This Needs Cleaned Up

The other night I wrote an ending. It wasn’t happy. It didn’t go out of it’s way to offer details regarding how the two people had gotten to that point in their lives. I hoped to mirror that with a happier ending. Maybe even make up an ensemble ending for an epic fantasy adventure, but that’s hard.

Just now I considered writing the ending to some story I’d already read or a movie I’d already scene. I’m not good at recalling details, so I could probably do that easily enough. Instead I’ll root through my own stuff and see how much luck I have at jumping ahead.

And ending for A Bell Hunting Interlude featuring Charnwyn, Franwyn, and jealous narrator, Conwyn…

I placed the rega on Charnni’s chest and stepped back. The monks, who had been chanting softly, intoned the crematory spell louder. The air above Charnni’s body wavered from the increasing density of magic. I stayed close enough to feel the creche stone absorbing the that power; I hoped to be burnt by it’s release.

Then, remembering something Franny had said to me, I turned. “Conni, [something totally poinent and applicable].” The shadow of magic felt cooling on my face. It felt refereshing. It felt like an apology. I untied the silk funerary cloth from my shoulder and let it slip. The material felt like my soul sliding away as it fell to the ground an left me utterly naked in front of our gathered friends.

I stepped from the circle, through the crowd, and into the night. Charnni was dead, Franny was lost, and I was alone.


280 words on day 597

Never Endings

I read a writers suggestion on how to flesh out a novel synopsis: write the opening scene one day, the ending scene the next, fill in the major plot points each of the next few days. He may have suggested additional assignements on subsequent days. I zoned out after a bit so I’ll never know.

I drifted from his instructions because I got to thinking about endings. I don’t write them.

Jackson slapped shave-and-haircut on the metal roof of his car and slid in behind the wheel. I ducked to see him through the passenger’s side. Without thinking, I tapped two-bits on the sun-dried molding of the car door.

“Up or down?” I reached inside for the handle.

“Leave it.”

“This isn’t good-bye,” I said.

Jackson turned halfway to me and leaned over like he was driving and keeping one eye on the road or like a blind person looking with his ears–eyes drifting into space. I wanted to lean in. I wanted to touch his face. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to make him believe me when I said it, so I said it again. “This isn’t good-bye.”

He chunked the handle on the steering column to D. His foot became heavy on the pedal, and I felt the car moving forward taking my arms with it for a while and pivoting my boots in the gravel. I recalled the agonizing sound when the wind rises from a different direction than the fan on a windmill already rests.

The sound of slow tires on a gravel road broke my heart.

272 words on day 595

Day 127: The Clock at Kite Street

Geminia heelsided her skid to a drift stop all the while keeping her eye on the receding ship. “I missed her.”

“Ettesa’ll be back in a fortnight or so,” said Hera.

“I said, ‘I missed her.’ I didn’t start crying.” Her skid slowly slid down the wet sand toward the waves. Too much water would tweak her gliders and she’d spend the rest of the day trimming them out. She jammed her heel into the black sand to stop.

“Shitting sea. I hate the mother shitting sea.” Geminia released her bindings with the remote in her pocket then kicked the skid upright and slung it over her shoulder like a gunslinger holstering a six-shooter or a samurai sheathing a katana. Doe-eyed Hera looked startled–she always looked a little startled, but this time she might actually be. “What?”

“You’re so good with that. Maybe you could show me?”

“You wanna ride my skid?” Hera confounded Geminia. She did or said stupid shit all the time, but she wasn’t stupid. [place demonstrative examples here]. With Ettesa gone now she’d have to look after her alone. Make sure she didn’t [do some stupid stuff].



“First, don’t talk like that. Second, no. Third, a skid’s like a thong–you just don’t share it.” Gemenia took up Hera’s hand. She realized it was the first time she’d held anyone’s hand since her mother died. “Let’s find you a maker.”

It occurred to me I’ve only written beginnings. I thought I’d kick off this year with an ending. I don’t know that the above does a great job of wrapping up any threads for a story I don’t know. But it feels like it’s written conclusively in some ways.

I might have to try a few of these. Though maybe ones without obvious ending clich├ęs.

As for the title, I’ve been making those up after based on the material. Since this is the end of something presumably the title’s relevance to the story would have worked itself out well earlier in the story. Therefore it’s entirely nonsensical–for now. Enjoy!

Word count: 361