Saga "Something is shining like gold, but better" | Dear Diary Challenge 2016

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As I walked back through the town to the hotel this afternoon, I couldn’t help but notice the dancing hall , even when it was still in the distance. The Madame’s frilly sunglowing white mansion of a place looks off against the other buildings, and the kilometers of scrub fields behind it. I was, for a sudden and illogical moment, flushed with nervous heat. Of course, Joelle didn’t take any notice. She continued to talk as she walked along beside me, her flower-bruised skirt swaying around her legs. Oh, she did pause—when she had step out of the way of a cart that came thrashing towards us through the crowded market area.

The driver, a human man with drooping blonde hair and matching skin, leaned over his animal’s head to glare at her with his black insect-eye goggles, and threw out one word in loud, obvious Basic. I cringed, but Joelle’s watercolor blue eyes actually gleamed with candleglow tears, and she charged ahead of me for several steps.

Killeshandra had been walking just behind us with Joelle’s younger sisters, two shy, or merely just quiet, little rosepinks who have yet to cause me any difficulties, or do anything of interest. She watched as the cart barged away ahead of us with a coldblank stare, but she didn’t comment. The girls were occupied with a dust-shadowed white astromech droid rolling along next to them.

It might actually be midwinter, but the air was the usual tear-blurred shimmer with the light beating down from the paired suns—I could feel it as it burned into my hair, and it seemed to soak my dress, my skirts, into a swollenthick weight that dragged as I walked, and there was candybright sticky sweat on the backs of my knees. I could feel all of that. But the other people moved about through it with familiar ease—and I have to assume I shall learn that soon enough.

There was a rather awkwardly stiff moment while Joelle wiped at her eyes. No, she didn’t lick the saltwater of her tears from her hand, but I would not have put it past her. When I reassured her, she actually said (while I had to watch out for passing people and droids for her) that: I would have thrown him the finger, but there wasn’t enough time for it.

Obviously, she lacks the nerve to do more than imagine that sort of gesture, but I still said: Then it’s a good thing there wasn’t.

Joelle moved on to another subject. It appears that she has decided to think of me as some sort of confidant. Of course, I haven’t encouraged her—it is not the thing to burden others with your problems. But while I was taught to know that since my earliest memories, Joelle isn’t from Naboo, and it does not require that much effort for me to try to be sensitive. This time, she wanted to share an incidence that occurred when she was ten years old—she had been playing on this swing her father had made from an old starship landing wheel when the rope broke, and she fell and blacked out for several seconds. It sounded as though she had a concussion, for an hour later, when she was confined to her bed, she vomited. Oh yes, she included that last detail.

The white wall of the “dancing hall” was looming ahead just down the street. I forced myself to look at Joelle, and asked her if her parents had taken her to a physician.

She tossed her eyes up in an sighed out roll, and her voice—which is a muddydeep tenor, and not what I would have expected—hurried up a pitch. They wouldn’t have bothered even if they could afford it. And they refuse to use Quinnan’s meddroid.

We were approaching the brothel. It was the late quiet hour of the afternoon, but there was already (or still) business in progress there—the Madame keeps a well-stocked bar, and she also offers actual, and expensive, water baths from ice shipped straight from Adriana. I think some of the locals, particularly the farmers, object to that more than anything else. Joelle turned to watch with me as a man walked in through the secretdark book page of the opened doorway.

There was a tall dark girl standing near a side entrance, smoking one of those little dried root cigarets. She hissed out a breath of white fog smoke that floated around her face. She only wore a fragile whiterose chemise the sunlight glowed straight and a ratted petticoat skirt, and her long ribbonsilk nightbrown hair was still loose. Her chemise strap drooped down her shoulder, where her tawny-beige skin was just sunflushed. Of course, I noticed her.

Then she stared out across the street at me. Or at least, I thought she had—since then, I have thought it over, and she was most likely focused on her own thoughts. But it only lasted for that one moment. She turned away when the door behind her swayed open, and I walked on.

 

Findswoman: There's a lot packed into this chapter—along with about as rich a slice of Tatooine life (including the infamous Place) and the sticky-hot effects of the weather, as anyone could ask for, we (along with Miss Taafe) get the opportunity to learn a bit more about these very intriguing students outside the classroom.

That scene was inspired by the street scenes in the television series Deadwood. The rest was inspired by my actual personal experience with dry desert heat. Sometimes, I have wondered, especially considering all the things I still only have planned, if I have made my imaginary part of an imaginary planet too interesting. Tatooine is supposed to be (just like Jakku, the new desert world for a new trilogy) a uniform wasteland "largely devoid of life" that everyone with sense wants to leave. (And where the only fabric they have for their clothing is a near inexhaustible supply of burlap sacks--ooh, snap.) But I've seen the real desert, and I have an idea of what it is, and I can't say I am terribly concerned about that.

It's interesting that the garrulous Joelle is latching onto Miss Taafe so much; I bet there's a deeper reason behind it, and I'd also wager there's some story behind her very strong reaction to the rude remark from the beast driver. Given that he looks right at her, it looks almost as though he knows her. If Miss Taafe has further chats with her, I imagine the reasons will eventually come out.

Actually, I didn't think Joelle's reaction was all that strong--it wasn't as though she burst out into a flood of tears that watered the desert. Joelle has her reasons--which may come out, and which Miss Taafe may or may not actually understand--for latching onto her teacher. But it also seems obvious, at least to me, that Miss Taafe is not terribly pleased about it.

(From the story she tells about her fall from the tire swing—and I love that the GFFA has the equivalent of a tire swing—it looks like her home life has not always been a happy one.)

If you have tires, then you can have a tire swing. And they know how to make use of things in the space opera desert. As for her homelife, you should find out more about that later on.

And there's the infamous Place... it's plain to see its very existence is having some kind of effect on Miss Taafe, even if she's said she's uninterested in patronizing it. The way the waifish woman standing outside stares straight at Miss Taafe as she walks past is interesting in its ambiguity: it could be, well, interest, but given what we know about Tatooine (and who runs Tatooine...) it could just as well be a plea for help: perhaps she sees the foreigner as more likely to answer that plea than the homeborn Tatooinians. Or all of the above.

As I mentioned before, the Madame's "place" stands out, which makes it difficult for Miss Taafe to ignore. As for the woman, if she was looking at Miss Taafe (and as she admits, she doesn't actually know that she was), it could have been for any number of reasons. But she has probably encountered off-worlders enough in her past to know that there isn't much they can do, even if they were interested, to make her situation better.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

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[3]:

The Bantha Kid has made his return. He came walking across the scrub beyond the school this morning when I was outside with the students for our activity time. The sky was still this early sleepfaded blue white, but I had stayed back inside the shadowroom from the porch roof to supervise them. I was watching Joelle’s sisters working on building up a shivering balanced rock cairn when I saw him, when I saw a man in a black hat appear on a sloping rise. He simply appeared—I can’t think of another way to go about describing it. I walked out into the pale light of the schoolyard to watch him approach, and into the muscular wind smacking against my eyes.

The students had noticed him as well. Today, I had them looking for examples of the varied, and many, rocks we have identified in this area, and now they paused at their work. Diva Minera spoke first, squinting ahead into the opened sky, the wind pulling at the ties on her dress—and if I had only had an educated guess as to who he was before that, oh I knew now: He’s finally gotten back!

