MeiLin Miranda's Blog, page 65

"Lovers and Beloveds" chapter 2.6 is live

In which there are twins:

He met eyes green as leaves, in the face of a woman so stunning Temmin lost his place in the dance and stumbled. When he recovered his feet, all he could manage to get out of his disobedient throat was, "Hullo."

"Hello, Your Highness," she answered in a low, honeyed voice like nothing he'd ever heard. Nor was she like any woman he'd ever seen, so much a classical Tremontine beauty that she might have stepped out of a painting of Neya the Beloved.

Temmin said nothing more and danced automatically, paying no attention to anything but the woman on his arm. When the dance ended, he demanded the next one, the last in the set. "Happily," she said, and he took her up in his arms again, oblivious to the presence at the floor's edge of an outraged man in a blue honor sash who'd sworn he'd already asked the lady for that dance.

Among the onlookers, another young lady peered through her magnifying glass. "Oh dear me," she said. "It seems Neya's Embodiment has made another conquest."

Sedra took a sip of lemonade and laughed. "That's not even worth remarking on, Despie."

"This time it is," said the lady, nodding over Sedra's shoulder. Sedra followed the nod, and choked; Temmin was dancing with Allis Obby, looking for all the world like a gasping fish on the beach, hook still in mouth.

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Scryer's Gulch ep 32 is live

Hands All Around:

In the hours after Miss Duniway's discovery of his perfidy, Simon suffered much and slept little. He longed for the chance to express the fullness of his regrets, but none came. It was left to him to make his own chance, and he took it the day after the horrible scene at the jail. He saw her on the street after school, threw on his coat, closed his office and hurried after her. "Miss Duniway!" he called, and she halted.

"Mr Prake, how can I be of assistance?" she replied, in tones warmer than he felt he deserved but cooler than he wished.

"I wonder if we might speak for a moment in my office? There are one or two things I wish to convey to you that I'd rather not say in the street."

Miss Duniway paused, and for a sickening moment Simon thought she might refuse. "Very well, Mr Prake, I have a short moment to give you, as long as it can be supposed I have business at your office," she added in a low tone. Simon gave her his humble thanks, and she followed him through his door and into his back office.

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"Lovers and Beloveds" chapter 2.5 is live

In which a dance may turn into something more pleasant:

Poking around the ballroom's edges, he peered into the many attached salons, small and large, excusing himself from one--"Terribly sorry, didn't know anyone was here," he said to the fumbling couple in the corner--until he came into a long, deserted corner; a swaying curtain hid an oddly angled spot. Two little black boot toes peeped from its hem, moving in time. Temmin watched, curious, until a curly head in a maid's cap peeked out, spotted Temmin, gave a tiny squeak, and retreated behind the curtain. Temmin followed into a wide, hidden service hall, and caught the retreating maid by the arm.

"I thought it was you," he smiled. "You're the maid I danced with, Dannikson, yes?" Gods, what a beautiful girl, as lovely as any he'd danced with that night--lovelier, her little form trim and straight in the severe black and white household livery, her lace cap crisp and its red ribbons dangling down to her waist. Her uncooperative hair looked ready to burst from the cap again. He wondered if she still smelled as good as she had the last time they met.

"I'm so very sorry, Your Highness," the girl said. She blushed, and her voice shook. "It's just I love dancing and they didn' need me at the moment, I just wanted to look--oh!" She put her hands over her mouth, and her wide hazel eyes filled with tears. "I shouldn' even be speakin to you! Oh, Mr Affton will send me packin!"

"Now, now, don't worry about that!" said Temmin. "Why does everyone seem to think I'll tell on them!" He dropped her arm, and pondered her for a moment. He wondered if he would ever get used to the staff quailing at the sight of him; he didn't care for it at all. "What's your name?" he coaxed.

"Dannikson, sir," she said, blinking hard.

"No, your first name."

"Arta?" she quavered.

"Arta? Are you not sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, sir," she laughed, flicking away a tear. "My name is Arta."

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"Lovers and Beloveds" chapter 2.4 is live

In which there is a riot in a lace shop:

Jenks had gone through every combination of black and white clothing in the room, considered them, and discarded them, until he'd made the only possible conclusion and assembled it on the dressing stand. "It's a ball!" said Temmin. "One wears a black dress suit, a white shirt and stock, and a white waistcoat. All of the men will be dressed identically!"

"You are so, so wrong, Your Highness," said the valet, surveying the tidily ransacked wardrobe. "There are subtleties to the male wardrobe only a connoisseur may perceive, and while you are not yet a connoisseur, you shall be when I'm through with you. In the meantime, you will look the part." Temmin rolled his eyes. "It's for the pride of Whithorse, sir, think of it that way."

"Your pride'll be the death of me," grumbled Temmin.

"My pride will be the making of you, sir, depend on it."

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"Other Sides" is live! Go download it!

Get my story "Dalston Junction" and eleven more in the new anthology Other Sides: 12 Webfiction Tales from Ergofiction Magazine--it's free, and it launches today!

Here's an excerpt from "Dalston Junction," a stand-alone story:

It always amused Amelia to see Margaret’s little round glasses steam over when she peered into the teapot. She herself had strong eyes, the only way in which she was stronger than Margaret, she mused. She returned her thoughts to the letter in her hand. “Another answer to our advertisement,” she said. The handwriting jumped its lines, as if the writer had trouble controlling the pen, and ink blots spattered the page. “No lack of sad cases this week.”

“So much the better for us,” said Margaret, taking the letter. “Boy,” she read aloud. “Three weeks old. ‘Discretion called for.’ Perfect.” Margaret linked her hands behind her back and stretched. “Damnable corset, I’ll never get used to it. Have you taken the last one’s clothes to the pawn shop yet?”

