Benhá’s Main

I should write something about Levi’s. Too indirect?

Let’s talk about our recent main character. I’m pointedly not calling this a maquette as I’m not ready to lock in too many of her characteristics at this point. Unlike most of the seemingly well conceived blurbs I’ve begun here on 1000 Days this one doesn’t originate from a character or from a situation. This idea originates from three commingled concepts: a word, a characteristic, and a setting. Resolving a physical person out of those sparks hasn’t been a necessity…yet.

The main character is a girl becoming a woman or somewhere south of twenty but north of puberty. Black hair she wears long at home but braided and wound up in the market where she works. Her skin is pale brown. Song is a place of variety, but MC is nested well inside the fringes with regards to late teen girls. Maybe she’s taller than most.

She’s not exactly orphaned, but her situation allows her–as it would her peers–plenty of freedom. Something about her citizenship in Song is questionable though. Maybe she’s adopted or a foundling or maybe her family just isn’t multi-generational in the village. Nothing Disney-cliche just thick enough the opposition could use the difference as leverage when the time comes. Maybe her father lived away from Song and married an Outy. Or maybe both her parents are of Song, but somehow estranged and that works against her. In any case, she feels fully invested in the community, as does everyone else, until she’s afflicted with dermatographia and victim turns up dead.

She works in the market. What she sells appeals to both locals, Outies, and tourists so she has a broad experience with people. She doesn’t know it, but she has better knowledge of Out than many aboard Song. Though having never been–or rarely been–off Song she thinks it smaller than it truly is.

Friends are hard to come by on Song because same aged kids are few. Space is a premium, so families tend to have no more than two children and usually far enough apart to have one old enough to watch the next. MC finds herself trailing a baby boomer pack or leading it. Which would normally cause her to be fast friends with the one other girl in the same situation but….she’s not for some reason. That could be story related or not. The boomer pack could be back story.

409 words on day 501

The Song on Benhá River

The Song on Benhá River began simply enough: a single dockhouse perched on four columns half it’s height. One man and his two sons carved the holes in limestone thigh-deep at lowtide—chest-deep otherwise—during a spring and part of a summer. The clear flowing water made it easy to see how slowly their efforts progressed as the white limestone billowed from the holes in a straight line to the sea. Later, posting the timber columns was an adventure that began with cursing and screaming amongst the three men, but turned jovial when the first column—nearly sunk—rocketed out of it’s mooring with the man atop like a cork from a bottle. He splashed to the surface several boat lengths away after his short flight. Before his sons could ask if he was unharmed he pointed at the oldest, smiled, and yelled across the water, “You’re next!”

Then as he saw the column flowing with the river out to sea. “Shit. Hook the tree!”

166 words on day 496

Bristol is Far From Texas

Day 451

I’d thought to complete yesterday’s maquette today, but then realized I didn’t have that much left to write. Good thing for me I frittered away the writing hour with breakfast and car loading. Also, I know the maquette-ishness of this maquette is lacking.

Timothy hunches in the auditorium chair appreciating the stark silhouette his shadow produces on the cement and the stackability of a row of cloned chairs: square chrome legs, orange cloth seats. He doesn’t know why the room is black. He doesn’t know why a single spot light beams into the crowd of chairs rather than the performance-free stage. He adjusts his shoulders to make the outline of his head on the floor distinct from the peaks of his jean jacket collar. Better.

Looking for an escape from the wedding party, he truly thought the door that swung open would lead to the outside and a polite secret smoke in the hotel ally. Instead he got this egotistically lit room. Of course he sat right down in the singular illuminated throne. But, as neatly as it served his mood initially, he still needed that smoke.

A pack of Marlboros appears out of habit. He packs it down and plucks out a lucky one before he realizes he’s decided to smoke in a building. Timothy casts back in the chair to prop it up on its two back legs so that he can fish his lighter out of his jeans.

He drops the chair back to four legs and lights the cigarette. That first sweet draw always recalls to mind the first time he felt like a smoker and not a poser: sitting atop a cement picnic table at the lake in Texas. This starkly lit conference room in a hotel in Bristol is a long way from there.

Timothy leans back to blow smoke straight up into the light’s shaft. He’s sprawled back with his arms owning the chairs neighboring his spotlit throne like a king or a man getting a blowjob when a door he didn’t entered through bursts open. Two men with guns are shouting.

Timothy Truly Thought

Day 450

http://ffffound.com/image/f360115412698c63e94dac0a50212b0fcdc38a25

Exactly 45% through 1000 days of daily writing. I’d be further if I’d written daily. I think I’d be done. Sigh.

I’m digging through my Evernote finds hoping to pull a charming maquette out of the bunch the way you flip a Beatles LP out of a stand of old records in a atticked box. I’m only finding the Bee Gees though. Maybe some days you just can’t have the Fab Four…

Timothy hunches in the auditorium chair appreciating the stark silhouette his shadow produces on the cement and the stackability of a row of cloned chairs: square chrome legs, orange cloth seats. He doesn’t know why the room is black. He doesn’t know why a single spot light beams into the crowd of chairs rather than the performance-free stage. He adjusts his shoulders to make the outline of his head on the floor distinct from the peaks of his jean jacket collar. Better.