Several of the others started out to meet up with him. Yes, I know: I should have called them back closer to the school, but I only thought of that later on. Instead, I followed after them. The man walked up to us with a hard wulf-loping stride, his bootprints stamped into the sand behind him. That was the first thing I noticed about him.

Herme came up to next to me in a lurching skip, and he had a bright bell-rung voice when he called out, in the casual way they use here: I thought that was you, Kid.

Where have you been this time? Thinta said next, her voice almost stern. But her mouth leapt into a smile, and I knew her tone had only been another easy joke.

Hey kids, the Bantha Kid said as he came to a stop—though I should note that, while he is still relatively young, he is no longer what the people here call a kid. He adjusted the sagedull green satchel he had in a hump over his shoulder. My most recent location was at the Calf-A. But if you want the interesting version, that is gonna take a while.

Oh I’ll bet you saw a krayt pack, Herme said, the words tripping together into an awkward mess—but he had spoken first, and the other students crowded around him nodded along, and fell into gasping, blushing giggles. I have noticed that Herme likes to draw krayt dragons, and that when he has a story during the sunshour, it usually involves at least one pivotal dragon scream. Of course, I have not seen one—and Avila has told me that I don’t want to.

The Bantha Kid shook his head, and: There aren’t any dragons up in the canyons. But next time out, if I see one, I’ll get a holoshot just for you.

Then he looked over at me, and I found it easy, thoughtlessly easy, to stare back at him, even before he arched his (wide roseflushed) mouth into a smile. After all--and I can admit to this inside the moonglow lit page of this journal--I had been watching him already.

I have the chalkpencil sketch I drew of him, when I was back in my room this evening, on the last page inside my artbook, but I will have to use words to describe him here: He is tall and thin with cat-mean, bony hips. He has a crooked, bird beak pointed nose. His skin is sun-flushed from the desert, but his hair is a light dull pale brown. He has pale wintersky blue eyes.

I walked forward to meet him, and after he introduced himself, I said: Oh, I know. I have heard quite a bit about you.

That’s grand, he said. The wind was tugging at his hat with its strong clenched fingers, and he had to hold it down. Some of it is probably even true.

When he offered his free hand in greeting, I knew to take it. I read somewhere once, years ago, that humans originally shook hands to prove they weren’t carrying any weapons. We don’t do that on Naboo—but perhaps that is because it has been a number of centuries since we used the sort of weapons that could be exposed that way. But obviously, it makes sense here. Oh, I had already noticed the small blaster the Bantha Kid wore at his hip.

When I held his hand, I was surprised to see that he has fairly small hands, with long drooping fingers and chewed short nails—I would have expected him to have large hands, with coarse wooden calluses, rather like Delight Fardreamer. Well, nearly like: Delight is known as a sternly hard worker, whereas the Bantha Kid is what Far Mor would call fey-minded.

Then he said: It’s probably too late for this matter, but I got this message from Ciaran Glass a while ago looking to see if I could give you a ride. Unfortunately, I was about five hundred klicks too far away, and it was a week too late. But I would have been at the rescue if I could have.

Well, I should certainly hope so, Diva Minera said. When I turned to look back at her, she had her hands perched on her hips, but her mouth had shifted into a teasing smile. I also saw that the Bantha Kid noticed her with a tiny startled jerk, though he didn’t say anything.

I appreciate the thought, I said—and then I continued (and no, I shouldn’t blame Diva Minera’s nearby influence for this) on to say, as soon as I had thought it: But if you have any regrets on the matter, you can always make it up to me some other time.

Oh, I’ll remember that, he said, and I felt my nervous sunbright flush fade away. He grinned, and I tossed off a hahaha. It was all right.

Of course, the outdoor hour was not even half over, and I reminded the students that they needed to return to their previous activities. I did not intend to ask the Bantha Kid to leave—several of the parents have sat in on lessons before—but that was when he excused himself: You’re probably tiring of me. And besides, I should go see if Avila kept my room for me.

Avila had to go to Bloodrock Station, I said. She caught a ride out with her friend Min this morning. But you needn't wait for her to tell you. Yes, you still have your room.

I watched with the students as he walked off around the side of the schoolroom, and back to the street. Joelle had wandered over to stand next to me. He had only just disappeared from view, and hearing, when she leaned in to say in a smokeflushed whisper: He likes you.

Oh, of course, he probably likes me so far. Why wouldn’t he? I said, with a perky queendove-winged flight to my voice. Joelle did not bother to dignify that with a response—but then, as I can admit here in writing, I can hardly blame her.

After school was finished, I met up with the Bantha Kid at the edges of the market, and he walked back to the hotel with us. Joelle remained several discreet eavesdropping feet behind us with the two sisters, but I won’t go into that. They were giggling with each other, but that was because the Bantha Kid had given them blush-stained white flower clips. He kept one for himself.

Avila had returned to her place behind the counter, and there were only several customers (a Chagran couple) at one of the corner tables in the dining room. Hey, Kid, she said in a purposely ragged-rough voice. Next time, maybe you could consider sending me a note. It would entertain me, and I’d like to have proof you’re still functional.

And hey yourself, Avila, he said. Then, while I sat nearby with the pinkberry cola I had just purchased to drink, they continued on with their conversation:

Oh come on, he said. It was my birthday only the other day.

Yeah, I know, she said. And the only present you’ll be receiving here is a spanking.

Fine then. I’m waiting, he said. She snapped her mouth into a grin, and came out to smack at him with her counter rag. The customers both watched with what I think may have been approval. Joelle came wandering in to buy a cola with the few creds she had managed to save up, but (rather mercifully) she didn’t stay around. But I am sure she reported everything to Thinta.

Then they moved on to the subject of the Calf-A. I hadn’t needed to ask him about it when he had mentioned to the students earlier: Avila worked there as a cook for years before she took over the hotel, and so I know it is the restaurant, the café, with the word play name. Oh, the Calf-A, Avila said, staring off in a daydreamed blur. I have to get back there one of these years.

She handed the Bantha Kid a green lampshade glass bottle of beer with a thin wisp of smoke leaking out. Of course, I make it sound better than the cheap Antilles’ Bantha Piss it was—and oh yes, that is the actual brand name. Before I came here, I had never heard of it, but they all drink it, and that includes Brother Mercy. I should force myself to have at least one, since I do want to fit in with them, but I haven’t done that yet.

He sat down on the stool next to me at the bar, and I remembered to take a drink of the sugary bubble hissing soda. Avila went back into the kitchen, and I heard the bellcrash of pots. I waited for a silent moment while I considered what to say next. But he spoke first.



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Spoiler

The Calf-A is so very real--it is located in Dell, Montana, and has been in business since either 1978 (according to the sign out front) or at least 1976 (according to one of the waitresses who moved to the area that year). I have merely moved it to the desert and changed some surface details for this story.

 

Findswoman: Wonderful to meet at last the mysterious Bantha Kid, about whom I've been curious since you first mentioned him. Indeed, he's different from what I expected too: he's got an intriguing mix of typical "nerf herder" characteristics along with hints of a more "fey" nature (and that's a word that can have various implications, and I am curious which of those will apply here)

The Bantha Kid is a "desert cowboy" who wears a (GFFA) black Australian outback hat, combat boots, and enters the scene to a Johnny Cash soundtrack--oh, wait, I'm describing myself. He's obviously a total Mary Sue! But more seriously, I came up with the idea of a character called the Bantha Kid partly as a joke when I was ruminating one day, though it was a joke I already knew I was going to make a fictional reality. And he is, in many ways, like a male, and more extroverted, version of me. Besides wearing the hat my father gave me for my sixteenth birthday.

