by Tempe O'Kun
I snarl. I’d love to think the bunny is dead, but know better than to hope. Who’d have thought a prey critter, a female to boot, could pass muster? Tough. Single-minded. Almost predatory.
I’ve lost money, but that’s nothing compared to the respect I’ve had stolen. The law’ll be paying me more heed; who knows, maybe the sheriff can even make a few charges stick now?
I need time to think, make a plan. The world’s all turned around on me, and I need to reckon with the situation. Figure the safest place to do it is out here in the desert, where no one’d think to look. Even a lion can vanish out here in the wastes.
If my wife leaving is the loss of a precious possession, Morris’s betrayal is a tool rising to strike me of its own accord— so unexpected that the shock stings worse than the injury. Where did it all start to slip? How long had he been playing me like a fiddle? Likely I’ll never know. Never has anyone pulled the mane over my eyes like that before. At least not that I’ve known... How many times in my life have I been duped and never known? Perhaps even by my own kin, sending me out here to be rid of me?
What to do now? I’m not crawling back east to the family. I’ve still got my wits and I’ve still got my claws. Opportunity will come again, and I’ll pounce on it. That’s what Father would do.
I see something shiny on a rise. A black carriage— Mei Xiu. What in tarnation is a rich, beautiful tigress doing in my lonely patch of desert? I find my feet and start walking. My paws find every loose spot to slip in on the way. Every step makes me wish the bunny’s skull was crunching under my hind paws in place of gravel. Mei Xiu would understand. Come to think of it, she breezed into town just as this ore business started. Maybe she hasn’t deserted me.
Walking up the rise toward the silken form of a tigress, I feel ashamed for her to see me as I am. Filthy and powerless, her elegance mocks me. But as I look up at her, I see that feral glint in her eyes, measuring me as always, stripping me to the bone. She’ll understand. She’ll fix this. She’ll come along on a bunny hunt. One paw reaches behind me, feeling the silver gun I traded my entire life for. That bunny’s yet to see the last of me.
I am not sad to see his mine destroyed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The mind adapts to anything. Like the folding-paper of Japan, it can take any form and yet remain itself. Despite this, it is forever changed, however slightly, by each new fold. So too are we changed by our thoughts.
I watch through my field glasses. The lion walks up the hill. His fur hangs heavy with dust and grime. I slip the glasses back into their case, striped paws folding atop it as one would hold a purse. I pity Hayes. Not because he lost his fortune, but because he feels lost without it. Money is a tool, nothing more. Tools come and go, only useful insofar as they unearth knowledge. Knowledge alone cannot be taken. And though I came here to study the ore, the situation is not a complete loss, but Hayes can see it no other way. I pity his blindness, his lack of self-knowledge, that keeps him from all he could be.
I nod as the lion approaches. “Mister Hayes.”
“Madam.” His posture is proud, but his eyes don’t quite meet my own. I had never seen a lion before leaving the Homeland and finding one here was a rare bloom in this wasteland of prey. This is a harsh, brutish land and those who live here are equally so. It only makes sense that the noble cats would be rougher here, in a land where even the herbivores wield silver claws. Wild though he is, he can be tended.
I will have to keep him from unproductive indulgences, such as revenge. To hunt the constable bat would be injurious. To hunt the rabbit, deadly. The marmot alone concerns me, the one with the ore. He must be our prey, followed by his masters. Only then will I have the ore and the time to study it.
My tail stays in a dignified curl, low but never touching the ground. Wind curls around us. I am reminded of our hunts together, when I have shared his ravenous ferocity. Now, though, he is quiet of word and body. My lips curl in a smile, though not one rude enough to show teeth. Perhaps this scrap of paper might be folded again.
I am not sad to see his mine destroyed. With luck, it will be forgotten so I might return one day and study it without interference. That Hayes’ traitorous underlings escaped with the ore is more troubling. Few organizations would have the money and the knowledge to finance such a theft.
