Had a nice writing session this evening. Not the thousand words I was looking for (*Jedi wave*) but a respectable 700 or so. I wrote one scene I’m particularly happy-for-a-first-draft with, and thought I’d post it, just for fun:

“It’s like…” Larrimer trailed off, then shook his head and sat back. He watched Crandall drink. “Have you ever had real milk, Inspector?”

Crandall resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “This is real milk.”

“Nah, that’s just the machine stuff, a bunch of cultured cells like for meat or blood transfusions. I mean real milk, like out of a cow.” He squinted and made squeezing gestures with both fists. Crandall choked and spluttered.

“Probably,” he wheezed, slapping himself on the chest. “Why?”

“I grew up near a farm and the cows ate grass all summer, then hay or something all winter. And you could tell the difference, you know? It didn’t taste like grass, but it kind of did?”

Crandall felt lost. “Sure.”

Larrimer threw out his hands. “Well, it’s like that.”

“Um.”

“Look, one of these people killed Lt. Tou. They’re a murderer. And I feel like that ought to come through somehow, like the grass.” He slumped back in his chair. “But I’m not getting anything like that, I can’t taste it.”

Crandall considered that. “All right.” He nodded. “Sure, I see what you mean. They can’t be completely honest, they have to lie to you. Even when they’re telling the truth, a murderer still has to try to deceive you.”

“Yes!” Larrimer leaned forward, eyes wide. “That’s exactly what I mean. But I just don’t get that, I don’t feel it. None of them are ringing any special bells, and I’m kind of starting to wonder if I have what it takes.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, you’re new at this. I’ve been at it for decades, remember.”

“Yeah, all right, sure. But I feel like I ought to have some kind of instinct for it. Maybe I wouldn’t know what it was I was sensing, but I feel like I’d be like: That guy, him, he’s lying to me, he’s the murderer.”

Crandall blinked. “But they’re all lying.”