Voh Stopped Concentrating

Voh concentrated.

It was helpful when people spoke to Voh directly and sometimes when they spoke to other people near Voh. On more than one occasion Voh’d run into some trouble at having been told not to do something, but having done it because Voh’d missed the ‘not’ part. Little Mother Jone taught Voh to picture a knotted rope when Voh heard the word used. She had unknowingly saved Voh’s life many times.

The Merchant was telling Voh how to get to Doansboro. Voh went there every few days—the same way everytime. Voh stopped concentrating.

“On the list?”

“Yes Voh, it’s on the list. It’s always on the list but I want to make sure that you…”

Voh took the list and pushed it to the bottom of Voh’s pocket. The Merchant sighed and buttoned the pocket then held the reins of Voh’s pony while Voh mounted.


“Good Voh. Thanks Voh. See you…”

Word count: 158
Day 202

Dactylio or Dactylo

Inspired by another fun illustration at Gorilla Artfare.

Etymological concerns mostly based on this page.

Enough of that crap.

My introduction to [dactylio] came illicitly enough in the form of spying on my older brother one summer he visited back from [cool sounding magic school or guildish name]. Since I am merely a pawn of the author’s devised to clumsily shoehorn a block of description into an otherwise stunning bit of action/plot/theme allow me to proceed:

First, Ozo dabbed the cedar resin onto his forearms. At first I was drawn to the care he took doing so. Each time beginning at the wrist he dabbed proximally all the way to his elbow—ten times. Then he moved to the next row and dabbed upward ten more times. On his slender muscular arms it was easy to see the regularity of his applications.

Next, he removed the jangles—thin bi-metallic strips—from the case Father had given him. One by one he pressed them onto his sticky skin copper-side touching, nickel away. When he finished with all six jangles he slowly inspected his work, taking care that none peeled away by his movement. The silvery metal reflected brilliantly in the sun and contrasted nicely with his rusty-black skin.

Grasping the end of the cloth tape in the hand of his prepared arm as an anchor, he used his free hand to wind the cloth around his fore-arm concealing but securing the jangles in place. He tore the tape with his mouth and pressed it securely [thesaurus anyone?] to his sticky arm.

With slightly more effort he repeated the ritual with his right arm.

Father’s kit only contained four of the possible twelve rings. I soon learned it was only a novice’s set despite it being of ancient [and storied] origin.

Ozo selected two rings—I couldn’t tell which at the time, but I now know to be [this] and [that]. He struggled to pull them over his wrist and passed the repulsive edge of the jangles there. Once he did they jerked into place like a cart going over a tree root growing into the roadway.

The rings hovered at his wrists when his arms were down, but as he drew his arms above his head to stretch, the rings drifted down near his elbows like [some other metaphor here].

The whole spectacle warmed a place inside me I’d not known before. I felt compelled to stand up from my hiding place and announce my presence. I felt equally compelled to slink away and give Ozo back his privacy. Before I could make a decision, Ozo lost concentration and coughed a ball of fire that set the bushes I was concealing myself in ablaze.

Word count: 456
Day 199

Update: Apparently this character is from the “Street Fighter” video game.