“No,” sighed Amelia. “I’ll sort them over tea, shall I.” A drooping, brown paper bundle tied with limp string stood on the trestle table. Margaret took up the tray sitting next to it, laden with the tea things, and strode through the kitchen door. Amelia tucked the sad package and her enormous pink challis shawl under her arm, and trailed after.

Once in the comfortable sitting room, she opened the package, thin hands moving among the tiny garments: two dresses; several flannel waists; two caps knitted in fine wool; miniscule shoes that shook in her trembling palm. “Shouldn’t we ought to burn these? The pawn shop’s bound to get suspicious at some point.”

“Then use another one. There are only several dozen in London,” said Margaret. The dull gold signet ring on her right hand clinked against the porcelain tea things as she reached for cake. “We need the money for housekeeping. The money’s the whole point.”

Amelia examined the fine seams of a little dress of pale blue fine wool. Expensive fabric for a baby dress. Such care taken in the stitching. She wondered about the mother who’d made these things for her child. Amelia had only seen the woman for a few minutes, but fingering the dress brought a closeness she shouldn’t allow herself. “Pity the wee one won’t ever wear them.”

“Somebody’s ‘wee one’ will.” Margaret fixed her companion with a pinched eye. “I often wonder why you’re here, Amelia. You’re far too soft-hearted.”
Amelia’s fingers hovered over the sugar bowl. Two lumps? One? “I like babies.” None.

“You spend minutes with them. I do all the disposal work. I don’t see how it matters,” snorted Margaret between bites of cake.

“I don’t suppose it does,” murmured Amelia. She folded the tiny clothes into a neat pile, set the tiny shoes atop them, and drank her tea.

Get the rest of my story and eleven more from fourteen of the best web writers working in the free short story ebook, Other Sides: 12 Webfiction Tales.

Win a copy of "Scryer's Gulch Episodes 1-10!"

I'm giving away five copies of the Scryer's Gulch: Magic in the Wild, Wild West - Episodes 1-10 Annabelle Arrives paperback! Go to its page for a chance to win one of five copies.

Win a copy of the "Other Sides" anthology!

This Thursday, 10/14/10, the first anthology from Ergofiction Magazine hits the bricks. It's called Other Sides, and it features twelve short stories from some of the best weblit writers currently working, including yrs trly. It's an ebook--and a free one at that--but there will be print copies available.

In fact! Wanna win one? Here's your chance!

Enter here at Goodreads for a chance to win one of five paperback copies of Other Sides: 12 Webfiction Tales!

"Lovers and Beloveds" chapter 2.3 is live

In which a prophecy is dissected:

"At birth, every male child is taken to the Queen of the Travelers, who gives him his prophecy," said Teacher.

"The Travelers? You took me to a bunch of vagabond thieves and actors, well-known frauds--for a prophecy," said Temmin. "I hope you didn't pay for it."

That was more the spirit, thought Harsin. Aloud, he said, "A little more respect, please."

"Think what you will of the Travelers, Your Highness," said Teacher, "but their Queen can see the future--reliably when it comes to the royal family. Hers is a true gift, not play-acting."

"All right, then," said Temmin as he squared his shoulders. "Let's hear it."

Teacher recited:
Love to bear him, love to raise him, love to send him on his way
Son in sorrow, son in joy, brings darkness or the brightest day
Two the consorts, two the paths, two the deaths for him to rule
One will be the trusting child and three will be the rivals cruel
Thirst and hunger, sleep and death will come to strike a trusted one
And stones will shatter, stones will stand when might reclaims the rising sun

"That's conveniently cryptic!" said Temmin. "I have no idea what it means."

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"Lovers and Beloveds" chapter 2.2 is live

In which Temmin doesn't drown:

He closed his eyes and held his breath, struggling against the tenacious grip on his ankle in panic; he would drown. His stomach turned inside out.

When it stopped, he opened his mouth and gulped in spite of himself. To his surprise, he took in air, not water; he patted himself in confused agitation and found his clothes were dry. Temmin opened his eyes and found himself in an unfamiliar room--round, as if in a tower. The face in the mirror stood before him; it belonged to a slight figure dressed in black robes over a severe black suit and Tremontine red cravat, sharp against the white of the shirt; a pair of gold pinch-nose glasses dangled from a matching red ribbon. If this were the Black Man, he was a more meticulous dresser than Temmin would have suspected.

"The first time through can be difficult. Next time, do not hold your breath. Do you need to vomit?" said the stranger.

"No," said Temmin, hands on knees. "Well, maybe...no, I'll be all right. Harla's Hill, what just happened?"

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My guest post at Circlet Press

Hey folks, I've got a guest post up at Circlet Press's blog. The topic: Fictional Sex Among Fictional Teenagers:

When I started writing, I thought “An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom” was strictly erotica (it’s gotten way, way out of hand since then), and so I joined an erotica group. I made the mistake of telling them my hero was under eighteen. I was promptly drummed out of the group as a pedophile.

Let me repeat that: I was classed as a pedophile because I depicted a fictional sixteen-year-old having fictional sex. Not that I was having sex with a real sixteen-year-old (I’m nearly fifty–ewww), but that I was writing about a fictional sixteen-year-old having fictional sex with fictional people close to his own age. Unless you count omnipotent, ageless beings.

I myself have never had sex with a real sixteen-year-old, not even when I was sixteen, and consider myself lucky. Most men can tell you what they knew about making love to a woman at age sixteen and it’s essentially…*crickets*

Enjoy!