As for the "fey-minded" comparison, I was going to have the phrase Miss Taafe remembers for him be "will-o'-the-wisp," and perhaps I should have stuck with that. But basically, the term, as she uses it, refers to someone who is never fully a part of the "real world" with everyone else. They only ever seem to visit. They're wanderers, or flakes, or even geniuses, depending on one's point of view.

On the whole he gives the impression of being not unfriendly, but it's hard to know what to make of what seem to be the flirtation attempts on his part, both with Miss Taafe and Avila. His startled reaction to Diva Minera is interesting, as is her semi-playful, semi-snippy retort to him; they seem to have some "history" with each other, of one sort or another (and I feel like I've seen hints of such a history in early entries, but I may be imagining things). I seem to remember that he is Miss Taafe's neighbor at Avila's inn, so I imagine they'll be seeing more of each other around that place.

Miss Taafe doesn't know what to make of the flirting with Avila (and to be fair--since she is the one who offers to spank the Bantha Kid, she flirts/teases right back)--I intended to imply that she was watching them with this baffled stare the entire time. But it--like Diva Minera's little dig earlier--is all good natured; and though she has figured that out, she still isn't quite used to it. Miss Taafe is, the majority of the time, rather humorless, so nearly all of the humor in this story has to come from the other characters.

As for the Bantha Kid's response to her: well, he is a Tatooine boy. She is a Naboo girl.

This is the first time that any history has been shown with the Kid and Diva Minera: though since he gets around, he rather famously "knows everybody," so it may have been hinted at. And yes, he and Miss Taafe are neighbors. They will be sitting next to each other at the bar many, many times.

I probably remarked on this before, but I can't get over how priceless Antilles' Bantha Piss is as a GFFA beer name. It's just the perfect SW-ification of a certain kind of semi-pretentious microbrew moniker. Of course, I know from your earlier comments you have something not at all microbrew-ish in mind here—closer to Pabst Blue Ribbon or Bud Light—but it still is a perfect fit.

Don't forget Hamm's--the beer from the "land of sky-blue waters" with a cartoon bear mascot. But yes: I made up Antilles' Bantha Piss as a joke, where I just flat out embraced the two most used lazy worldbuilding shortcuts (Don't know what to name a character? They're Antilles! Need to reference an animal in some way? There are millions in the galaxy, but just stick with the all-purpose bantha!) but one I realized I would have to use. It might not be a microbrew--but there is a local microbrew called "Moose Drool" that I may have been thinking of unconsciously when I came up with the moniker. So while I didn't see the connection before, I can see it now.

The Calf-A is wonderful, too, and I wasn't totally surprised to learn that it is a real place, because, well, the name just sounded that way somehow.

I only heard of the Calf-A quite recently, but as soon as I did, I knew two things: that I was going to put a version in this story, and that I was going to eat there. Now, I just have to manage to get Miss Taafe there in person at some point. I think it's pretty obvious that needs to happen.

And then you leave us with this quasi-cliffhanger at the end! I'm dying to know what he said to Miss Taafe once they were alone at the bar. Of course, it could have just been small talk about the weather or current events, but in your hands even that sort of thing is going to come off as interesting and different.

All shall be revealed, and quite soon.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

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I don’t think I have written down anything of the local stories I have heard, including the ones with several different conflicting versions, about the Bantha Kid: He was born to wander under the dragonstar! He nursed from a wild bantha as an infant! He knows the desert, and respects all of its secrets! He set loose a cirkus-trained nexu (or it might have been a rancor) from a syndicate supply-barge in Mos Alba! He pulled a scam over on one of the Hutts—while successfully dressed as a dancing girl! And then there is this one: he is the “sexboy” for a Tusken woman!

But I should continue where I left off earlier tonight: while we sat at the bar in the lazy honey-thick light seeping through the gauze curtains, I made the segue in the conversation, and asked if there was any truth to those legends. He laughed—an easybright, almost honking loud laugh that showed most of his teeth. I have noticed that other people here tend to laugh in a similar fashion, but it can still take me aback.

Once he had calmed down out of that, he said, Well, damn. It looks like my fictional double has been staying busy.

I stared at him for a emptied blank moment before I remembered to say something: I gather that you found the bit about the Tusken woman the most amusing.

Oh, that isn’t entirely wrong, he said. I do know a Tusken woman over near the Needles. I would even dare to say we’re on friendly terms. But I do not provide any sexual services for her—she isn’t interested, and it isn’t possible.

Then: It was a sandcat. They were taking it back for rancor-bait. I don’t know how they ever caught it—I’ve only managed to get a few glimpses of them out in the wilds, and I’ve seen more than most people. Anyway, I only had a few seconds to act in, and I snatched the cage and got out of there. I was fifteen at the time, but I can’t say I’ve learned to know better.

And then you released it back into the desert, I said.

Of course, I did, he said. It bit me for my troubles, but I survived without a scar. My older brother wasn’t too impressed, but I don’t think he was much surprised either.

Well, well, Min said. She had turned from her conversation with Avila at the other end of the bar for some blatant eavesdropping, and she wasn’t the only one. She lifted her black ribbon eyebrows. Delight has kept that version of events to himself.

The Bantha Kid shrugged, and tossed back a long drink of his “ABP” before he said: He says that people prefer what they’ve made up, and he has a point.

Wait—Delight Fardreamer is your brother? I said. The Darksuns hadn’t talked much about their other family—I did remember Annah mentioning, once and in passing, a brother of Delight’s, though his name was Sage, and that was all. But I could see it now—while they don’t look obviously alike, they have the exact same color eyes.

Yeah, he’s one of my brothers. The oldest and most hardworking one who had to take over raising me up. I have five of them. Then he said, with a ruefully subdued twist of his mouth: We still don’t know if Mumma skipped her control shots on purpose, or if she just forgot.

Oh yes: he put it out just that bluntly, and in those exact remembered words. The others in the eavesdropping audience all nodded along with understanding. I didn’t have anything to say. No one has a family that large on Naboo—it would be considered irresponsible and (the far worse quality we’re taught to shun from the earliest hour of childhood) selfish. They have much the same attitude here, only more so. Most of the farming families can barely afford the one child.

Doesn’t your one brother still live with your mother? Avila was saying.

That would be Chastity, and yes, he is still at our mumma’s side, the Bantha Kid said. Trust me, we don’t dare say one word against the woman in his presence.

When I first met Brother Mercy, and heard his Coruscanti-edged accent, I asked him why he had decided to come here. The Bantha Kid did not ask me that same question. But after the above, he did turn the conversation over to me: So. What stories do you have?

That was also the first time he said my name: he addressed me formally as Miss Taafe, and while I did appreciate the thought, I told him he can use my familiar name. After all, he isn’t one of the students who need to see me, at least somewhat, as an authority figure. But I couldn’t think of how to answer him. Of course, it has been years since I had the need to talk about myself in public. I do have my journals for that. I have far more interest in listening to other people’s voices.

Well, go on, Avila said. The Kid’s had his turn. You certainly deserve yours.

But after I stumbled through a shivered little hahaed giggle, I shrugged, and: Oh, I don’t have much of a story. I came from a perfectly ordinary background on Naboo, and now I live here, where I teach at your school.