I climb into the carriage. Hayes follows. I signal my attendant, and we three ride over the parched, bitter ground.
The battle has been lost, but the war has not ended.
Might as well court the moon.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I wake to Six’s smell and an empty bed. I worry for a moment that she might have fallen to the floor, but when I sit up the room looms empty. My ears swivel around, but I hear only Harding’s soft snores from the next room. I jump out of bed and search the small house. Gone. Gone seems to be the state of being for hares these days.
Can’t say I’m overly surprised. I just wish she would’ve stayed another day or two. Just to wait for the ruckus to die down.
Morning light shines off something on the nightstand.
My badge.
Six’s pin.
And, under them, a note. I pick it up. The heavy paper holds her scent, like the bed, like my fur. I rub my paw pads over the surface of it for a moment, knowing that this will be the only communication I have with her for a long ways down the road. I swallow back my pride, knowing this must be twice as tough on her. This letter no doubt says as much. With tender care, I open it and read.
I took your pony.
-S.
I cuss. Loudly.
So loud the deputy comes stumbling in from the next room, bleary-eyed and drooly. “Sun in the sky! What’s all the racket, boss?”
Why’d it have to be my pony? “Nothing, Harding. Just bunny trouble.” I shake my head, then realize I’m standing around in my skivvies. I look around the little guest room, under the bed and behind the nightstand. “Deputy? You happen to see my pants anywhere?”
* * * * *
Months roll past. Never did find those pants, though I have some fine memories of where I know they are.
Half of Scoria Grove saw me hollering in a dress before a blacksmith fetched his hacksaw and freed me from that wagon. I recently sent him a fine bottle of bourbon for his trouble.
Doc testified to the city council that I was fit for duty, that mine gas could make a man do funny things. The jabs at me for being found in a dress continued unabated, but lost their venom, since I was generally believed not to be in a right state of mind. Besides, any bunny wily enough to survive attacking Hayes’ factory and blowing up his mine twice must be capable of doping a sheriff.
Hayes vanished after his gossipmonger wife left him, taking with her the bulk of his belongings. I hope she left him his pants. Rumors abound concerning where he fled, though it all rings of idle speculation, since most of the stories claim he wandered into the desert without water or provisions, never returning. If he’s still alive, I’ve not caught wind of his scheming. Nonetheless, I’ve seen and heard too much in the past months to let my guard down just yet. I’ve had Harding stash those papers we stole from his office, on the off chance the lion tries putting me to a quiet end.
I ought to tell myself that it’s just as well Six’s gone, just as well she’s never coming back. Not like I could ever court her, even if I was sure I loved her, which I’m not. She’s too different, too contrary. Might as well court the moon. It’s pretty, sure, but nothing you’ve got matters a whit to it, and nothing on Earth can buy you more than a night’s viewing. Besides, if her heart’s as wild as her spirit, she probably left my memory out in the sands on the way out of town. I ought to forget her too. But thoughts of her just keep creeping up like a crescent moon’s light.
Since she left, I can’t look at the jail cell the same. Or my bed. I sleep there once in a while, instead of on the rafter. Always, my dreams are of soft ears, nimble paws, and her warm, lingering scent...
I shake these thoughts off and keep to my
paperwork. Ate up too much of my yearly budget buying a new pony. Now I can’t scrap together the funds to fix the office door. I sigh. Some other year, I guess. Gives me a headache. It’s well onto midnight now and I’m starting to feel it. Even bats have to sleep sometime. I get up. A good stretch of the wings and I’ll be ready for some shut-eye. Just a quick flight on the night air; even in November, the Arizona sky remains inviting to the wing.
I open the front door and glance up at the stars.
A paw grabs my shoulder.
I go for my gun, but feel it get snatched away by another nimble paw. In a moment of panic, I spin and dive at my accoster’s legs, causing a tall, wiry form to coming toppling down over me.
Hot breath sweeps over my face.
Soft ears sway against my cheeks.
“This ain’t exactly the sort of tumble ah was aiming for, sugar bat.”
