Learned my lesson well. Ri-i-i-i-ight.

If you become known for something, don’t ever try anything new, or different, or stretch yourself. Just keep doing what you’re known for if you like the feel-good feeling of a job well done. Keep the course, don’t stray from the path. Run out of ideas? Just rewrite it from a different POV. Don’t know what to do next? Rehash and remake! Everyone likes leftovers. It might be stale, and flavorless when you sit down at your desk, but at least you will have all those laurels to cushion your butt, yes? And so easy to market to. No need to do anything different. You’re hash in the literary machine grinding out hamburger.

Yes.

Really? I suppose. I mean, how could someone who puts herself in other shoes six times a day, be able to write anything other than what she’s known for? Right? Yes?

Yes.

But what if that writer can bring what she’s known for and flavor something old and give it a new texture? What if then?

No. You aren’t allowed because you can only speak to women who read romance and urban fantasy. Be happy there.

Okay.

Right.

So . . . I guess I’m back to writing for one. Ya’ll can come if you want.

 

Twenty

Gratiot preferred the intimacy of a low vantage point when working, thick in the stink  and noise of the street to make the moment visceral and real. The sterility of a top floor of a distant building or library window would turn his actions into a flavorless pull of a trigger, and he avoided it when he could. His vantage point was directly across from the apartment building, a mere three floors up in one of the occupied apartments. The owner was a work, but her cat was present, watching him with curious-cat eyes from the couch. His exit was simple: out the back of the building through the sky bridge connecting to the parking garage. From there, he’d hit the streets and be gone.

Quelling his anticipation, he sat atop his one-legged sniper seat, deep within the unlit room, his rifle secure on its tripod trained on the roped-off path from the building’s door to the curb. The woman was taking a U.S. wide morning show tour, and the media hounds were already baying. It was his last, best opportunity to set the world right.

The pure scent of his rifle sifted through his awareness, the perfect smoothness of its finish against his fingers like a lover’s lost touch. He’d been demoted for questionable actions in the field, but when they needed a trigger pulled, they had always come to him. This time, though, he was acting on his own, and an unexpected thrill seeped through him. It was something he’d been missing, and hadn’t even realized. Practice kept his breathing light, his motions small and sparse. He liked his position, his chances, his weapon, and his job.

 

Spoiler alert: He doesn’t take the shot.