He was watching me with a small titled smile. It made him look too suddenly somber, and I blinked when I looked him back in the eye. There has to be more to it than that.

Well, perhaps I shall share more of it with you another time, I said, I allowed, and his mouth relaxed. And if I had a numbed-stone pain in my chest (because I’m a bore, I’m a typical privileged human woman without a story anyone would wish to hear) it was already faded away.

Later on, Avila put on quite the dinner—partly for the Bantha Kid’s recent birthday, and partly because she wanted to try out the new ginger powder she found at the station market. The Bantha Kid is thirty-two, which prompted Brother Mercy to say: Don’t even think of complaining that this is your first taste of getting old. Some of us here only wish we could be thirty-two again.

The Bantha Kid related some of his most recent adventures in the polar desert, and Avila talked about her day. After we finished eating, we went out into the courtyard-garden to have the limon crème cake Avila had made for desert. The black sky was littered with heaps of pin-pricked white stars. My breath flowed out in a long frostsilk scarf, but it was the sort of cold that almost tastes sweet, and in the background, Brother Mercy was describing his new telescope-lenses.

It went on for a long blurred stretch of hours. I won’t go into writing out all the conversation topics they went through while we all drank up a bottle of black melon wine. Brother Mercy left first, and then, finally, the Bantha Kid and I walked up the side staircase to our rooms.

We paused in the space between our doors, and I said (and yes: I think I will blame this on the two glasses of wine): Happy birthday. You’ve lived through another day.

Well, thank you, he said, and then he disappeared behind the closed back of his door, and I came inside, and went straight on to finish spilling forth this day into a written account. And I am still fully wide awake. I have my window exposed for the night, and I can still see the ghostlights fluttering like moths down in the little trees.

 

Pandora -- all caught up. And Your talent for describing scenes and vividly detailing characters is terrific! I feel I know everybody LOL I have a fondness already for Avila and sympathy for Ms. Taafe dealing with so many different personalities and the climate But oh, the limon-creme cake sounds delightful as does the never-dull Bantha Kid I will always read his lines of dialogue with a strong Aussie accent

I love how you weave current events with Ms. T.'s memories of home.

 

WarmNyota_SweetAyesha pointed out this story to me last night, while sending me her corrections of one of my fanfics. Not only did I end up hooked due to the Naboo & Tatooine setting, but once upon a time I was taught art education for both elementary-school level and secondary-school level.

I must say, Nyota is always right about a jolly good story.

Like your heroine I suffered a culture shock as a German in the Netherlands, but stayed on due to love for 6 years. I wonder how long she will stand the scorching hot sun, rough desert sand & life style of her new home. She is tough, I grant her that. And pleasantly sassy, too.

I also like how you show us her daily work and her students!

 

WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: all caught up. And Your talent for describing scenes and vividly detailing characters is terrific! I feel I know everybody LOL

Thanks!

I have a fondness already for Avila and sympathy for Ms. Taafe dealing with so many different personalities and the climate

It's true enough that Miss Taafe is still somewhat out of her element--both with the people she's met, and the miles of scrub desert outside the town she has still only barely seen. She still has (apologizes for the predictable line, but then delivers it anyway) much to learn.

But oh, the limon-creme cake sounds delightful as does the never-dull Bantha Kid I will always read his lines of dialogue with a strong Aussie accent

I do like a lemon cake, and this one is made from locally grown citrus fruit. I'm glad people are enjoying reading about the Bantha Kid, as Miss Taafe is going to continue to write about him. I won't comment on his accent--while I have my own ideas about it, I don't want to overly interfere with how other people imagine him to be.

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Findswoman: I have to say I share the Bantha Kid's curiosity about Miss Taafe's story, because "typical privileged human woman" or no, she's got to have one (and we know tiny bits and pieces already from what has been hinted about the Girl, her early teaching years, etc.).

Miss Taafe tends not to hold herself in high esteem. (And in the earlier version of that bit, she was much too open about it--and while it is true to who she is as a character, I changed it, because it would have cast a pall over her entire retelling of her first meeting with the Bantha Kid.) Of course, she has a story. She may prefer to "shut up and listen" in public, but she's writing a piece of it in her latest diary.

It's great to be learning more and more about the Kid, his family, and his early exploits, which in their way are at least as interesting as the colorful, tabloid-ish stories that are told about him—the sandcat story certainly is.

That story is probably yet another thing that makes him a total Mary Sue!!--it's a situation where, especially when I was the age he was, I would have been filled with useless anger, completely prevented by all sorts of factors from acting. But the Bantha Kid could act--one advantage of the general lawlessness of Tatooine is that he doesn't have certain social mores holding him back. And of course, the Hutts wouldn't have cared much about the loss of one sandcat.

I wonder if the fact that he's Delight Fardreamer's brother is part of why he seems so interested in being friendly with that family's tutor (namely Miss Taafe), though I guess much of it is just his outgoing disposition too.

According to Joelle, he likes her (one disadvantage of having the dialogue in italics is that I couldn't emphasize that word to get the full meaning across).

The point about large families on both Naboo and Tatooine (which I'm guessing is fanon on your part?) is an interesting one that makes sense with the ethoses (?) of both cultures, in a way, though it's striking that it seems to be the opposite of the attitude traditionally taken in many Earth farming communities, where more children are desirable because they ultimately mean more hands to help around the farm. Like @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha, I can hear a broad Australian accent from him, too.

Yes, it's true enough that the Tatooine farming attitude is different from the usual one here--I'm descended from farming families with up to eleven or twelve children, so I ought to know--but they also lack the natural resources of, for example, the midwestern US farmlands (according to handed-down family lore, no matter how broke you were, you could grow your food and still have enough to eat), and they do have droids to handle much of the work.

Anyhow, the views on large families is mostly my own fanon, though I picked it up from similar ideas in others' fanfictional works, much of which was inspired by speculation on why Beru and Owen never had children of their own. (Of course, the answer is just that it didn't fit the plot.) I think at least one author posited that they would have, but after they took Luke in, their plans changed--they couldn't afford more than one child.

The little birthday party does sound fun, and even something as basic as just standing out under the stars, eating cake and drinking wine seems like it would be a very welcome respite from the hot, dry, rough everyday of Tatooine. Many happy returns to the Kid—may he roam the desert many years in that huge black hat!

It might be a rough life with few luxuries on Tatooine--but that would seem, at least to me, all the more reason to celebrate having successfully lived another year, in at least some fashion. And the Kid was (according to local legend) "born under a wandering star"--he still has many places left to explore.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

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AzureAngel2: @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha pointed out this story to me last night, while sending me her corrections of one of my fanfics. Not only did I end up hooked due to the Naboo & Tatooine setting, but once upon a time I was taught art education for both elementary-school level and secondary-school level.

I must say, Nyota is always right about a jolly good story.

I have never taught (though I once had vague plans of teaching writing/literature at the university level, it has been clear for years now that is a path I cannot access), so I can only hope that I'm portraying it well enough. I have been in situations where I had to figure out things as I went along, though, and Miss Taafe often has those. She knew how to teach art on Naboo, but she is still learning how to teach multiple subjects, to a variety of students, on Tatooine.

Like your heroine I suffered a culture shock as a German in the Netherlands, but stayed on due to love for 6 years. I wonder how long she will stand the scorching hot sun, rough desert sand & life style of her new home. She is tough, I grant her that. And pleasantly sassy, too.

