Collected Stories: Adult Adventure

By Seth Giolle

This Collected Stories collection focuses on Adult Adventure. These stories involve spies, private investigators, and island mafia. Whereas these stories don't delve into gore and the like, they do take on adult themes the other Collected Stories tend to skip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304740946

Seth Giolle

Seth Giolle was born on a small, rural farm in southeast Ontario. After Travelling throughout Canada in all its splendour, he once again makes Ontario his home.

Book preview

Words

Anecdotal:

This collection of stories was new for me. I usually write science fiction or youth adventure, or on the odd turn, the story turns into a drama. I found I had some adventures that were turning a little too adult to put in any existing collection, so I decided to make an adult adventure collection.

This was a neat experience. I don’t write gore or involve the bedroom details of an adult relationship in stories, but in creating an adult collection for adventure, I could involve more mature themes which was a definite release. I enjoyed it and will likely do it again.

Like I’ve ‘said’ in previous Collected Stories’ Anecdotals, shorter stories for me are challenges. I like to see if I can write a certain character or properly portray a certain moment.

With White Wine, I wanted to know if I could write a story where the protagonist is completely unaware of what was going on around him/her while keeping the reader content and reading. To reveal too much to the reader gives something away to the protagonist for the most part. It’s an interesting balance of following one plot while subtly writing another. I think it worked out okay, and I do enjoy a good spy story.

A fun part of this story was making use of the city of Morewood. Morewood is actually a small town. I decided I’d make it a bustling metropolis with a bay and thousands of people. I still smile when I read this story knowing full well the actual town is, well, not that bustling. It’s a nice place and all. It’s just nothing like the setting projected for White Wine.

Carnival brings in the concept of a psychic. She’s seen a crime and reported it, and the detectives are now using her to try and prove that the person they have in custody is the guilty party. If they aren’t quick enough, he’ll get away, and those that have been abducted will be lost with no recourse.

I think the most difficult, maybe tricky, part of writing Carnival is describing the psychic feelings and images she tunes into. I wanted to describe them serious enough to pay them proper respect, but I also needed to use words like sensed and felt so the average reader would understand what I was describing. But it’s hard for an average reader to read those more generic descriptors and take the psychic seriously.

Using other descriptors might lose the average reader but appease the person that wants a more diverse, complex word base. How to balance the two needs of the average and not-so-average reader? Hm.

Originally, I had about three more subplots to Carnival than in the later drafts. It just became too much of a riddle to solve, so the detective working with the protagonist returned to being a more two-dimensional character. I think this removes some nice depth from the story, but again, all that extra subplot just makes the storyline too complex in this case.

A lot of stories in my later collections are the result of a list. I sat down and made a list of settings, people, and plots I hadn’t written about yet.

A lighthouse, a spy, pirates, a painter, et cetera - they’re all story elements I hadn’t used before, so decided to use them to make fresh stories. It gave me a challenge. Could I write a story using a vineyard which I’ve never known? That sort of thing.

Freedom was written along a similar line. I’d never written a story using a blind protagonist, so I did. I’d also never used an airship in a story either, and I love the idea of airships and hot air balloons.

This story evolved from there and took on a message at the end that I didn’t plan on writing. Still, it fits, and most stories evolve by their own devices. The author is only in charge of so much when dialogue and plot take on a life of their own.

I think the most fun in writing this particular story was describing how the blind person moved around using floor vibrations and related sounds in his airship. General air pressure, understanding body language and character type, and his sense of balance when disturbed in the slightest way - it all means so much when interpreted by the right person making that protagonist more alert and, if anything, more able than the closest sighted person. Describing those extra senses we tend to take for granted was really interesting.

Love that Jazz is a fun story. Rich people can get away with some really fun things like living in the thirties … in the present.

In this story, something is stolen, and a detective is sent over to help track down the thief only to find the robbery victim’s mansion is a little out of time. I decided to make this story a romp through time in that sense from music to clothing and cars.

