Selling Coral Sugar

“I can really make my own coral sugar with this?”

“Just the juice. Not the crystals,” Charming said. “Well, you could make some crystals, but not enough at a time from a bulb this size, and it would probably kill the coral.”

“Probably?”

None of this touri man’s questions were unfamiliar to Charming—she’d been asked all of them each day, every day, she put up her stall in Song’s pier market—but his insistence was so focused, so penetrating, she thought of her school exit interview. And not fondly.

“These bulbs are designed for decorating your kitchen and making enough juice for your coffee or tea or whatever. If you’re looking for the crystals I’d recommend ordering from Jack Ree’s here on Song or Phanee’s Sugar Works on the shore. They’re both on the net.” Charming gestured to the back table where her pad lay. “Now, I don’t know what Phanee’s charges for shipping, but Jack reminds me every day to tell people he doesn’t charge extra to send it to shore.”

The man continued to listen and smile at her like she was still speaking. Maybe he was considering what she’d just said. Maybe he was waiting for an answer to his question.

“And, yes. It would definitely kill the coral.”

“I don’t want that.”

Charming laughed lightly. “And I don’t either. That’s part of why we’re so accurate to infuse these bulbs with the right indicator colors.”

“When the rim turns clear, rinse and fill to the mark with distilled water. When it turns dark again, add five grams of sea salt?”

“Yes. Exactly.” The salesperson in her wanted to add a compliment on how quickly he’d learned the instructions to keep the coral alive and producing sugar, but she didn’t want to insult him.

“You said, ‘We.’ Do you make the glass bulbs too?”

“I can and I have, but my Daddy’s much better and faster than I am. I’m still no good at syncing them.”

“Your father’s had lots of practice,” he said. Then added quickly: “I imagine.”

Charming opened her mouth to respond, but didn’t.

“Do you have a synced set in green or maybe dark green?”

“I have this green here.” She laid her hand over a bulb of coral to the left of where they were speaking. “And I have a darker one back at my place I could get after lunch.”

“Excellent. No rush. I assume you can hold both for me? It will be a couple days before I leave.”

“Really? A couple days?”

“Why? Is that odd?” It was odd. Touris rarely spent more than a night on Song since the shore had better accommodations.

“Since you haven’t paid yet, I’ll just say it’s unusual to hear.”

He chuckled and handed her 16 bright yellow bills. “And now?”

Charming took the payment and set the two green-rimmed coral bulbs on the back table. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s odd.”

“Well, Miss Venda, I’ll keep that in mind for next time I visit Song.” It wasn’t until after he’d gone that Charming began wondering if she’d introduced herself by name to the man.

519 words on day 776

Trunktop

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Napsil stepped to the edge of the deck and peered down into the fog surrounding the trunk. Other trees—their trunks the color red becomes at night—rose from the mist below then disappeared back into it above him. Unable to focus in the clouds like this, he imagined himself floating in the sky rather than standing atop his tree-tower. Surely all he need do was to close his eyes and he’d drift away like any other atomized droplet. Vapor didn’t matter.

“We can’t do this any longer and you need to come tell the others,” said Napsil’s brother, Jate. Napsil’s eyes remained closed.

“You lead them.”

“No. That’s you, brother.”

Napsil tipped his face toward where the sun might be above them. He felt the mist coalesce on his forehead and a single drop run down his scalp through his short red hair. He brushed back his responsibility with a languid wave of his hand. “Lead them from here on. Lead them away. Lead them back. I don’t care. Neither do they.”

171 words on day 775

You’re Not Your

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Maykirk’s attention drifts past the tattoos unraveling from Your gently curled fingers and palm to Your neck and breasts. He looks into Your eyes, but doesn’t see his death—not certain anyway. He knows Your unseen hand carries a bolter.

The synthetic bedsheets actually smell like cotton; the pillows fluff like down. Maykirk hadn’t expected such niceties on this floater, but guesses any city this large must have an array of services. He’s glad he spring for the room.

“How much time do you need?” Maykirk asks.

“Mmmm?”

Maykirk laughs. “How much time do you need me to wait before I report my cred stolen so that I can get out of this alive? Or are You still pretending this isn’t a Romp and Rob?”

“I am,” You say. “Or I haven’t decided. Last night was pretty good.”

“I guess I should thank you for that?” Maykirk pulls himself up in the bed. You slides the bolter under the sheets and cranes her neck.

Ok. That’s taking too long to get off the ground this morning, and I’ve discovered something about writing You that I hadn’t realized before: you can’t do it in second person unless you’re in that person’s POV. That seems obvious now, but until I tried it—for wahtever reason I tried it—it hadn’t occured to me. It looks like I’ll need to get a name for my You character if I’m ever going to write outside her POV. Or not write outside her POV.

247 words on day 771