Life on Tatooine has indeed been a bit of a shock for her. She wouldn't think of herself as tough, but I suppose that she is. She is certainly very much in earnest about her job, though she has indicated (inspired by the real life stories of proper schoolteachers on the frontier) that she thinks of her time on Tatooine as only a two year interlude, before she goes back to her old life.

But ultimately, I think she could, if she wanted to, learn to live there. I'm descended from people who made lives in a new country--and unlike in the galaxy far, far away, where everyone already conveniently speaks Basic, they had to learn a new language in the process. It's not easy, but it's possible: like the quote from the television show Life on Mars says: "Whatever strange place you find yourself in--make that your home."

I also like how you show us her daily work and her students!

It is an important part of the story, and though I do have to juggle it around with several other parts of Miss Taafe's life, there will be ever more of that.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

Findswoman: I have different reasons for putting dialogue in italics, depending on the story: it is usually because I'm going for a certain feeling, or I want to distinguish it from "regular" dialogue in some fashion. For this particular story, probably because it is a diary, it just didn't feel right to have the dialogue enclosed formally between two quotation marks. I'm afraid I don't have a much better explanation than that--even though I'm workshop trained at the undergraduate and graduate levels, I still do a lot of things on a sort of literary instinct.

It isn't that unusual--though it is far from the norm--in literary fiction: I've read varied authors over the years who write their dialogue this way. The only one I can think of now is Melanie Rae Thon (and I should add that she started out in her career with more traditional punctuation). I don't use it very often, though, and I do think this may be the first story of mine where all the dialogue is written this way.


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The dark girl I saw at the brothel is named Sarai. Of course, I haven’t the nerve to openly, and bluntly, ask around after her--but Min is frequently at the bar to visit with Avila, and she likes to talk. It turns out that Sarai is not only Madame Aramat’s top girl, she is the preferred favorite of the syndicate lieutenant, Enji Day. There was one time (according to Min) when he showed up to find out she was already tucked away in her “receiving room” with another customer. Apparently, Enji Day wears these boots with sharp needle-pointed tips, and after he had his Gamorrean enforcer knock in the door, he knew how to put them to use. That did not happen a second time.

When I asked her what Sarai thought of all that, she gave me a blank mirror-glass stare, and then shifted one of her limp lekku over her shoulder in what I think was meant to be a shrug. I don’t actually know, she said. But I would guess she enjoyed watching the spectacle.

I haven’t seen her when I’m around the town, but then, I don’t think I have seen anything of the other girls from the Madame’s place—and I gather, from what people have hinted at, rather than actually said, that she doesn’t allow them out much.

Then: this afternoon, I was at the community store to have another dress made up. Oh, I brought a lot of clothing here with me, but most of it has not been, rather predictably, suitable—there are really only a few dresses, and the one brown riding skirt, that I can wear. They have a rack full of the floral print fabrics, besides the more usual homespun. After I had selected the one I wanted, and put in the rest of the particulars of my order with Mistress Grizelda Plath, Joelle’s mother, and she had excused herself, I spent some time browsing through them.

They have quite the variety of flowers arranged into different patterns. This time, I picked the one with pale red roses on a burnt red background (and oh yes: I do know that roseheads should not ever wear red, but I broke that rule a while ago), but I find them all interesting. It might be mostly factory work, but I wonder about who designs the templates. Someone must.

Actually: after the several rather painful, and humbling, days at school last week, I distracted myself by designing some of my own floral patterns. I used up two pages in the sketchbook. It was also, I should mention, the only drawing I managed for a while, for weeks, until yesterday, when I was inspired to sketch the Bantha Kid.

When I looked up and saw Sarai walking along the main aisle of the store, it took me a moment to recognize her as that girl I had seen. She had her hair pulled into a sleep-tossed bun, and she wore a schoolgirl floral print skirt with tall desert boots. But I did recognize her, and the other people in the store had as well. Only Joelle’s sister Rosetta, who had come in to buy a handful of the candies they sell in baskets at the counter, was still focused on her own thoughts.

Sarai drifted along next to the shelves of housewares, only stopping to pick up one of the imported glass lace teacups she might have actually been able to afford. Mistress Plath waited until she had looked up before she had to speak: Do you need help with anything?

Mistress Plath is a short matron with doll-sized specs and faded blonde hair who always speaks in a candysweetened voice, and who prides herself on being gracious. She has always been friendly with me, but I wouldn’t assume that means she likes me. She treated Sarai the same way—even though she would take on a different tone when she gossiped about it later.

No, Sarai said—and her voice was huskydry, and not the deep swanhonk I had thought she would have, somewhat like Joelle’s. But thank you.

She went on down the aisle, and I turned back to the fabric rack. But I couldn’t seem to keep my attention on the floral bouquet design on the sunshine-yellow background I had been studying. I was aware of Sarai’s footsteps as she moved about—and not for the reason the two women behind the counter, and the scattering of other customers, were.

Then she stopped in front of the racks next to me, and reached out to examine the corner of the dusty pink fabric with scattered red and ocean-teal flower bunches. Thinta has a dress with that same print. I could just see her hand move at the edge of my eye as she dropped the fabric again. She was there, it seemed, just to look into having something made up--after another minute, she managed to catch Mistress Plath’s attention at the counter, and she went over to arrange her order.

I continued on to the shelves at the back of the store: since I received my monthly salary payment in my bank account this morning, I had other things to buy. I could have bought that glass-lace cup along with them, but I knew I wouldn’t.

When I reached the counter, I allowed another customer—a woman with a baby riding in the sling on her back—to cut ahead of me in the line. While Mistress Plath wrapped up her bundle of indigo-stained, and practically dull, homespun, Sarai took her place behind me with her items.

Then she surprised me by speaking: I like your frock.

Ah, thank you, I said, the words falling out as I exhaled, and turned towards her. She watched back with a politely serious look—and this time, I knew she saw me. She had looked tall, with long rambling legs, from across the street, but she is only just around my own height. She had bruised-pink makeup around her eyes, and I noticed a series of tiny numbers written in a burnt black tattoo on the side of her upper right arm. Then she shifted, and it was gone.

She must have known that both of the women at the counter were watching, because she went on to say: It suits you. And it has the added benefit of flattering your ass.

That might sound bold—but several other people I won’t name yet had noticed that before, and on Naboo: I’m afraid that is mostly by accident. It wasn’t the seamstress’s intention.

Of course, she already knew who I am—everyone in the town, and that apparently includes the girls hidden away in the Madame’s place, has heard of the offworlder teacher. But when I made my introductions, as I left the store with her, she didn’t let on that she had heard my name before. She introduced herself with her one name, and:

That’s all of it, she said: and I wonder again, now, if she was waiting to see if I would show any cringing-shocked discomfort. Some slaves have a family name, but I wasn’t that lucky.

When I apologized—and oh, I can still feel the pinched-sharp guilt, that I have always a family name, and that I had never thought I was fortunate for it—she said: There isn’t anything to be sorry for. It isn’t as though you could have known that.

We were standing on the mudbrick walk across the flat sandy street from the store, and the stainedwhite back building where Joelle and her family live. She is (and I ought to know) ashamed of it, and I can understand that: it is surrounded by a crowded heap of old rusted-dead speeders, engine parts, and the metal skeleton of a bed frame. Her father never throws anything away. I could not see Joelle, but Rosetta and the other sister, Isabeau, were playing on a tire swing swaying from a rope tied to the end of one of the roofbeams.