I stammer. “Si—”
My thief puts a finger to my lips, handing me back the gun.
I take it, holster it, and stare. She leans down and kisses me. For an instant, I’m too stunned to do anything but enjoy it. The kiss ends and I look around. Good. Nobody saw me getting cozy with some tall bunny fella. Scrambling to my hind paws, I guide her into the building with a wing. She shuts the door, the scent of bunny, cigarettes, and gun oil thick in the air. My heart chugs like a speeding train. “Didn’t think to see you here again.”
“You never do.” She laughs.
I don’t. My guts are in a twist. “Care to change that?”
She brushes a paw along my muzzle, very soft, and gives me an apologetic look. “I don’t put up fences, I just ride ‘em. This is just the way of the world right now.”
I want to call her on that, but she’s kissing me again. Turns out that’s the straight route for shutting me up. I can smell her, the scent stronger than I remember. Makes me soft in the knees, and the reverse elsewhere. In fact, the only other time I caught this much of her scent was when we’d just crawled out of the rapids and cuddled up...
I stop the kissing again. “You’re in heat.”
Blushing, she replies by nibbling along the underside of my muzzle.
Protests wither on my tongue. She’s in my wings again. It might only be for a day, might only be for tonight, though that doesn’t matter to me. In this moment, I can’t conceive of her being anywhere but here, anything but mine.
I don’t know what to make of this hare, but I do know one thing: whether she’s here or gone, I’ll never get much sleep at night.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The development process for Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny started shortly after I’d published “Code Drop” in Sofawolf Press’s Heat anthology. They asked if I’d be interested in writing a novel for them and I jumped on the idea—even as a kid, I’d dreamed of being a published author.
Early on, we’d decided that it should probably have a romantic theme, because I’m sappy enough to be really good at that. The specifics of the novel, or even its genre, were tougher to pin down. I’d been developing a few different fantasy and sci-fi settings over the years, but all were projects mired in layers of re-writing. I even toyed with the idea of writing a Victorian-Era detective novel, though that turned out to be gay fiction and, as the Blotch so wisely pointed out to me upon our first meeting, why would Sofawolf have bothered to finally find a straight novelist if I was just going to write more male-male romance?
By this time, it’s worth noting, I’d already started to be recognized at furry conventions such as Midwest Furfest and Anthrocon as “that cowboy at the Sofawolf table.”
Finally, a breakthrough arrived in the form of a conversation with Sofawolf CEO Jeff Eddy. The details of it have faded from my memory, but the following is at least as interesting as the original.
Tempo: “So I’m thinking of writing this sci-fi piece…”
Jeff: “We could do that, sure, but how will we pitch that? What does a cowboy know about sci-fi?”
Tempo: “What, so I should just write a furry western?”
Jeff: “You could.”
Tempo: “We don’t even publish westerns.”
Jeff: “We could.”
Tempo:”I suppose I should just make it about a fruit bat sheriff, and call it ‘Long Tongue of the Law’?”
Jeff: “That’s great! Except the title is horrible. We can change that after you write it.”
Thinking this was some sort of joke, I quickly penned a short story by that title. The response was more or less as follows:
Tempo: “Well, here’s that story.”
Jeff: “I like it. Can’t wait to see it in novel form.”
The rest is fuzzy alternate history.
The Process
I wrote most of the novel in WriteRoom, which is a wonderful little word processor that blacks out the entire screen and just shows you words in green. I’ve used it for years and it’s amazing. This was the first project where I adopted Scrivener, which was designed from the ground up as a novelist’s project-management tool. That’s tech-talk for the closest thing you’ll get to software that builds a novel for you. It’s like a wiki, personal assistant, and the useful parts of Microsoft Word all rolled into one elegant whole.