There was a fair bit of research done for car and clothing names. The music listened to in the thirties along with other quirks had to be figured out. I’m not a thirties nut, per say, so I didn’t fall into any of it naturally, and it was hard figuring out how much to share without overdoing the detail. But I had to involve enough that a reader who doesn’t know the thirties can visualize the storyline. It’s, again, a careful balance.

In Love that Jazz, the detective’s usual partner is off on another case somewhere alone. The same detective that’s off somewhere is talked about in Island Life. He’s found floating in a bay at one point more to the point. Unfortunate but true.

To that next story.

The protagonist in Island Life is a private investigator trying to find a missing youth who’s been abducted by his father. The problem is that no one’s talking, and it seems the father has allied himself with the local criminal element, maybe even the dictator running the island militia? And a detective is found floating in the bay who was on the same case? It isn’t painting a pretty picture.

The case is turning into something the protagonist never bargained for to the point where he may very well have become the hunted party himself.

A great bit of fun I had with Island Life was making use of Quechuan (Kesh-Won) and Spanish in the story. The island in question is connected with South America, so they don’t speak English a lot, per say, so he’s translating and trying to speak their language. There’s a cool mix of English description and English-Quechuan-Spanish dialogue.

I liked creating this mix and made the effort not to overdo the other languages since I’m guessing my reader base will be English by nature.

The words he uses are Quechuan or Spanish translated by way of online translator. The song a ‘neighbour’ is ‘singing’ as the protagonist wakes up the one morning is a real song named Intiq Churin, or (English Translation) Children of the Sun. It’s a Quechuan-Incan song I found online. The whole is a lot longer. You’re more than welcome to look it up. It’s got a nice bit of meaning to it.

White Wine

Good to have you back, sir, Sam near boomed. The middle aged man deftly scooped up a menu from its podium slot and steered the way towards the back of the hotel restaurant. He stopped a few times to check on people’s meals and point across to waiters ordering additional items and refills the other customers wanted. It’s been too long since you last visited us, Sam chastised as they reached Mark’s favourite table at last.

Surrounded as it was by clinging vine and white lattice, Mark felt safe eating in that corner booth. He slipped down onto the cushioned bunk and shook his head.

I was here yesterday, he countered playfully, accepting the offered menu. I’m here every day at this time, Sam. You know that.

Mark wasn’t even sure why Sam bothered bringing a menu along. He always ordered and ate the same thing, but Sam was a nice man slaved to his routines. As such, as always, Mark accepted that menu for a moment before handing it back.

I’ll take the soup and pasta, he instructed. White wine, please.

Sam nodded. He turned, menu under his arm, and paused. Standing gazing, frowning across, he sighed. I could have sworn it was weeks, he mumbled. We didn’t have the soup in stock yesterday. Pasta? Everyone needs a change now and then, he added with a shrug.

Sam was still mumbling as he issued the order across to those in wait.

Mark watched him go with a wry grin. Sam was a nice man. He needed to go to the gym more often, and he could use some corrective shoes, but he meant well.

Instinct kicked in, and Mark slipped his cell from the inside pocket of his metallic suit coat. The dress pants, shoes, and dress shirt were neatly pressed. They were all well coordinated.

Mark checked the restaurant from his booth. It was the usual assortment of tourists in their tacky shirts and logo-covered coats. Their smiles were too broad, and their laughter was near mocking, but they seemed harmless.

Sometimes Mark wondered if his job was worth the money when it came with such expected paranoia. It wasn’t like anything ever happened to make his life exciting anyway.

Focusing in on his phone, he drew the bar across, and his iPhone allowed him in.

No new messages.

Slipping the cell away, Mark relaxed back and surveyed the hotel restaurant again. His white wine was delivered with the bottle. He accepted it with a gracious smile and took a sip.

Sam always had the best.

A buzz. Mark withdrew his cell again.

Suite 335. 5 minutes.

Mark grimaced. He was hungry.

I’ll be back in a few minutes, he insisted as he exited the restaurant. Sam nodded succinctly. Hold my booth and meal for me.

Will do.