Sarai watched them with me for the last moment before I had to walk on. She must have resented, or even loathed, them for the way they were playing around at an age when she must have been put to work, but I couldn’t tell from her expression. The little girls hadn’t seen us. Rosetta had given the swing a push, and Isabeau was sailing up, her rosebud printed dress swaying in the wind.

 

Excellent interplay of noticing and getting acquainted and satisfying of curiosity.

 

WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: Excellent interplay of noticing and getting acquainted and satisfying of curiosity.

Thanks!

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Findswoman: And once again, that old "Naboo girl–Tatooine girl" dichotomy hits like a ton of bricks, and on so many levels! There's the general bluntness and forwardness of the "flatters your ass" comment, of course, but also plenty of subtler factors: the wistful "gee, what if I bought this?" look that Sarai casts at the glass-lace cup, and the half-resentful way she looks at the girls playing.

That "flatters your ass" comment was actually from my real life, though in a different context (I was trying on a pair of jeans I wish I still had, and a woman assured me that they did just that). It is fairly blunt, but on Tatooine people tend to just get to the point that is buried in manners and secrecy on Naboo. Miss Taafe doesn't know much about Sarai as of yet, but her looks indicate she didn't get to have the (relatively) carefree childhood the Plath sisters have.

And, related to that, there are the slave origins she hints at—and in certain ways the slave-like life is continuing even now, if indeed Madame Aramat "doesn’t allow them out much." Those little hints speak volumes, and between that and the enraged reaction of this Enji Day toward whatever person Sarai was with at that moment, I am now rather worried about all the girls at that "place"!

Actually, she is still a slave--all of Madame Aramat's girls (and I think this was mentioned, or at least strongly hinted, in the scene when she was introduced) are. Unfortunately, Tatooine has a deeply imbedded slave culture, and it shows up even in the more remote territories. That is one difference between them and the prostitutes in the real west they are based on, though I doubt those women felt all that free: most of them had hard lives, and more than a few only escaped through suicide.

So yes: given where I'm posting this story, it won't go as far as say, Deadwood, but parts of it are still going to be a fair bit darker than what you saw in The Phantom Menace.

I enjoyed the community store; it very much feels like one of those wild-west general-store places, right down to the saccharine-yet-gossipy shopkeeper. The descriptions of the fabrics with their floral prints stood out in particular, and it's interesting to see Sarai, Miss Taafe, and Rosetta all taking an interest in them in different ways. In a way, it's not surprising that those prints would be popular and "featured" out there in a desert environment, because fabric is probably the only place one can see any flowers out there.

That's a good point about the floral prints, which I put in originally as a prairie dress reference. (I should note that both of the prints I describe here are from vintage Gunne Sax dresses in my personal collection.) It would also be a style that would remain popular mostly "in town"--you wouldn't see those dresses as much in the smaller settlements, let alone out on the moisture farm.

In that light, I do wonder a bit about Miss Taafe's reaction to the plain indigo homespun being bought by the woman with the baby—she seemed almost contemptuous for a moment there, but certainly that woman had a good reason to be selecting one of the plainer, less expensive fabrics, especially given that she's got a tiny mouth to feed (and those can be pricey). Though maybe it's just another one of those moments where Miss Taafe is coming into contact with a much different way of life than the one to which she's accustomed, and even now that she's partly established herself there I'm guessing there are more such moments to come! (Especially if Miss Taafe and Sarai get to know each other better...)

Yes, that italicizing does get across worlds of meaning. I had actually considered changing that before I posted, and I'm still not sure it entirely works. Of course, the woman has a good reason for her purchase, and Miss Taafe likes to be rather painfully aware of that sort of thing, even in the privacy of her own journal. But perhaps she slipped during a weak moment. She is still used to a world known (it might not be officially "canon," but I don't doubt it) for producing fine textiles.

A brief question on names: I notice that Aramat is Tamara backward; is she named after anyone in particular? And are these Plaths named after Sylvia Plath?

Yes, Aramat is Tamara backwards, but I can't take any credit for coming up with that--she is named for a Miss Aramat, a character in a novella by Caitlin R. Kiernan. (Who was named after someone CRK had known called Tamara, according to one of her blog entries around the time it was published, and since that was in 2002, I should be afraid that I remember that.) I shall only say that if my Aramat is much like that one, it wouldn't be Enji Day I would be worried about.

And yes, the Plaths are indeed named after Sylvia. I suppose that is sort of obvious. When I needed a name for them, I glanced over at my poetry shelf, and I looked right at Sylvia Plath's Collected Poems.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

My absence from this story was far longer than I would have liked, but then I went on a splurge and catching up on several chapters at once, which does come with the bonus of getting a better overview of the fantastic world- and character-building you have here. One really feels that life on Tatooine is slow, and that small events, such as the return of the Bantha Kid or the visit to the community store take an immense importance in this context. I can't seem to find the right word to describe your characters -- interesting? thought-provoking? atypical? There is so little we know or see of them, yet they all piqued my curiosity one way or another, because even if they don't seem to be particularly central to the plot, they say so much about the world in which they live.

All this, of course, written with classic Pandora elegance and those magical epithets you seem to create at the drop of a hat

 

Chyntuck: My absence from this story was far longer than I would have liked, but then I went on a splurge and catching up on several chapters at once, which does come with the bonus of getting a better overview of the fantastic world- and character-building you have here.

That is one of the better ways to read something--and it is also how I've been writing it. I learned, when I did the diary challenge the first time, that I should always have at least two entries written ahead. And it turns out that sometimes, I only figure out a bit needs to go into a scene three scenes after I've written it, and this way, I don't have to sneak back in with an edit.

One really feels that life on Tatooine is slow, and that small events, such as the return of the Bantha Kid or the visit to the community store take an immense importance in this context.

Yes, regular life on Tatooine--much like the life on the western US frontier that inspires my original locations, or elsewhere--usually is quite slow and ordinary. Well, that, and the fact that I'm a literary writer who is incapable of writing a single space battle, and that the most exciting thing I do some days is to Go Into Town to the grocery store. I have sort of used the diary format as an excuse (not that I really need it) to write about mundane daily matters.

I can't seem to find the right word to describe your characters -- interesting? thought-provoking? atypical? There is so little we know or see of them, yet they all piqued my curiosity one way or another, because even if they don't seem to be particularly central to the plot, they say so much about the world in which they live.

Since a diary is written, for obvious reasons, in first person, you can only know what the narrator, Miss Taafe, knows of the people around her. And what she knows is filtered through her interpretation of them, which is based off her subjective bias. She does find them interesting, though, and perhaps her interpretations of them will change as she gets to know the world they're part of.

All this, of course, written with classic Pandora elegance and those magical epithets you seem to create at the drop of a hat

Well, if only it were quite that easy. (Though I've done it long enough that it isn't always that hard.) Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

He is a Tatooine boy. She is a Naboo girl. This is not that balcony scene in Attack of the Clones.

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The sunshour was fading when I wandered out into the north end of the courtyard. It is (as Brother Mercy thought to mention this morning) the first open moon night, and I could just make out the one swollen-full stained pearl moon against the hard blue sky. The Bantha Kid was already there. Avila had asked him, earlier at luncheon, if he would check on one of the plants in that area. He stood inside the shadows of the pet juniper tree’s branches with his thumbs tucked into his trouser pockets, staring out across the scrub. I can only wonder at what he saw out there. But I do know that, whatever it was, I haven’t learned how to see it.

