MeiLin Miranda's Blog - Posts Tagged "western"

What's in Its Pocketses:

Annabelle opened them to a scratching at the bedroom window. How had she ended up sitting on the bed? She held the codebook in one hand, and a letter in the other. Someone had lit the lanterns against the night, and the coal fire burned in the little sitting room stove. She must have fallen asleep, but apart from where she sat, the bed was undisturbed. A chill struck her.

The scratching became more insistent. Annabelle opened the window and Misi came bounding in. "For crying out loud, Annie, I've been out there for nearly an hour!" complained the cat. "I almost wore grooves in the glass! What's the matter with you? You just sat there staring at whatever-it-is in your hand with your back to me! What'd I do now?" Annabelle said nothing, but crossed to the sitting room with the codebook and the letter. "Annie? What is it?"

A History Lesson:

It was with some surprise that Lockson received the schoolteacher in his office this Saturday. "Why, Miss Duniway! What can a simple newspaperman do for an erudite lady like yourself? Classified ad, perhaps? No, no, I shouldn't think so. Why, Miss Duniway, it is a stroke of good fortune, a miracle not far removed from that of the Prophet of the Method and His Delivery of the Good Woman of Persia from the Fiery Furnaces of Indecency, that you have sojourned to our offices today. Yes, Miss Duniway, let me assure you that I have longed this month to approach you for the purpose of acquainting my audience with the details of your life, one of education and perspicacity I am sure, a saga that would be a most edifying one for our readers."

"Come again?" said Annabelle.

"I'd like to interview you," said Lockson.

An Enthusiastic Hour:

Annabelle preferred to sit in the back pew at church; despite her general self-confidence, church always made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She'd been raised both Methodic and Enthusiastic, the product of a rare mixed marriage and a childhood spent bouncing between one set of relatives and the next. She loved the clean formality of the Methodic Church and its emphasis on logic, but when it came down to it, she chose Enthusiasm: the brightly clanging bells, the incense wafting over everything, the exuberantly decorated altar, the music so loud it shook her bones, the shouts of the faithful in response to a good sermon. And the sermons were much shorter.

Her mind was Methodic, but her soul was Enthusiastic.

Sapheads:

John held open the jailhouse door for her, and laughed in spite of himself. "That ghost knows what's good for him. Coffee, Miss Duniway?"

"I wouldn't," said Aloysius.

"Put a cork in it, spook."

"I think I shall follow his advice, Sheriff. Too much coffee is overly stimulating to the nerves," said Annabelle.

John offered her a seat and started to take his own, then changed his mind, pulled it out from behind his desk, and sat down. "I shouldn't think you have much in the way of nerves no matter how much coffee you drink, ma'am."

Annabelle sat up straighter. Her eyes flicked up to his own, and held him in a piercing cornflower glare; he met it, with outward calm and an inward shiver. "I do wish you'd say what you mean, sir," she said. "You have been suspicious of me almost from the day I arrived. You wonder about my income, you wonder about my character, you hint at this and that. It is past time I took offense. What is it about me you find so dubious?"

"I suppose we'd better sit down if I'm going to tell you why I'm really here," said Annabelle, taking the chair in front of John's desk. "Where do you want me to start?"

John kept his seat on the corner of his desk, bracing himself on the desk edge with both hands. "Well, we've squared away your fatherless childhood."

Motherless, too, if it matters, she said to herself; aloud, she said, "I was thinking of a more recent beginning to my life, if it's all the same, though I'm expecting you won't believe me."

"I'm listening."

She straightened in her seat, raising her chin to a proud angle. "I'm a Treasury Agent." John's already intent gaze sharpened further, finally resolving into the incredulity she'd anticipated. "I said you wouldn't believe me."

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Scryer's Gulch is a fantasy western that updates every Wednesday. Usually.

A Demonstration of Skill:

Annabelle knelt down and opened the leather case.

Inside were a pair of etheric pistols, the first John had ever seen apart from engravings. "Are those really...? Where did you get them? They cost a small fortune! And you can't possibly shoot with them!"

"You try first," she said, handing one over grip-first. She pointed downrange. "The wine bottle to the right, mid-height."

John nodded. "All right, then. I've never worked with one before, though." He aimed at the bottle and reached into the pistol with his mind, as he would to wind his clock or spark his firestarter. He found the hermetauxite hidden in the gun, concentrated on a clear picture of the bottle, and poured all his ability into the ore. He pulled the trigger.

Scryer's Gulch has undergone something of a small explosion of interest; Smashwords downloads of the free ebook of episodes 1-10 went from 925 on Saturday to 3400 as of this morning. I have no idea why. But if you want to find out, come by the site and catch up. Scryer's is a quick, fun read, and it updates every Wednesday.

A Demonstration of Knowledge:

Someone out there asked about etheric guns--how they worked.

I’m not surprised you don’t know. What with gun control, you’ve probably never seen one outside of an EV show or a flicker. If you’re a cop, or if you’ve done a hitch in the military, you’ve probably fired one--maybe even some of the big artillery guns, if you’re good--but now that the draft’s ended I bet not many of you’ve served your country like that. Not like my generation.

I suppose my generation fought, though, so yours didn’t have to. Or that’s what we hoped.

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