Mark made a quick step over the restaurant threshold, then, across the shiny marble hotel lobby floor. He nodded to the attendants and marked those around him.

Again, instinct.

It was the usual hotel crowd with too much luggage, loud shirts, maps, and brochures laid or held out between them. Mark avoided those people entirely.

The last thing he wanted to do was explain where the promenade or boat launches were. Let the hotel staff help with that information. It was part of their jobs after all. He took the carpeted stairs two at a time up to the first landing.

Morewood Hotel was the finest establishment in town, hence its popularity with tourists. Brass railings and caps added class to the rich, red carpeting and many notable busts and moulded fittings. The paintings were copies, of course, but they were well painted in their own right, and they fit with the hotel’s general aristocratic theme.

Mark paused on the first landing before continuing up. He checked his cell for more information. Nothing. Continuing on, he ran through the options.

Someone wanted a guide through the city? A diplomat needed advising? His supervisor needed his laundry done again?

The agency, well, he at least, got all the glorious assignments.

The person needing a guide would be picky, irritating, and opinionated, and the day would feel painfully long and be nowhere near rewarding.

The diplomat would be asking a ridiculous question, and he’d take all the credit for any solution Mark came up with.

And his supervisor’s laundry - well, his supervisor took to power quite easily. He took to bending that power too easily more like, and Mark always got the simpler assignments.

It sometimes made him wonder why he didn’t just quit when everyone else in the office got real work. They saw real action, not always, but often enough.

He could get a job with several police forces. He could request a transfer to another office. Frowning, he completed the climb to the second floor and glanced around. No one again. He continued on up to the third floor.

He had to admit that he stayed with the agency and this exact office because he loved the city. There was something about the place that stuck with him.

He’d grown up there after all.

Reaching the third floor, he glanced around one more time. Still no one. It was unusual to not run into at least one couple sober or drunk. He shrugged it off as good luck. The fact that he couldn’t see body guards or men in suits on watch meant it wasn’t a diplomat. In the least, it wasn’t a diplomat that wanted to advertise.

Mark found Room 335 and glanced around yet again. Still finding the hallway empty, he knocked, opened the door, and stepped inside.

The room was much like any other. Brass wound its way around the bed and bar. The carpeting continued in its plush bounce, and the walls were as elaborately decorated as anywhere else in the hotel. Mark peered into the small kitchen and bathroom as he headed towards that main room. Empty. He stepped fully into the bedroom portion and frowned.

There was no note or person awaiting his attention. He checked his watch.

About five minutes early, maybe less.

The phone rang, and Mark crossed the room to pick it up, but the ringing died before he got there. Nodding, Mark lifted the phone itself. There was the note he’d been seeking.

Room bugged.

Café. 5th and Baine. Table four.

Mark stared at the note an extra long minute. A real mission? He was actually being given a real mission contact?

He had to smile; then, he cleared his throat, flushed the note, and left. Lunch would have to wait. Mark took the elevator down. He selected Basement and watched the people come and go. On basement level, he slipped down a waxed, off-white side corridor and out the back door.

The loading dock was busy. A few people noticed him quickly step past them into the alleyway for parts beyond, but they quickly went back to work steering their metal trolleys about.

Mark was soon lost to the city he knew so well. 5th and Baine. He’d never been to that café. It was new, and he’d yet to have the chance.

Walking as he was between streets before coming out along 5th, this all felt familiar. He’d never been asked to meet someone at a café before, had he? Had he simply forgotten?

Mark shook his head. It didn’t matter.

The sidewalk was mostly empty except for the usual array of shoppers and dog walkers. Two cyclists passed on the opposite side of the road, and cars made their way down 5th’s broken lanes. Many of the city’s roads needed repair, but its road crews weren’t that adept at fixing much. They never had been. Or so it seemed. He watched the shops as he passed. Mostly dress shops, but there were some hardware stores, diners, and collector’s dens.

He crossed Weaton and kept walking.

The car lot on the corner was busy. The Shopper’s up on the left was having a sale of some sort. It was all pretty average. Mark stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried not to think about things. It was likely some business man’s dog had gone missing. Maybe they wanted him to courier a package?

