What next?

[matt_doyle]

Still planning on posting Sir Dinadan's Tale within the next 24 hours, but I also still wanted to make an excerpt post, and to think about what to write for my short story in February.  Seemed like it made sense to combine those two activities into one...

And hm.  For a number of these stories, I couldn't find a snippet interesting enough to excerpt, which certainly suggests that the stories need some work.  Especially since I have to finish writing up a LARP this month, I think I'm going to stick to easier projects that I have a firm grasp on.  One of the following, anyway:

Mutilation of the Hermai

“Go away!” A loud voice called back to him, and Aristocles heard the rush of footsteps toward the door, and stepped back, leaving Alcibiades room to retreat before the tall, blonde oncoming thunderstorm that was Xanthippe.

 

“No!” she said, before Alcibiades could speak, pushing him back from the doorway. “You, off my doorstep! You're not a boy anymore, to charm Socrates for his wisdom, and your father isn't paying him to educate you! It's bad enough that I have to let these two steal all his time – shame on the both of you besides, he's not giving lessons today! - but you I don't need to tolerate at all! Take yourself off!”

 

Tumulus

“Lady,” he called across the dark waters of Lake Hali. “The Lady of the Sword, Lady of the White Hand, I do not know your name, Lady of the Lake, will you answer me, who is rightful king of this land, but comes to you as a supplicant?”

A whispering wind came, and then the gentle lapping of waves licked at his feet, pressing farther up the shore, hissing in the sand, tugging at his boots as each wave came quicker on the heels of the last. Then the air and the water stilled, at once, and she was before him, a slender figure fully draped and wound in white samite, like a burial shroud. She was tall, taller then Draco, and the spindly figure the twisted, dripping fabric clung to seemed emaciated and worse – the ratios of her body seemed wrong, joints occurring too soon or too late, limbs the wrong thickness for the torso they projected from, but the slither of the wet cloth made it uncertain, and Draco was certain, because he must be certain, that it was but an illusion, a trick of the light and his own arrhythmic fretting heart.

 

The Bullet Train
Jules Verne Station was a nuclear-powered gun, and the Argo was nothing more than a bullet. Bullets, Uli mused, weren’t known for needing captains – but cruise ships were, and the Argo had pretensions of being one. And just like a cruise ship, all Uli’s most critical duties had nothing to do with keeping the boat moving and everything to do with customer satisfaction – which was fortunate, because Uli was an anthropologist and not an aerospace engineer.

In just a few hours, the first commercial passenger voyage around the solar system would begin, out from Jules Verne, through the relay by Venus, out past the Butterfly Net in the Asteroid Belt and as far as the Jovian lunar mining stations before heading back home – an eighteen-month round trip, with its passenger complement made up of the multibillionaire investors who made it possible – the Golden Fleeced, Uli’s boss had called them. Hopefully, none of them would get the joke – but one way or another it was his job to keep them amused for the long dark months where there would be nothing of interest visible outside the ship.

 

Sturm Und Drang
She turned toward Caleb as he walked through the door and gestured with two fingers- then almost-smiled darkly as his cigarette instantly disintegrated into a dusting of white ash. It hung in the air for a moment, like another smoke-filled breath, then sifted down through his pinched-together fingers, coating a small portion of the dark, stained carpet in a paleness like a light snowfall.

Gabe looked taken aback, and at that more than anything else, Caleb laughed

“Something amiss, Lex?” he asked lightly, blowing the powdering of ash from his fingertips.

Night Class

Here's how it works. Psychology tells us that there are a lot of mostly universal experiences people go through, but they tend to keep them private. They feel unique. And it's very, very easy to sound specific when you talk about them, while still being general enough that everyone can identify with what you're saying – the way teenagers identify with angsty song lyrics.

It's even easier to pick up facts by just noting where someone is, how they're dressed, how they speak and move, how old they are – context clues. Nobody likes to think how much they broadcast who they are and what they do, even though they pick out clothes specifically to give the 'right' impression, whatever that is. Private investigators, profilers, con men, salesmen, and stage magicians can figure out a lot that way.

What's easiest of all isn't reading minds but reading bodies. Keep eye contact. Watch facial expressions, posture, all of that – and touching someone's hand lets you read tension. A hostile audience makes it even easier – relaxing when you're too vague and they can confirm their skepticism, knotting up when you freak them out by hitting the nail on the head.

So I hold hands, stare deeply and soulfully into their eyes, and speak slowly in a low voice so they have to listen carefully and think and react to what I'm saying, to what they expect me to stay next. It's called cold reading, and the only thing even remotely supernatural about it is how easy it is to pick up dates by doing it right.

Which means, of course, that with both Sandy and Gregory, I had managed to do something spectacularly wrong. Like I said. Absolutely typical for me. The Magnificent Montefiore, my business cards say, and I try to stay just as magnificent when I'm failing as when I'm on a roll.

 

Perils Worse Than Dragons

Three days before, they had come to a village that boasted of its own witch. Despite the birds’ assurances to the contrary, the witch had promised her help. She had failed. She had, however, had advice to give when Tav asked her what the hell they were supposed to do now.

“Take the South Road,” she said. “You will find it a rewarding experience.”

“Are you insane, old woman?” Tav had demanded. “The Duchy of Antiagos is choked with dragons and bandits, and no force in creation could get me to vacation there.”

“Only one dragon,” Thisja said, mildly, ruffling white feathers as he shifted his perch on Daikyl’s shoulder.

“Those you call bandits have come to hunt the dragon, at the request of the Duke,” Sürja told him, cocking his head to one side.

“One dragon is enough,” Tav said, “no matter how much gold the Duke promises for its head.”

The witch shook her head. “You will find perils worse than dragons there,” she said, sounding irritatingly portentous. “And rewards dearer than gold.”

“The only thing dearer than gold is my skin intact, you crazy hag,” Taviquis said.

The next morning they turned south.

Here and here are the plot summaries of the stories.  If anyone has a strong opinion or any opinion at all, about which I should turn to next, I'd be interested in hearing it.  Not that, necessarily, I will pick the most popular choice -- I am more or less at the mercy of the Muses -- but I'm the first to admit that I like attention, and having people interested in what I have to say is pretty inspiring.