Usually, I wrote in WriteRoom, then pasted into Scrivener, though when I found myself writing in Scrivener for extended periods, I used an app called Nocturne to invert the screen colors and turn it monochrome. If this seems like overkill, it’s worth keeping in mind that my eyes are usually the first thing to get tired after a half-dozen hours of writing. I strongly encourage anyone who’s serious about writing to look into these apps, especially Scrivener (which is now even available on Windows).
To write Sixes, I stampeded from beginning to end until I had a draft. Then I inflicted this draft on as many hapless friends as I could until they pointed out things they didn’t understand or wanted to see more of. It went from about 30,000 words to about 60,000 by the time it hit print.
In my current projects, I’m trying to do a more modular project setup: building the bare-bones minimum of the story with as few scenes as I could get away with, then plugging in more and more scenes. While I do believe in the “everything should advance the plot” theory, these scenes are the fat that makes it delicious.
The Art
The illustrations for the novel and the comic book started at the same time, in the hands of Shinigamigirl and Sidian, who were the artists respectively. The three of us kept in communication to make sure we’d have a consistent look for the series. The cover for the novel took the longest of any single piece for this project, but I have to say it was well worth the wait. Sofawolf and I considered some other poses, including Six holding some poker cards, but in the end we decided Shinigamigirl’s simpler profile design was more elegant. I consider the finished piece to be one of the finest images ever to grace a novel and myself to be the most unbiased judge of such things. The internals entailed less deliberation, once Alopex (esteemed editorial fox) and Jeff helped pin down which scenes we’d be using. My favorite is currently a tie between Six and Blake nude in bed or Six reunited with her father for a fleeting instant.
Oh, and while we’re talking about the cover, Ursa Award winner Kyell Gold helped me write the back text.
The comic presented a unique challenge for Sidian and myself. Neither of us had worked on a comic in any serious way before, nor had we read many graphic novels. After a crash course in the medium, we settled on a simple, classic style that fit well with the basic comics of the book’s era. The viewing angle changes only slightly, text at the bottom provides additional context, and the speech bubbles don’t stand out as much as the typical white ones would have. I did the placement of the text, which meant being very choosy with what dialog needed to be in the story, so as not to block the pictures she’d worked for months on. Actually, his wasn’t the first comic script I’d written. During my internship with Sofawolf Press, they had me write an original story in this format. We’ll see if that sees print in s
ome form in the future.
Due the POV switches between four different characters, it was tough for readers of the first drafts to keep track of who had point of view. My aunt Barb pointed out to me that the Wheel of Time series had far more than 4 characters to follow, but overcame this by including icons at the beginning of each chapter. These woodblock-style icons represent who has point-of-view in a particular chapter. So, I scrambled to get ahold of Yuki-chi, who was then able to finish four very elegant woodblocks in time for the layout. An interesting bit of trivia: the originals for these are massive—about 5000 pixels per inch at the size they’re printed. Most high-end printed illustrations run at about 300 ppi.
Blake
Physiologically, Blake was a challenge. Not only had I not written bats before, they’re rather rare in furry literature. So I took pains to make sure he acted like a bat: hanging upside-down whenever possible, flying whenever it helped, and having to be careful since he’s not the most sturdy of creatures.
Sidian helped a lot with the wing design: two fingers, two wing-fingers, and a thumb. She, Shinigamigirl, and I all adopted this model as soon as we started the comic, which was about halfway through the editing process. I usually call Blake’s fingers “wing thumbs” rather than calling them “fingers” because the latter term makes it feel like he has full-fledged hands.
Shooting guns with three fingers hurts, by the way. I tracked down two friends, a history buff and a Chinese-Philosophy major, who owned the Colt Peacemaker and S&W Model 3 that Six and Blake use. Turns out Stephen King knew what he was talking about when his Gunslinger lost two fingers and had real trouble firing a gun properly—normally the ring and pinky finger absorb a lot of the kick from a pistol, so having them out of the equation makes the damn thing try to fly out off like a pinched lawbat.
So Blake fires guns with his feet. This choice drove poor Sidian up the wall a bit, since she is not used to drawing people shooting guns with their feet. No idea why.