Looking for an escape from the wedding party, he truly thought the door that swung open would lead to the outside and a polite secret smoke in the hotel ally. Instead he got this egotistically lit room. Of course he sat right down in the singular illuminated throne. But, as neatly as it served his mood initially, he still needed that smoke.

A pack of Marlboros appears out of habit. He packs it down and plucks out a lucky one before he realizes he’s decided to smoke in a building. Timothy casts back in the chair to prop it up on its two back legs so that he can fish his lighter out of his jeans.

Some more stuff happened but I ran out of time to write it today.

But First

Original: http://theirison.deviantart.com/art/no-name-yet-91337146?loggedin=1

Unprotected: http://ffffound.com/image/3bbdb0b242bf674aa55cbc9c5582d257daaf4018

I have to image my thoughts and reactions mirrored those of a man staring down a 72 mile an hour Peterbilt—except with less of an erection.  Everything shimmering for attention; nothing fading to the periphery.

First I notice her unnatural Cardinal-red hair; coal-black eyebrows; and gem-green eyes.  First I see her tiny areoles and upraised nipples like arrows bullseying two targets and waiting on a quiver more to be loosed.  First I stare at her asymmetrical tattoos.  Her left arm sleeve is a whirlwind of all the classics: Hula Girl, Oriental Flower, Aboriginal, and Jailhouse Knuckles—a Stabbed Heart with Mom Scroll curiously absent.  A Bald Eagle clutching a Skull descends through her cleavage and a Lotus Blossom flanked by handmaiden Roses rises womanly from her other cleavage.

But first I’m drawn to how her hips drift outward and upward then give way to her waist.  Then first I see that gentle angle mimics the slighter softer one spreading her collarbones to her shoulders.

But even before all those startled yet meandering thoughts I think her red, white, and blue starred panties seem simultaneously incongruous, because she’s Russian, and patriotic, because we’re in a DC hotel.  Then, first, I consider her not sitting in bed slender, legs bent with knees to her chin like an innocent, nor sprawled with smooth legs twined creating a focus line drawing my attention along the contoured horizon of her warm skin to her blush-pink lips and wanton smile.  Instead I first realize she stands in the bed waiting not for me to approach but waiting for her decision on when and how to attack.

I have no control here.  Every inclination I’ve considered, every consideration I’ve deliberated, every deliberation I’ve set aside she inspired in me.  This night will not end until she closes it down.

Day 400

Introducing Margaux

Margaux cinched the leather chin strap tightly to hear the groan of leather on leather.  She worked her jaw around while snugging the helmet-like Chronicaller onto her head.  If it sat loosely it would get off symmetry.  If it got off symmetry she’d get funky results and a headache.  And she didn’t want a headache.  The Chronicaller looked like a brain might look had it been designed by an artistic god who’d seen a real brain for a moment and then been given a week to come up with a replica.  Now snug, Margaux removed the mouthpiece from it’s perch and situated it between her lips.  She blew lightly to check the resting tune.  With expert fingers she dialed in a finer note and blew again–still lightly.  As a result she unlatched a locked rubber tube along the sagittal and actuated two copper levers: one on the left and one on the right near the base of her skull.  Tendrils of near-blonde red hair stuck out from under the cumbersome headpiece like a bad neighbor’s vines growing under a fence.

She leaned forward to better balance the mass of copper and leather and shell and wood and rubber tubing that made up the Chronicaller.

OK, gonna need to come back to this mess another day.

Day 338

The Definitive Waccho Maquette

Everything about a Waccho appears human expect for their scale and proportions.

Given the same age and maturity a Waccho man extends past his human counterpart by his head and shoulders. While not making him quite as imposing as those arboreal giants of Canituu, the Anori, Wacchos regularly participate socially with humans. Their presense can be quite disconcerting. Waccho women—who are often confused for adolescent males—follow the same pattern of scale and sociability. Most times the women are on par with an adult human man. Some clever traders among their clans use these differences artfully in negotiating deals with our people.

If their height is disconcerting, their proportions are humorous and a bit off putting. From not a great distance, an unmoving Waccho appears human. If there is no other reference—a building or livestock to provide scale—even more so. Then they move.

A local fern-peddler, a man claiming to have hunted wild trens in the Thoon archipelago with the Captain Noag himself (so he should know), described the Waccho gait as an unsuccessful attempt to fall down. A Waccho’s lower limbs—arms and legs—are longer in proportion to their upper limbs than are a human’s.

The differences continue in their faces. A Waccho’s mouth is slender and nearly lipless. While their noses’ parallel our own, the distance between the mouth and the nose exceeds ours. Their eyes favor the edges of their face more than the center and are large and wide. Overall they have a flatter facial structure, that along with the mouth and eyes, reminds one of a startled doe. According to Waccho men their women are quite lovely with more delicate faces, but this author uses their modes of dress to distinguish between the sexes on most occasions.

Word count: 302
Day 204