Then I heard it: a faint lurching metallic-sharp echo off in the distance. It must have been from the scavenging vehicle the little dark people, the Jawas, who have been camping here in the area drive around. Then the sound blew away with the thrashing wind, and the only sound came from the whispersigh of the humidifier fan.

After another moment, the Bantha Kid turned back, and it only took him several steps to come over and join me in front of the circular rock garden. We stood there in the dreamsoft silence, looking over the little sharp-clawed plants in the bone-rock littered desert soil. Avila has told me several of the names, but I can only remember one: the one with the nest of finger-pointed green leaves that are plush with juice she uses to treat sunburn.

The Bantha Kid tilted back on his heels. He still has that flower from the market clipped to the side of his hat band. It makes him look silly—but it also, and mostly, makes him look the part of the rambling and mysterious trickster he is in all those stories.

Of course, while we stood there, I had to remember back to Joelle telling me (and I might have put on an obtuse act, but I knew her obvious meaning) that he likes me. But now that I have known him for several days, I don’t think there is anything to it. He doesn’t act any differently with me than he does with the others—and if he were attracted to me, he would, he might. And regardless: this all came from Joelle. It isn’t as though she would know how to see that.

This time, I found a way during the conversation to ask him his real name. Well: it does feel off to refer to a man around my own age as a “kid.”

I have considered asking before this, but I didn’t have the chance--and quite obviously, I wasn’t certain it was a question he would want to answer. But he did: My name’s Jewel. And in case you were wondering, I do still use it sometimes. Annah and Delight never stopped.

I have to admit that I’m not really surprised, I said.

Yeah, I know. It would’ve been a surprise if I had a regular name, he said. But at least I’m pretty sure I’m not named after that Hutt ****hole.

She might have been more specific, and named you something like, oh I don’t know, I said, and I felt my mouth twitch into a teasing smirk. Ruby. Or Opal, or Emerald.

He laughed at that, and: Well, I can’t tell you what she was thinking. I do know she tried to improve the next time, because my younger brother is called Diamond.

Of course, I know all about unusual names from the one side of Mor’s family: I do have that one greatest aunt, who still lives in remote contemplation on one of the Fa chain islands, who actually has the name Loyalty. Her mother must have hoped she would leave the family, and the faith, to be a handmaiden for some minor politics-flushed little dear. Then there’s Peace—but my brother has never let his name hold him back from his true personality.

I told the Bantha Kid about that. I have told him a little about Naboo, though I haven’t so much as mentioned our Queens—I can only imagine that he would be even less impressed than my students were. He laughed again. Yeah, I can see how you really weren’t surprised. And I think you’ve heard of my brother Chastity.

Oh, I have a cousin named Purity, I said. But that is referring to the purity of heart, rather than—the more carnal sort. That wouldn’t do at all for a name.

I watched as he reached back and caught a handful of his hair, and held it off his neck. The courtyard roof was burning with a flood of sunlight, and he would have felt it. He must have hardly thought of the gesture, but I wanted to capture it down in a drawing—probably a quickly sprawled charcoal sketch, the sort that I can never quite translate into a polished frozen painting.

After another while, I said: You may have heard that I’m an artist.

Yeah, I have. Annah told me when they were thinking about hiring you on, he said. I have to admit I was interested. And I was beginning to wonder if you were ever gonna bring it up.

Then, after that suitable introduction, I asked him if he would model for me. It felt as though I were asking him for more than that—for an evening date, or a romantic promenade stroll. I think I even blushed an overripe rosepink. But he must have overlooked it, because he accepted. He didn’t seem in the least embarrassed—and no, he did not ask if I wished for him to pose in the nude. I might bring that up later, but for now, I have other ideas in mind.

We have already figured out the arrangements for his first sitting: I have noticed that when that doesn’t happen, one has a tendency to keep on forgetting things. We shall be meeting up here, in the courtyard, tomorrow evening. But I’ll have to write more about that once it has happened.

 

Delightful setting and fun discussion about unique and atypical names. Jewel - Diamond LOL very different. Glad she will be doing up drawings/sketches of him. I have a feeling they will showcase his personality superbly.

 

Findswoman: Yep, definitely not that balcony scene. But then again, these two are in an earlier stage of knowing each other than that other Tatooine boy and Naboo girl were in the balcony scene, and neither of them were artists m.

You know (believe it or not) I had actually forgotten utterly that A & P indulged in an awkward, forbidden kiss during that scene--I can only suppose it was drowned out in my memory by the dialogue, especially that one infamous bit about sand. So yes, they haven't quite yet gotten to that stage of their relationship.

I am glad to find out the Kid's real name, too, even if it is a bit of a funny one (though, like Miss Taafe, I wasn't exactly surprised given the Chastitys and Delights and things that seem to abound in this place).

I have to admit I had fun coming up with the names for the Kid and his brothers (including the one I haven't had any reason to mention as of yet). Jewel (or varying spellings of it) is actually used as a name sometimes in this world, but only ever for girls. The same goes for Chastity. That's one main thing about the brothers' names--they have, with the possible exception of the one brother, Sage, names that, in this world, would be reserved for girls, even though there is nothing intrinsically feminine about them. Basically, I'm just messing around with certain things.

I am guessing Nal Hutta (lit. "beautiful jewel," according to the Wook) is the place he might have in mind; I now wonder what history he might have with the Hutts himself, especially given the way he states that so vehemently.

Yes, he's referring to Nal Hutta. I should probably not give anything away as of yet as to any possible history he has with the Hutts (beyond liberating at least one sandcat, and a general and understandable loathing for beings who are slavers), but I don't think he said that with any particular vehemence. If he had, Miss Taafe would have almost certainly made note of it.

And of course I'm super curious about what artwork(s) Miss Taafe has planned for their modeling session, because I bet it's going to be more than just the one charcoal croquis of him momentarily lifting his hair from his neck (since she did mention multiple ideas), which I bet will be finding out more about in the next chapter.

That's actually a gesture I often make myself--though I can safely say that no one has ever been inspired to artistic endeavors because of it. As for Miss Taafe's plans, you shall see, though I have to say this would be far easier to show with some of the actual sketches. Unfortunately, I still have the drawing skills of an untalented nine-year-old--which, incidentally, was the age I was when I was last able to enjoy an art class. I can only approach visual art through the art history angle.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

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WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: Delightful setting and fun discussion about unique and atypical names. Jewel - Diamond LOL very different. Glad she will be doing up drawings/sketches of him. I have a feeling they will showcase his personality superbly.

As I mentioned above, I had fun coming up with the names--both for the brothers Fardreamer, and a few members of Miss Taafe's "Naboo Puritan" side of the family. As for the drawings, she was inspired to draw the Kid after she first met him, so it makes sense that she would want to make it official with him. There is definitely something about him that she wishes to capture in art.

Thanks for reading and responding!

 

This scene had more romance and real emotions in it than the entire balcony scene in AOTC. You write jolly dialogues.

(The talk about unusual names reminded me of my "Horrible History" books. Especially the one about names from the Tudor times. )

 

AzureAngel2: This scene had more romance and real emotions in it than the entire balcony scene in AOTC. You write jolly dialogues.

