Pants and Their Seats

It occurred to me recently that I might be in need of a little more pantsing.

(No, not like that.)

Allow me to explain.  See, writers can more or less be broken down into two basic types: plotters and pantsers.  Plotters, well, they plot it all out ahead of time.  Pantsers write by-the-seat-of-their-pants.  To be strictly accurate, most writers are a mix of the two, but trend one way or the other.  When I was very young I was a pantser- I think most children are- but as I got older I became more and more of a plotter.  To the point where I think I sometimes pre-write my way into not being able to actually write, for fear of somehow breaking the world-building I've already spent so many hours on.  Which brings us to today, and a story-seed I've had for a while, which I've given the working-name Twinsight.  I've done only the barest of plotting on it- more character/concept than actual plot- so it's perfect to use for pants-practice.  Behold.

***

There aren’t that many of us living in the Commune- maybe three hundred, if you don’t count the Guides.  It’s a small enough number that I know most of my peers by sight, if not name.

I did not know this boy.

He was tall enough to stand out, and lean enough that it made him seem taller still.  He moved through the crowd with ease, slipping deftly from one gap to the next, bumping into no one.  He appeared to be sizing people up as he went- not in an aggressive way, but more like with an intense curiosity.

He must be newly-manifested, I realized.  Unused to being around so many Savvies- perhaps not even knowing that so many existed in all the world, let alone Madran.  Most of us had manifested in childhood or puberty, but late bloomers weren’t unheard-of.  He must be one of them, and feeling overwhelmed by it all.

As if he could hear my thoughts, the boy looked in my direction; when his eyes met mine he gave me a wide grin.  My insides lurched: something about the dimple at the right side of his mouth transformed his average-good-looks into breath-takingly gorgeous.

“Leda!”

I tore my eyes away from the boy and turned towards the voice calling my name.  Rosemary, the new assistant to my primary Guide, had a hopeful look on her face.

“Are you having a vision?” She asked.  I blinked in confusion.

“Why would you think I was having a vision?”

“Your face- it got… I don’t know.  It looked like you were seeing something unexpected.”

Well that was true.  I glanced back at where the boy had been.  He’d vanished, of course.

Intro to Jane

Jane Sydney was an eye-catching woman.

The first thing that Daniel noticed was her flaming red hair: he imagined that’s what drew most people’s notice.  Even smoothed back and rolled demurely into a chignon, there was something wild about it.  He reckoned it was natural: she had the sort of translucent skin that spoke of Irish ancestry, although it surprised him that she didn’t appear to have a single freckle.  Odd, for a woman living on the coast, even such a rainy one as Oregon’s.  But then again, she was wearing what he’d swear was a dress from the 1940s or ‘50s: pale blue fabric fitted through the sleeves and bodice, but swinging out wide from the hips.  It came down past her knees, but was short enough to reveal a pair of shapely calves, which tapered down into feet wearing a pair of peep-toe heels, perfectly matched to the bright red of her lipstick.  She might just be the sort of woman who wore big hats and carried a parasol.

And damned if there wasn’t a string of pearls around her neck.

She was engaged in what appeared to be a somewhat intense conversation with an absolutely ancient gentleman, so Daniel turned his attention to the art.  Several different artists had work on display, so far as he could tell, but every piece was somehow nautically-themed.  Appropriate, for a seaside gallery.  He leaned in to more closely examine a miniature watercolor of a small boat dancing on a shimmering violet ocean.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”  Her voice was a pleasant contralto, and when Daniel turned to face her, he saw that her smile reached the corners of her dark gray eyes.  He smiled back.

“I certainly hope so.  I was told you run this gallery?”

“Yes,” she said, and he thought he heard a touch of wariness creep into her voice.  “I own the Storm’s Edge.  Were you interested in making a purchase?”

The Policy of Truth

Normally Mikah was the sort of boy who prided himself on his unflinching honesty, but with the cold hard edge of a gun barrel pressed against the thin skin of his temple, he opted instead for discretion.

"I would be delighted to help you," he said, stretching his mouth into a toothy grin.

"Thought so," grunted the girl, but the gun didn't waver.

"Perhaps we can put the... weapon away, and discuss your needs?"

"Gun's not goin' anywhere," said the girl, although she did take a step back so it was no longer directly touching his flesh.  She held it the way other girls might hold a cell phone- like an extension of her body over which she had perfect control.  Mikah briefly considered trying to wrestle it away from her, looked again at the carved muscle of her shoulder, and decided against it.

"So, Miss...?"

"Ms, thank you very much," she snapped.  "This ain't the fifties."

"Of course not, Ms.  Ms...?" he tried again.

"Ms. is fine.  You ain't got any more need for my name than I have for yours.  All you need is to believe that I will pistol-whip the shit out of you if you try to take my gun."

"I wouldn't-" he protested, but she snorted.

"You're a shit liar.  Saw you considerin' it not thirty seconds back."

"Yes, well, you'll notice I didn't do more than consider," he said, dryly.  "Physical altercations don't tend to end in my favor."

"Now that I believe.  Stand up."

A Taste of What I'm Currently Working On

She did not like the sky.

It was entirely too far away, and she did not like the vague discomfort it gave her, the knowledge that above her head was simply... nothing.  It was easier at night, when she could pretend the stars were simply bits of mica glittering in magelight- but best of all was when it was overcast, the low gray clouds providing her with the roof she so instinctively sought.  She knew, of course, that clouds lacked any real solidity, but she took comfort in the illusion.

There were no clouds tonight, and what was worse, the thin crescent of a waning moon made her mica-pretense all but impossible to sustain, and so she pointedly ignored the sky, focusing her attention on the gardens around her.  It was where her focus should be at any rate, although she knew full well that sunshy would not be cultivated out in the open like this.

