Showing posts with label edit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label edit. Show all posts

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Yukaton River: Edit


Name: Yukaton River.

Commonly known as: Ash River or The Dead River.


History: Hundreds of years ago the largest town of the area, Rim, lived along off Yukaton River's widest point.  Mysteriously, and suddenly, the town burned to the ground. It is said cracking and popping of fire and the screams of the inhabitants could be heard on any given June 13th at 11:15 PM.


Legend: Ashes of the people mixed with ashes of the town blew into the river. Blackened and thick, heavy with the ash of the dead, the river slowed until finally it stopped. With the river filled and stilled, trees and plants withered and died, and animals fled. Soon after, everything grew back tenfold. Lush and deep green, the trees grew tall, leaned in, and created a dense canopy over the river.


Today it is eerily clear and deadly still. Yet if you set a boat upon its surface, it will move south at a quick pace, as if a strong current had taken hold. It is believed spirits of the dead protect those who travel upon the river. But if they disembark before the river reaches its destination at Tamishi Sea, great bad luck will befall them. They will not survive their next 48 hours.


Pen (whose name is Penelope but finds it cumbersome, shortens it as much as possible, and does the same to others) and Timothy (whose name Pen actually likes and only calls him Tim on occasion) go to the ruins of Rim on June 13th. They arrive precisely at 11:15 PM. 


Pen and Tim hear strange howls and creaks from the large trees settling with the wind.


Natives help the pair lower a large, fully packed canoe that sleeps two, into Ash River. Luggage piled high, the boat sits deep. They rest at midnight.

The canoe, The Blessed Express, is named to give safe voyage to those aboard and thanks to the blessed spirits who guard the river. The nearby town nicknamed the boat Be in reference to the Beatles song Let it Be


The town doesn’t have much in the way of modern technology, only what visitors give them. One of their most prized possessions was a gift from a set of sisters who traveled there many years ago; a record player. Though they don't much, they dance and sing. They especially love vinyls of The Beatles, as there is an abundance of their music. They have a fascination with the western world and often consider it to be a place of fantasy. They frequently put on small plays with rag dolls accompanied with tunes of Hey Jude and Paperback Writer to depict the strange magical realm they imagine.


The following morning the entire town congregates, blesses, and stocks The Blessed Express with their food, love, and prayer. They hide painted beads of glass and clay, dried plants, and purple flowers among the couple’s luggage and within the cracks of the boat's panels.

A grand farewell party takes place.


© Ash Huntley

Friday, January 18, 2013

The Peculiar Girl and Blood in the Hand of the Beholder (edit)

"Stay."

Her mother said.

"Stay here, don't follow."

The voice a high clear bell, distorted through time, calling over an open field of long grass. A toddler barely able to follow, she stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name. Then she started to waddle over.

"I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What am I staying away from? She wondered.

Stay was a mystery to herself.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound. Air crept through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished at her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand.

It was no longer her finger, but a finger. It paled considerably in seconds. She panicked. Stay had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. She could barely breathe at the sight of the absurd amount of blood dripping down to a puddle at her feet. She turned her mind off. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Searing flesh. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs. The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and unable to move, Stay imagined a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start it the next day.


© Ash Huntley

Monday, January 14, 2013

The Peculiar Girl and a Bloody Mess (edit)


"Stay."

Her mother said.

"Stay here, don't follow."

The voice a high clear bell, distorted through time, calling over an open field of long grass.
A toddler barely able to follow, she stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name. Then she started to waddle over.

"I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What am I staying away from? She wondered.

Stay was a mystery to herself.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound. Air crept through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished at her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand.

It was no longer her finger, but a finger. It paled considerably in seconds. She panicked. Stay had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. She could barely breathe at the sight of the absurd amount of blood dripping down to a puddle at her feet. She turned her mind off. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Searing flesh. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs. The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and unable to move, Stay started making plans for a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start making it the next day.

© Ash Huntley