Thank you--I've never thought of dialogue as my strong point, but apparently, over the years, I've managed to improve. Of course, I'm sure the Tatooine boy and Naboo girl in my scene would never think of getting together (but if they do, their theme song is Bob Dylan's "Lay, Lady, Lay"--more for the general feeling than the exact lyrics, but then, I don't need to have much of an excuse to put Dylan on my soundtrack).

(The talk about unusual names reminded me of my "Horrible History" books. Especially the one about names from the Tudor times. )

I give everyone reading this permission to use the name "Upright-Before-the-Force." I came up with it, but I don't think I'll ever have a reason to use it.

Thanks--again--for reading, and commenting!

 

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Lately, I have waited until after everyone else has retreated to their rooms, and into sleep, to walk through the hall and take a shower of sonic light. It is not even remotely what I would call (to quote Thinta’s mother) refreshing, but I can admit that it isn’t too unpleasant either. And tonight, I finally, after putting if off for nearly a week, unfastened my hair to clean it. I have been considering, if only idly, having it cut—it isn’t really practical in my current life to have waist-length hair. Oh, I know it is my best glory, but it is only hair, and it will grow back eventually. But for now, I waited while the staticwhite waves combed, and combed, through it.

Then after I made my return to my room, I brushed it back into order, and picked out the one little snarled nest I found buried somewhere inside. I remembered to apply the milkbright lotion I bought, the same stuff Avila uses, and which she recommended to me to begin with. The sonic, and the sunburned air, had turned my skin as dry as paper. With all that done, I can now sit down with this journal file to write, for the first time in a while.

The dusk-blurred hallway has been quiet for hours, but not everyone is asleep: there was a flushedglow of light on the floor outside the Bantha Kid’s door, and I can hear the thudded echoes from his footsteps as he paces the floor of his room.

It doesn’t bother me—and actually, sometimes (and last night would have been one of those time) I fall asleep as I listen to him wander back and forth. I can only image where his thoughts are roaming. I should mention, though, that he can hold still well enough when he needs to.

I haven’t written about that first modeling session I had with him, though I have intended to. We didn’t hold it in the courtyard after all—when we arrived, Brother Mercy was meditating in his preferred place near the juniper tree. The Bantha Kid didn’t think it necessary to leave, but I thought, and I still think, it was the only respectful thing to do. We wound up, after I considered the options, in this room, my room: it gets a certain fragile melancholy light during the evenings.

I wanted him, as I made quite clear, to look natural. Of course, as I have written before, I do understand that is rather difficult to manage when you have to remain posed that way. But finally, he took his place on the velvetfurred settee I recently acquired from Jax Plath, Joelle’s father, and I sat on the edge of my (rigidly made up) bed, with my sketchbook balanced against my knees. While I drew, I experimented with several different styles, mostly things that I thought of there on the spot--I knew that my usual style, the one that I am somewhat known for, wouldn’t do to depict him. I haven’t any idea if any of it worked. When I looked back over the results, days later, after I had the time to forget what I had done, I didn’t even know how to see them.

But this is the part I still remember, though I would rather not: it seems the Bantha Kid really is interested in my work as an artist. And he asked me this: Do you ever draw yourself?

I had been telling him about some of my work from the last year or so, including “Dressed in grey/dressed in rain,” that triptych I withdrew from the Glasshouse, the one the Girl posed for--and though I can see now how it related, it seemed rather sudden. No, I said, once I had turned over to the empty wall of the next page in my book. Never. It’s not something I’m interested in exploring.

All right then, he said, and he almost arched his shoulder into a shrug before he remembered he wasn’t to move that much. Then he left the subject, but I could tell he was confused. I wanted to apologize, but I don’t think it would have helped the matter.

Of course, I am aware--I should write--that I am considered attractive. I can recognize that when I look back at my image inside a mirror. It was the reason I was popular as a model with my studio classmates--Rané would never have asked me to pose for that one subversive thing she did for her honors exhibition otherwise. But I did nothing to deserve that, and it is not something I can take any pride in. Actually, it has to be the reverse.

There is one mirror in my room-- a small teardrop puddle in a curly brown plastic-wood frame swaying from a green satin packing ribbon over the sink-bowl. It can only show one piece of me when I peer inside, and this is what I see: my face is a pallid, bonedull, mask, a human face that many people have to see in their nightmare memories. My body (my legs, my creamy dreamy arse, my breasts, my artistic hands) is a parasite that only hurts others. But of course, I did not burden the Bantha Kid with these thoughts.

But I have gotten off the subject: after the session, the Bantha Kid walked about the room to stretch out. There was one awkward moment when I wanted to offer to rub his shoulders, when I had even opened my mouth to begin saying it.

The next, and the most recent, time we did meet up in the courtyard. It was one of the last pale stainedgrey winter mornings, and I can only wish I had the right watercolor inks to capture the light that came with it. I worked on refining some of my new styles, and I think I have made some progress with the results. After it was over, and he had left to break his fast with the others, I was alone. The humidifier fan almost sounds, when I have my eyes shut, like the whisper of a faraway creek. It makes enough wind to move the leaves into a shivered rustle.

--

The Bantha Kid has mentioned several places he knows in the nearby desert he thinks we ought to use for future modeling sessions. It would be appropriate in several ways, and I can see that. But I can’t find much that pleases me in the landscape of dramatic rock castles, and needle-teeth, out beyond the scrub. There is so very much that is wrong with this place: the droid-parts dealer who has a shop at the end of the main street has three children there. I saw one of them, a little Twi’lek girl with large violet-candy eyes and cheap flimsythin sandals, when I accompanied Avila on an errand yesterday. They will not be attending my school, because they are slaves.

And they are not the only ones. Avila may be correct when she told me, rather hurriedly, that only a few people (like Madame Aramat) have slaves here. Apparently, it is a different matter in the cities, and the desert-oceans of the other hemisphere. But that does nothing to reassure me—those few people are still too many, and thanks to the Empire, it is even openly legal.

When I was at school today, I looked at my students, and I have to admit it: I could only see those children who can’t have their opportunity to learn. I tried not to take it out on them, but there were several moments when I was rather shorter than I usually am.

I haven’t heard much about the Hutts. It seems, according to what I have heard, that they prefer to hold court in their palaces off in the open desert, but that does not then mean that they lack for influence here. It may indicate the exact opposite—there isn’t much talk about Enji Day, and he runs this part of the territories, in part for his Hutt employer, but also for his own purposes.

Oh, and I do need to mention this: they stole this place wholesale from the Tusken Raiders, who are the original inhabitants. This was never mentioned once in the holonet articles I found.

But I should be honest, if only with myself: beyond all that, the reasons behind my present state are selfish. I don’t belong here. Oh, I do understand, if still only mostly in theory, that there is life out in the scrub—in the secretly dug holes, around the bushes, and in the shadowed rooms of the canyons—but I can only see dead sand, and dead rocks. When I have dreams I can still remember afterward, I never see this place, only the blinding green wood around the river at home. There is no water here. I can’t seem to get past that one fact.

I haven’t mentioned the reason they hired me on, instead of someone more appropriate, who is actually from this culture. They wouldn’t have told me, but I did ask--I was the only applicant they received. The few people here who have an education prefer to use it to leave. Of course, they do. I don’t see how anyone could choose to live here. I don’t know how anyone lives here at all.



*

Spoiler

The title of Miss Taafe's triptych is inspired by Johnny Hollow's song "Aegis."