Introduction to a writer

[writer_mel]

"I hate flying," Melinda Duval told the airport bartender, taking her first bite of bratwurst and a long drag off her beer. Her bags were tucked under the bar stool and a small purse sat on the bar by her plate.

He smiled, "I'm a student pilot. I guess I look at it differently." The bartender told her she had nothing to worry about: airline pilots were wonderful and she'd be just fine. Though his words weren't particularly calming, his manner was. He had faith this silliness worked and Melinda found herself relaxing enough to believe in him.

A man sat down two stools away and ordered the same thing she had. He wasn't even as tall as her, with dark hair and a generous mustache. His expensive blazer was tightly buttoned over a cheap turtleneck and ragged jeans. He looked much more comfortable than she felt.

The man also took a long drag from his beer. "Damn plane's delayed for repairs. Man, I shoulda just kept drinking last night. I gotta be a quart low on water."

"Yeah," Melinda advised with a smirk, "either stop early or never stop."

"I had an omen last night," the bartender told them.

"The bratwurst stand on end?" her fellow traveler asked.

"No, the register came up 666."

Melinda smothered a giggle. If three sixes was the best this airport could provide, her flight would be just fine.

She smiled at the young man and drained her beer. "I feel much better now," she joked. Actually, she did feel better. Flying almost always meant no sleep which only added to her misgivings about huge metal objects and clouds. People hid more about themselves during the day, too, leaving her feeling closed out. These two men were so sociable, so normal.

She looked back at the tap. Did she want another one? The bartender saw her expression and nodded. He poured it and she tipped him generously for his faith.

At her gate, the plane was already loading. She muttered, "Damn, that's a waste."

"What?" an older woman asked.

She held up her beer.

"Oh, they're boarding your flight? Can't you take it on board?"

"I don't think so." She shrugged, took a drink, then threw the mostly full cup away. "Oh, well," she sighed, "I shouldn't be drinking at nine am anyway."



Once settled on the plane, Melinda pulled out her notes. First she went over her notes from the night before. Shadow Man, who wouldn't go out in the daylight because he disliked harsh shadows, was complete. Your average obsessively neurotic individual. Without computers the guy might have been forced onto the street. In this modern age he could phone in a ten hour work 'day' and never see the sunlight. Who said it *had* to be tough being nocturnal these days?

Rachel was another matter. Melinda had been unable to get any real stories or impressions from her, just vague hints about secrets beyond Melinda's knowledge or understanding. Arrogant bitch hadn't been helpful in the least.

Four years of traveling around North America had convinced Melinda very little was new under the sun. Or moon. Rachel's sly hints of mysteries and powers only annoyed her. After the stripper's nonsense, she wanted something a bit more basic. Maybe Sanitation would be a good start. Then she could try the cops after getting some sleep.

She put her notes away, pulled the shade down, and asked her seat mate not to let the stewardess disturb her. Then she settled in for a few hours fitful sleep.



Melinda threw her bag into the hotel bedroom, not bothering to notice if it landed on the bed. She grabbed the phone book and phone and settled on the couch. Glancing at her watch, she dialed Toronto's Public Works Department-Sanitation Division.

"Hello, may I speak with the garbage collection night shift supervisor."

A puzzled pause, then a flurry of clicks got her a raspy man's voice.

"Yeah, whas your problem?"

"No problem," she informed him. "I'd like to come in and talk with a few of your collection workers."

"Garbage men, ya mean? Wha' for?" The question wasn't hostile, just genuinely curious.

"I'm a writer and-"

"I don' let my people talk ta reporters," he interrupted. "The cops don' like that. And I don' like what the cops don' like, if ya get my drift?"

"I understand completely." She began her practiced speech. "I'm not a reporter. I'm a fiction writer and I talk with people who work night shift looking for ideas for my books."

She heard the man's mind whirring. After a pause she could have predicted to the half second, he said, "Well, I guess thas all right. Who d' ya wanna talk ta?'

"Maybe you could pick someone for me?" she asked. "I'm new in town and-"

"I know just the gi-person," he told her. "You be down here at 10:30 tonight."



Melinda followed the night supervisor's directions and arrived in the Sanitation locker room at 10:27. He had told her to ask for M.B. Reynolds. She looked around at the men dressing. Each set of overalls had the worker's last name embroidered on the chest. A Matthews, two Smiths and a Sethi passed her before she saw Reynolds.

Her eyes opened wide. M.B. Reynolds was a 275 pound black woman with dreadlocks and a gold nose ring. Melinda sat on a bench and pulled out a note pad. She wrote the date and place before speaking. By then M.B. Reynolds had noticed her.

"Ms Reynolds, may I speak with you?"



Mark Stelton savored his third chocolate covered donut. His partner was running later than usual. Maybe there was time for a third cup of coffee before he showed. Yeah, definitely time for more coffee, he thought, looking out at the beginnings of a lovely sunset.

"Excuse me. Detective? Can I have a moment?"

Stelton whirled around to face a pleasantly curved blonde. Maybe a little under thirty, he figured, she had high cheekbones and full lips. Her bright blue eyes peeked out from under the thick hair falling over her face. She wore jeans and a blue turtleneck with a dark grey blazer. Lovely.

"You can have anything you like," he answered with a smirk.

Laughing easily, she tried again, "I'm a writer and -"

"Reporters aren't allowed in the squad room, miss. I'm real sorry."

She smiled sadly. "I'm not a reporter, Detective Stelton. My name is Melinda Duval and your captain told me I could find you here. He also said you might find the time to talk to me."

That changed everything. He leaned against his desk. "In that case, let me tell you my life's story."

She laughed again. "That's more like it." She sat at his desk and pulled out her pad.

"I was born-"

"Whoa, I'm not sure I'm up to all that. Maybe if I tell you what I'm looking for." Melinda dreaded this part. Some fans couldn't talk to her easily after they figured out who she was. "I write horror novels." No reaction. "I run around, talk to people who work nights and they tell me about odd things they see."

Stelton frowned. "You don't want to hear what I see, Ms Duval. I mean, this is Homicide."

"I swear, Detective, if the phrase 'a nice girl like you' comes out of your mouth, I'll scream." She punched his knee. "Anyway, I'm really looking for odd things. Like last night, I talked to a garbage collector. She told me about this house-all they throw out is tuna cans. Empty tuna cans. I mean, really, who lives there-a very hungry tabby?"

"You can get a horror story out of that?"

She nodded.

Stelton whistled. "Ok, here goes."



OOC: Melinda is an Non-Fandom Original Character. She'll be traveling everywhere, asking questions and writing stories. She's itching to RP and would love to interview other muses. Prompts will sometimes be answered with the stories she publishes.