Of course you can. If they look askance, you just look disdainful and say "Well, if you need more than 40,000 words, then you need more. I've never been much for the scattergun approach myself."

And then walk away for more wine and cheese.

sure, 40k is approaching the length of something publishable as a novella or novelette. I don't keep much track of these things and their technical definitions. I believe Doctorow's first, Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, was somewhere around 45k. Maybe closer to 50k, I can't remember. Anyway. And the KDR ended up at around 70k or so. But a first novel, a real live adult weight novel, you're looking at at least 80-90k words. Lot of 'em are around 120k, but it's tougher to sell an editor on that when you're new.

Vinegar and Garlic, to mask the scent-


Marcus came in through the deliveryway, along the alley. He had keys to all the doors, but he only ever used the back entrance. The longer the neighbors thought the residents of the Manor Vellis were on extended vacation, the better.

He dropped his collection of satchels and dirty overcoat in the kitchen, along with the paltry sum of cash he had gotten from Jacob, then rummaged up a lunch. Supplies were running thin, but it didn't matter anymore. Another day, maybe two, to be sure that attention had shifted away, then he was headed up the river.

Tucking the pistol into the waistband of his clothes, Marcus gathered up his food and the bottle of red. He felt like a bath. The travel-grime had been necessary for his meeting with Jacob, but now he felt like a little civilization. He crept down the hallway, pausing before the archway that led to the front drawing room and peeking his head through. Wide windows overlooked the street in front of the Manor. Even in the dead of night, there was still traffic going past. This would all have been easier if the Manor had a basement, even a wine cellar, where Marcus could have holed up away from casual eyes. As it was, almost every room had a window, and windows had to be avoided. The only windowless spaces were the kitchen, the upstairs bath, the back hall, and the master's den. And the den was uninhabitable, ever since Marcus had made his entrance three days ago.

A long couch blocked most of the hallway from the front window, so Marcus knelt down and, pushing his food in front of him, crawled past the archway. When he was sure he was clear, he stood up and continued down the hall. The stink from the den met him soon after. There were towels stuffed under the doorway, and Marcus had broken open several bottles of vinegar and garlic to mask the scent, but it wasn't doing much good. That was what would eventually drive him from the house, he suspected.

Upstairs, Marcus crawled through the open hallway into the bathroom. He toed the door closed, then wound the lamps up to their dimmest revolution and poured himself a bath and a glass of red. He laid his clothes out on the makeshift bed he had cobbled together in the corner and slipped into the warm water. The road had been hard on Marcus, had made him into a creature of dust and violence and fear. Now, maybe now, he would finally be able to let that go. Maybe he would finally be able to relax.

The water was nearly cool when he heard the voices downstairs. Marcus had drifted off, and nearly fell as he stood up. Cooling water cascaded off of him, running in rivers down his beard and through his hair. The voices were quiet, but were clearly coming from inside the house. The spike of fear that had awakened him settled down. As quietly as possible, Marcus toweled off and pulled on his pants, then took the pistol and crept downstairs in his bare feet.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs. There was no sound of movement, no opening doors or creaking floorboards to indicate the presence of someone else in the house. The voices had stopped. Maybe it had been a dream, or a trick of the ventilation. Just some conversation from outside, carried in through the garbage chute or something. Marcus padded quietly down the hall, the pistol at his hip. A foot from the door to the den, the voices started again. Two voices, speaking in dull monotone, coming from the den itself. Marcus stopped, and his heart soared into his throat.

Whoever it was, they were talking over each other. Though there were two voices, maybe more, they seemed to be saying the same thing, talking together as though with one mind. The towels and door muffled the conversation. Marcus knew there was no one in there, knew that this door was the only way into the den, and it hadn't been opened for days.

Steadying his grip on the pistol, Marcus kicked away the towels. He took a deep breath, emptied his lungs completely, filled them with as much clean air as he could, then held his breath and pushed open the door.

The bodies of Lady Vellis and the butler lay bundled against the far wall, still tied up with the twine Marcus had taken from the pantry. The master of the house was sprawled across the desk, the wound at the back of his head sticky and black. A cloud of flies rose up. The bodies were bloated and running with pus, the pale flesh cutting against their bonds, the blood of their death dry and matted on the carpet. There was no one else in the room.

"Yes, we saw him," the three bodies said as one. "The other night. Three days, hard to say." Their voices were stiff and flat, like tar that had dried solid. Marcus leaned against the door frame. Forgetful, he breathed out and then in. The stink cut through to his lungs.

"Yes," the bodies said again, then silence. Marcus felt like he was hearing one end of a conversation, like if he strained his ears just hard enough, he would hear another voice leaking into the quiet. "Yes, he's here now."

The fly-sticky eyes of Master Vellis snapped open. He looked at Marcus with cold recognition. "You should have gotten rid of the bodies, Marcus. We can always find the bodies."

The front door crashed open. There were footsteps.

Marcus backed out of the den. He glanced down the hallway at the kitchen, at his coat and the satchels he had carried for so long. The footsteps were between them, entering the drawing room, coming slowly and heavily past the couch, almost to the archway.

Marcus raised his pistol. The stink of the den was burning through his chest, filling his throat with bile and fear. A shape lurched into the hallway, a dark outline in the dim light. Another fear clutched him, unnatural and solid, projecting from the figure.

Marcus fired his pistol, filled the hallway with the booming report and the sharp light of the flash. Cycled the chamber, sighted, fired again. The fear clutched him, more than the fear of discovery and capture, more than the fear of pursuit. Cycled, sighted, fired. Fired, again and again. The figured drifted towards him.

Marcus dropped the pistol and ran.

Just got around to reading that. Yum.

Another one to Interzone. "The Algorithm of God" shall be forthcoming. I'd post more, but I'm WIPED right now.

Is that the one I read before about the river and the priests and the ... other stuff?

It is! I was concerned that the ending would prove detrimental to its sale, but that seems to have worked out.

Ooh! I look forward to reading it again.