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A Crystalline Swig

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.

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“Ah, poop.”

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

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A Redemption of Crows

I need to have an extended plotting session with the Benhá storyline, but that’s not going to happen here. That’s not going to happen now.

Not that the unlikely path to today’s topic matters but I fired up The Crow soundtrack thinking it was the musical score—guess I haven’t ripped that after all—and am listening to The Cure sing “Burn”. The word redemption resolves in my mind from no where out of the song or the movie. Neither one holds redemption as a theme. Now I’ve got redemption on the brain. I’m looking for some missing ingredients for Benhá. Maybe I could stir in this theme.

Where? Charming’s going to be about acceptance. Redemption isn’t something she needs since she’s done nothing to require seeking it. Of the available known main characters that leaves Brother Gane and Mr. Roundmartin. This is not Brother Gane’s story. It’s Charming’s. Gane doesn’t need to change. Which leaves me to cast off the idea of redemption or try to write an antagonist whos actions are all driven by a need to redeem himself. Opposing actions like killing and burning don’t immediately strike me as obviously linked to such a theme.

I find the challenge compelling. Redemption rings of extremes. A person seeking forgiveness or validation for some heinous past act might incline himself to do things differently. Maybe. Or worse, if they’d spent a good chunk of their lives in contrition following said heinous act but no one noticed lashing out makes sense. Hello! You’re making this harder to write not easier. Though I’ve nicely stumbled on a parallel between Charming and Mr. Roundmartin: both desire to be accepted. For different reasons.

287 words on day 515

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Stubbed

I yell at my kids.

I yell at them because I’ve made myself angry over something they’ve done or not done. Sometimes they’ve known better.  Usually I have.

Friday I threw a fit because I couldn’t get a cabinet door closed. Littlest Pet Shop dioramas and chokable paraphernalia peeked through the gap. I got into the cycle your brain does: nudge the door, watch it pop open; close the door, watch it pop open; slam the door, watch it pop open. Curse! Slam the door open and start grabbing and flinging all the plastic crap that offends me. My sensible self cringes in the corner with my children. My thumb runs straight into the frame like hammered concrete. A few more furious grabs and flings empty the storage space. A classy finish foot-shoving the scattered bobble-headed dogs, cyan barbershop chairs, and unprobable treehouses concludes the main event.

One’s holding back tears because she knows that showing those would piqué my guilt which would immediately escalate the embarrassing rage. The other’s pointedly not sucking her fingers. Both are waiting for the tidal wave to attenuate and the waters to recede. They’ve seen this before and know it will.

In a practiced calm tone I say, “I’m going to the other room to say good-night to your sisters. When I come back I won’t yell.”

Surely some psychological professional has labeled what happens next—maybe it’s light temporary but functional multiple personality disorder—I’m a different Father in the next room. My smile, my voice, my words, my peace are genuine. These two are spared my anger, my guilt, and a memory they don’t need.

I return down the hallway to where I left the anger soaked children toweling off. I draw a deep breath before I cross the threshold into their room. They deserve an apology and I deserve a spanking. Air fills my lungs mixing oxygen and contrition with guilt.

The apology belongs to them so I won’t detail that here.

Three days later my thumb still aches.

348 words on day 514