The gardens were beautiful, even to someone who had no special affinity for plants.  Some portions were neatly, rigorously maintained, while others were allowed to sprawl and overflow in a manner that came across as more inviting than wild.  Bloodborn suspected these portions were just as rigorously maintained, perhaps even more so, as making something look natural must always be more difficult than making it look cultivated.  Paths meandered through the grounds, leading from one garden to the next, or to small greenhouses, or alcoves, or to nowhere at all.  At the end of one of these paths, she knew, there would be a windowless building, or a cave, or perhaps even stairs descending into the comforting earth- and that would be where she’d find the sunshy.

But the imperial gardens were so large, taking up at least a square mile that twisted and turned about the palace, and she had no idea where to begin her search.  She wished irritably that she had a scent to work with, for it would be nothing to track the plant by scent- but if she’d had a scent to work with, there’d be no need for this mission.  She briefly considered tracking each unknown scent to its source in a systematic manner- but there were too many.  Better to follow the paths one at a time, or perhaps stalk the gardeners, or maybe even-

A dark form moved from one shadow to another.  Bloodborn froze, even though she knew it was impossible for the other person to see her.  She could see him, however- see him as clearly as if he were standing in a patch of daylight.  More clearly, perhaps, since she still found sunlight a bit irritating.  He was young, and although he did move like a fighter, per se, he carried himself with an air of confidence that said he knew his own worth.  His black hair shone in the moonlight as though it was oiled- but she could smell it was not.

His head turned in her direction, and she could see his expression was one of puzzlement.  His eyes searched the shadows- and then locked with hers.

Which was, of course, impossible.

His eyes, black as the space between the stars, widened with the same shock Bloodborn was feeling, and she got the distinct impression he’d believed himself to be every bit as invisible as she was.  Then they narrowed in fury.

“Who are you?” he hissed.  “What are you doing here?  You can go right back to the council and tell them if they don't think I can handle this on my own, they can-”

Bloodborn bristled and drew herself up to her full height- which was half a head shorter than the boy.  How dare this human speak to her with such insolence?

But was he human?  A tendril of fear uncurled in her belly.  All the Arete she’d encountered over the past month had been as far beneath her as children- but perhaps that was only due to their relative youth.  Perhaps this one was older, or drank the more powerful elixir.  He was certainly handsome enough to be one of the Arete.  She wished she could see his teeth.

“Well?” he demanded.  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”  He seemed angry, perhaps even dangerously angry, if you only paid attention to his sound or his stance... but his scent was heavy with fear.  And confusion.  And maybe even... wounded pride?

He could not be Arete.  He was not arrogant enough.  What was he?

Bloodborn pierced his mind to find out.

***

Abandoned

The sun is setting, casting long shadows over the landscape, and a golden light on the three figures moving through the tangle of bleached weeds. The tallest figure is in the lead, his features obscured by glasses and a dark beard: he is carrying a camera, and has a look of intense concentration on his face. Behind him, following close as a shadow, is a girl with skin like ivory and a swirl of copper hair falling to her waist. Her eyes dart back and forth, always searching… Drifting in the wake of these two, inhaling deeply on a cigarette, is the slightest figure- another girl, but dark-haired and wearing a vivid red pea coat. So bright is this coat that, combined with the trail of smoke, the girl looks like a small fire creeping among the debris.

They are making their way toward a dilapidated old building- abandoned many years ago and now rotting in on itself. Old tires spill out from crumbling walls, and an overwhelming stench of oxidation has the fair skinned girl wrinkling up her nose. She makes an inarticulate noise of disgust.

“I know,” says the fire-girl. “The price one pays for art, eh?”

The bearded boy grunts something that might be a laugh and enters the structure. With a sigh, the fair-girl follows, careful not to touch any of the jagged edges. The fire-girl lingers in the setting sun, finishing off her cigarette, listening to the dry-bone rattle of two empty seed-pods brushing together in the wind.

“The price one pays,” she mutters to herself.

(Abandoned)

The Best ("Our Special Diet")

“My sister and I require a special diet. I tell you this only because I wish it to be made aware to the household that we do not eat apart from haughtiness or spite, but out of concern for the wellbeing of others. When we were younger we contracted a rare illness, which has left us with a dependency on special herbs for our strength. These herbs are the most unpleasant poison to those who have never had the illness, and we would hate for anyone to come to harm because they ever-so-innocently took a mouthful of our stew. They are not deadly, but they might make a person wish for death until they pass from the system. I do, of course, keep our private herbs locked away separately from what gets used in the kitchen.”

Mrs. White was silent for a moment, nostrils flaring in that way I would come to learn meant she was thinking of how to most tactfully phrase something. Finally she said,

“Your illness… you say you had it when you were very young? It does not now affect you, beyond the need for special herbs?” I understood immediately what she was getting at, and quickly changed my story to one closer to the truth.

“I may have misspoke when I called it an illness, ma’am. The truth is that my sister and I were bitten by a venomous animal, and it is the lingering effects of that animals’ poison which cause the weakness. It is not, to the best of my knowledge, communicable. You may ask the sisters, if you feel uneasy- we spent two years living in close quarters with the other children, and none were ever affected by our condition.” None of the living, at any rate.

Mrs. White nodded her acceptance of my explanation, and I noticed her whole posture become slightly less rigid. By the end of our interview she was quite warm towards me, and I could see in her a natural sympathy for young women with practical minds (I reminded myself to keep my sister out of her way as much as possible). The whole episode convinced me that it really is for the best if one can stick as close to the truth as one may in any given situation. God favors the honest in spirit.