“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
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