Let’s not kid ourselves that yesterday, today, and the next two tomorrow’s worn of 1000 Days are going to be anything but full on placeholding suckage.
If it turns out I write a single word worth reading I’ll alert you somehow. Two words strung together. I guess its pretty unlikely I could ruin a single standalone word.
Streaming worked well yesterday so here goes the same for tonight…
I’m on the front porch. Night chirps nearby and gushes further out along the several paved quarter section lines we call roads. I’m outside. I shouldn’t be angry. I’m trying not to be but I’ve stubbed my thumb throwing a fit when I couldn’t get a cabinet door closed. I suppose the ache is my punishment. I suppose this uncomfortable bench is my Purgatory.
Is going inside once I’m done my Heaven or my Hell?
Today I’m anticipating not being able to write until the end of the day, but I’d like to get started this morning. Warm up the fingers with a little pointless stream of conciousness patter.
Maybe I should have arranged for a 1-minute drill? Those never turn up anything I’ve used later. MAybe once. LEt go with the stream thing.
I’m listening to Rench, an alternative Country group, sing “Oh Sleeper” from their Elkhorn Riders album. The girl, who they rarely feature, is singing. I wish she got more play than she does, but I sense she not a regular. Or if she is a regular I’m in capable of telling when a girl is playing the mandolin. Seems likely.
Deeper in this house, outside our office, my children oscilate between play and joy and screaming at each other. The nanny has arrived earlier than usual so they are both joyful and screaming. The nanny is early because my wife is off for the weekend and headed to the airport at nearly the same time I’m dropping some of the kids off at school. We needed a wee bit of overlap today and tomorrow. We got it.
Of course this single parenting weekend of mine is the reason I’ll be half-past useless on 1000 Days for this and the next four.
223 words on day 510
“Planning?” Roundmartin asked back in the same tone you might question someone just now calling you a motherfucker. Then he went mellow again accepting his fate. “Planning? Planning. Scheming even I suppose. If you could call what I’ve been up to planning certainly you could call it scheming? And if you called it—this—scheming you might as well come right out and call me the bad guy. That’s where you’ve set me in your story. In your plans,” he paused to slather the bit in the original motherfucker tone, “Isn’t it Gane. Isn’t it Holy Man?”
Gane said nothing. Charming didn’t hesitate, “You burnt all of this out looking for me. You killed all these people. My friends. Just to find me. And you couldn’t even do that. Well here I am.” Her Song encompassing gesture sagged but then angered back up to a chest pointing accusation.
“Nice manners.” Roundmartin never looked at Charming he continued stared at Brother Gane. “You might inform her that we like to play this game with a bit more…I don’t know…finesse? I’d have hoped you’d have brought her up better. When one entrusts his baby girl to the care of another they develop…expectations. You know?”
209 words on day 509
This escape from The Song scene continues to brainworm me. I think it’s my first plot point according to the structure I’m conforming to during the construction of this story.
The mobile nature of the scene gives me several locations to work through. The need for there to be questions later on gives me need to be careful how I write and what I include. Ultimately the flight from The Song is genuine, but I need enough uncertainty that Charming can later doubt her experience.
Maybe doubting the truth is typical for her. This seems like reasonably likely accompaniment to her difficulty fitting in to new places; her desires to please people or show off. There’s a good pattern. She keeps her head down hoping to be accepted for herself then when she’s not—or feels she’s not—she acts out or shows off. That gives me a nice ebb and flow to work with.
Back on scene…
This scene is split in two parts: first, the Mayor chatting with Gane regarding what will likely happen with Charming and Gane’s escape planning; second, Charming deciding to go with Gane and finally her being abandoned on the edge of the Benhá River. My purpose is to split Charming from The Song when she might not have otherwise left. I have to give the circumstances just enough uncertainty that Charming can interpret them differently as needed. This is the first (near) direct attack by the opposition on Charming, so I need a motivating reason and a mechanism to exert that force remotely but not precisely.
I also need to have a place for Gane’s experiences after he leave Charming. A minor plot action revealed to Charming later. Potentially I can have the imprecise nature of the attack be interpretable as an attack on Gane or both he and her. Hmmmm. Ze plot, she thickens.
314 words on day 508
I’ve got Benhá crammed in my tooth like Heath bar crumbs. What follows will hopefully cross between ignoring it and picking it out with my nails. And not be too interrupted with parenting.
Charming awoke in the thinning mist of the riverbank fog. Darnday willows occluded her view of the water but not the stink of dead fish and clay. A sleepy memory of several flits passing over in the night reminded her where she was and why. She crawled to her knees careful of the snapped willows that had been her bed. The thick brush felt safe so instinctively she stayed low while she wriggled down her skirt and peed.
“Just back from the edge. Where the willows is high. There. Right there.” Charming’s guts seized and her blood beat against her eardrums. Had the voice come from behind her or in front? It was close. She leaned forward to hook her thumbs in her panties. Whatever happened next it wouldn’t happen with her skirt down. The put-pat idle of a fanboat helped her gauge the distance—too close to sneak off unseen.
Charming put her knees to the ground and eased on her skirt.
“I don’t see nothing up here son.” The humidity and flat of the river carried an older voice directly to her ears.
“Put on the spot?” the first voice asked.
“Sure, sure. See for yourself.” A cone of mist to her right became opaque. Unsearchable.
“Oh.” Charming heard the light click off.
“Roundmartin isn’t paying us to be stupid. Now you’re not…so stupid.”
“Ha ha. Thanks. Up or Out?”
“Your choice.” The fanboat revved and came out of the mist straight at her. It rounded in a tight circle and headed Up. The wake pushed water up the bank but not all the way to her toes.
311 words on day 507
Because I’m working on plot this weekend I’m having trouble deciding how best to write and make it count.
I’ve always felt I had a knack for picking out character names. Fortunately I’ve not got any kind of medium in which to score them to find out if I’m full of crap. Benhá’s protagonist’s name just sprung to mind. A warm—and belated—welcome goes out to the young Miss Charming Venda.
Tourists came to The Song mid-week and left once their hangovers wore off on Saturday. Sundays Charming assembled her booth in the corner and stacked the card table with her hand crafted t-shirts. No money came of it, but it keeps the six other soulless days when she sold keychains, pens, and plush fish for Mrs. Nardi in check. This day the [boothmaster] pipes off-world xKreem through the speakers instead of looping those 20 year old Rivered pop songs like she does for the tourists.
160 words on day 506