Author's notes:

Perspective is always difficult for me. I can do first person pretty well, though some things are difficult. (Can anyone suggest a non-trite way for first person narrator to convey his/her appearance?)

So far, Callan & Sian is written in what I call "third person close-up." We're following Callan so close we can see his eye twitch. We can read some of his emotion, but no mental soliloquies.

In this perspective, I try to avoid the third person "He knew that ..." intrusion. If he knows it, he'll show it or not. We don't have his headspace, so reading that he knows something crosses that invisible box.

I am not sure, but I think I used "He felt" here and there. Again, that's a slice of his headspace, but it seems less intrusive to the fictive illusion.

I'm going to switch to Sian now. I usually like to keep perspectives balanced, so the reader doesn't get seasick when I switch back (i.e. one protagonist's perspective is so much 'deeper' into his/her mind than the other's.)

However, I've had a bit of practice writing from this 'counter' perspective, and would like to build on it, so I may dive deeper into Sian's headspace than Callan's.

Oh, and, in case you're wondering, I find these self-indulgent ramblings quite fun. They're much closer to SoC than the actual writing, but that's what we're all here for.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



Sian watched the door close slowly, pause at the jamb, the latch tongue slide in, seal silently, only the glint of the brass tongue in morning sun assuring her that it was fully shut. She stepped up, shot the deadbolt, then reached to twist the catch on the knob itself.

But it was already turned. Puzzled, she tentatively wrapped her fingers around the knob and gave it a slight twist. It gave its usual sliver, then stopped at its usual place. Locked.

Shaking her head, she tried the barstool under the doorknob, then a folding bridge chair before successfully wedging her kitchen stepstool in place. With relief, she peered into the fisheye, craning her head side to side to take in the distorted, crazy-quilt panorama of the hallway. No one. That done, she collapsed on her futon and stared at the door, daring it to move.

The aroma of bacon, the faint hint of egg, the waft of cheese abated her confusion, her frustration, her anger. She sighed, lumbered out of the too-low convert-a-sofa, and collected the barstool from beside the door.

Its four feet eased onto the matching divots in the stained carpet, then her two feet flicked free of her slippers and rested on the crossbar. She picked at her omelet at first, occasionally shooting a glare at his, one neat corner cut off and presumably eaten.

Soon, hunger won over wrath. With quick pecks of her fork, breakfast disappeared. Her belly appeased, she tried to banish the other feeling of emptiness therein. The plates, the forks, the mugs, she carried over to the sink, then ran the remains down the disposal, letting it run a little bit longer than usual.

She showered, dressed, and faced the door. The fisheye blinked at her, and she found herself peering into it again. Just Mrs. Weatherspoon across the hall, her and Suzie, her little Bischon. Sian smiled lightly, shook her head and freed the short ladder from its sentry's post.

The ring of her phone caused her to jump, and the stepstool fell onto the coffee table, shattering the vase holding the flowers. Water spilled over and into the carpet, bringing rise old odors, adding the faint tang of the florist's additive to it.

She glanced at the display - just a number, but the Caller ID wasn't blocked. "Hello?"

"Sian, it's me. I'm back at the hotel, so you can calm down. I would very much appreciate just two minutes of your time, please."

"Oh, it's you. You have 10 seconds to tell me why I should give you even that."

"The other man. Yesterday, at the bank. I know him. I want to warn you --"

"More spy games? Let me guess: you're calling to tell me I'm in danger? I told you, I'm done with you and your stupid James Bond routine." She jabbed the phone, was rewarded with silence and a cracked fingernail. As she was peeling the torn overhanging nail free, the phone rang again.

She glanced at the display, pursed her lips to one side, flipped the phone over and let the battery fall free. Watching the battery lay inert on the carpet gave her a slight swell of satisfaction.

Still, she looked around, remembering that her stalker did have her address. She stooped, gathered the battery, deposited it and her phone into her handbag, grabbed a light coat from the hook by the door, then worked the deadbolt and turned the handle.

Framed in the doorway stood the man from the bank.