Purple clouds wall the Western sky. They beckon terribly. If someone asked you to recall the itch of a scrape healing on your elbow you’d say it was the same. The morning’s sun brightens this purple fortress and skips the ocean swells like a throwed stone. In Spring this near storm would have Bennies clattering down gangways and docks tying down boats and latching shutters. In Fall, now, shopkeepers drink coffee to the show while fisherman arrange their nets ignorant of the event.
Charming catches a few neon sparks strobe from cloud to ocean. Sweat beads on her Red Bull. She swirls the slush of the half-frozen energy drink, takes a crystalline swig, and heads back to The Pit to set up her t-shirt stall.
Charming’s Sunday morning Pit neighbor chuckles while reading his pad. He’s not laughing at the feed.
“Hush-up Karl. We don’t all need to sound like fishermen.” Charming absently tugs the cord from her braid and shakes her hair loose. Karl waggles his head in agreement.
The vector of Charming’s consternation, Jun-kata, threads his way around the stalls and through the few customers in The Pit. He’s tall; girls fall for him. He thinks Charming owes him money; she thinks he owes her shirts. He’s a dick. Rebraiding her hair will keep her hands from throttling him. Maybe.
234 words on day 516