “Life really ain’t fair sometimes.”
“Hey.” I touched her cheek, and she fixed me with her pair of shining sapphires.
“The mayor’s office is a real step up, don’t you think?”
“I liked working for you.”
“And you will again.” I stood. “Soon as I get my detective agency up and running in Little Tokyo, I’ll send for you. It’ll be just like old times. You’ll see.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “Unless you don’t like the idea.”
“Oh, I like it fine.” She took the crooked arm I extended toward her—like I was the one escorting her to the door and not the other way around. “I’m just afraid I’ll never see you again.”
“You should be so lucky.”
She gave me a playful shove. I gave her a peck on the cheek.
“You’re a hero, Charlie. Don’t let anybody tell you different, not even your own self.”
Have any of you kept your original MS's from years back in your earliest writing days, like Milo?