Carry a box from point A to B.

Ooh, how exciting.

Still, Mark couldn’t help but have an anxious step. Morewood was home to seven suburbs and twelve municipalities. It was a growing city even at that. There was talk of expanding and building on across the bay.

There was an argument over the effect that would have on the ecology and air mix, but once they figured out who would run the ferry system from one side of the bay to the other, it would likely go through. Morewood was big business, and money made the world go ‘round.

In a city of that size, he had to get his break sooner than later, right?

This was finally it?

Reaching Baine, he stopped to stare at the small café on the opposite corner. It had a nice outdoor patio up front: fashionable tables under white umbrellas.

He crossed one way, then, another and found table four as if by habit. Sitting in the cushioned lounge chair, he glanced around uneasily. Why did he feel like he’d been there before? When he knew he hadn’t.

You’re late, came a muttered phrase.

A man in similar, only darker suit sat to Mark’s right and frowned inspecting his drink menu with interest.

Brown eyes, average nose, and shaved face - this man didn’t even have a noticeable tan. His brown hair with that short cut and side part was just as common. The European accent was a little unique, but so many immigrants were moving to Morewood every day, and business brought its fair share of culture making the unusual usual.

In short, there was nothing much to tell this man from any other. Mark found this a little disconcerting.

No car? the man asked in his careful accent.

I didn’t get a time to be here by, Mark reasoned softly. I lost my license last week.

The man smiled, then, shrugged. I’ve ordered, he insisted as Mark made to wave a waiter over. Mark dropped his hand and smiled politely across. The man casually slipped a thin, black cell across. Mark palmed it. The room was bugged, the man informed him. We had to meet face to face, or I wouldn’t be here.

Mark nodded quietly.

A waiter delivered some pasta to their table with two glasses of white wine. Mark instantly dug in. Realizing he was likely supposed to be listening more than eating, he sat up straighter and started to chew more slowly. The man took Mark’s hunger in stride slowly drinking his wine.

We need you to watch a man and divert a crisis, Mr. Denn. Mark wanted to grin, but that would be unprofessional. We’re raising your security status to level five for the interim with all the perks, the man explained, and we suggest you only use the phone I passed you. They’ll be monitoring your cell and any other phones you are known to access.

Mark nodded solemnly. And what am I being asked to do, exactly?

Someone else will explain that much, the man assured him smoothly. Mark sighed. He should have figured that part wouldn’t be done outside. Follow Baine to the park on the left. There, sit and feed the birds. You’ll find a bag of feed waiting for you. Everything’s been paid for, the man added dropping some cash for a tip. You have twenty minutes to get to the park. You’ll never see me again.

The man stood and left.

Mark smiled. He was being trusted with a mission of real worth. He quickly finished his meal and drank his wine, then, exited the patio and found a quick yet comfortable pace down the street. He almost withdrew his phone but stopped.

He withdrew the black phone he’d been passed instead. Nothing yet. Just holding the phone, he felt recognition.

Long blocks and tiresome stop lights made the walk feel like forever, but he came to the final sidewalk and started across fresh green grass.

The park wasn’t large, but it had good tree cover, and it was quite cool near the water. The mariner statue and broken fountain were ignored as were the dozen tourists holding their own family photo shoot.

Mark aimed himself over the large hill and down to that water where he angled himself along the front path noticeably slowing his pace.

And smiling politely making sure he didn’t appear to be working.

He wandered past those benches finding a few of them occupied. One of them wasn’t, and there was a small bag of feed to one side. He sat and started anxiously feeding the birds that collected. He hoped he wasn’t late again.

Nice day for feeding ducks, a man noted sitting down beside him. Mark pursed his lips and nodded. I like this park, the man added with a relaxed nod. Baine is so busy that it needs greenery, don’t you think?

Mark licked his lips. He’d never seen this man before. He was older than the last, and his costume was reminiscent of an old hunter minus the weird hat and large barrelled