Writing aint easy

Well, it took some work, but I finally got my first page written out. I'll be posting in paragraphs when the story comes to me from here to there. But I suppose it won't make no sense if it's all disjointed. Maybe I could compile the paragraphs and release the entire page on Thursdays? Would that work for ya'll.
Anywho, I came up with this idea of Maggie and Bandor as I was listening to a woman hound her husband over her young'ens misbehaving. She was all, "Brent, you gotta watch Paula, she's your little Princess. Look Brent, you're missing it! You're missing your little girl grow up." Brent sort of half smiled, which meant he didn't give a crap. Course Brent was minding his own, just trying to fish, but his wife wouldn't let him. Pretty sure he wished he'd left her at home. Well, anyway, as the family was makin a ruckus not far from us, I saw an eagle circling on high. I thought, Brent might want to be put out of his misery, but before I got him there, I thought I should paint a picture of what his family would look like before that happens. The following is a setup to Brent's liberation, so don't get too entrenched. Anyhow, this here is my first page. Sorry it took so long. Hope ya'll like it.

“I believe this will be a good lot of wood right here, Maggie,” Bandor calls out in his deep English accent. He smiles broadly as he squares his muscular shoulders in the bright, early morning spring light. He gives a confident nod to a concealed woman, who reluctantly hugs the shadows of the forest. The woman, Bandor’s wife, wears a white cotton dress and brown burlap apron. Her long sandy locks rise and fall in the gentle breeze as she carefully slips out of the densely shaded shrubs. Bandor raises his axe high above his head and notices the illuminated golden strands that trap the sun’s aurora in his wife’s hair as she emerges from the shadows.

Wearing a thin white cotton tunic shirt with worn brown leather drawstrings in the laced center, Bandor’s light brown hair shifts back and forth as he bangs the rusted axe blade on fallen dead logs. The tall grass and ferns growing along the side of the log quake with each jostling thud. Testing the ruined trunk several times, he listens to the hollow echo report, searching for a strategic point to strike the sunken, depreciated timber.

Thump, thump, thump.

His smile grows with each thud.

The wedded couple are honest and happy forest dwellers, always below peasantry, but well cloaked with liberty to roam and freedom to dwell. Bandor and Maggie find dignity in being vagabonds, vagabonds that proudly scoff at peasants who find security in the service of a king. As with most forest dwellers that derive joy from gathering, wandering, and foraging, Bandor and Maggie were gypsies before gypsies existed. Like most gypsies, they have incredibly strong family ties. Although Bandor hates to admit it, the last winter was so harsh he fears that another rigid season in a drafty, hard, freezing stone cave along the wet gray coast, would be the end of his beloved wife and darling little daughter. Pushed continually by the wailing fears of his wife, the faint whimpers of his daughter, and the burning fever that nearly claimed her, the noble father and wise husband realized that it is either shelter in the woods or death in the caves. 

“With all this timber, I could make me family a nice cottage,” he bellows, but what he is really thinking is that his family will survive, even though his traveling days will not. He proudly glances over at Maggie for approval. Happiness beams in his hazel green eyes, but not so much hers.

“Ah…,” Bandor groans, waving his worried wife off. Dismissing her fears, he spits in his hands and wipes the muddy matter on his patched and worn, dark brown trousers.

Distracted by a frenzied buzzing, Maggie brushes her wispy hazelnut hair out of her face. Her deep blue eyes search the sky while she waves her hands around her head, dismissing legions of mosquitoes.

“Is it safe for our little one?” she inquires. Her tired arms fall to her side. Her fidgeting hands straighten out her plain white cotton dress and finally rest on her hips.

            Bandor raises his eyebrows. Preparing to answer, he takes a breath.

“I’m not a fear monger!” Maggie preemptively rebuttals, wringing her hands.

“Fuss Bucket Maggie” is a nickname affectionately bestowed upon her by Bandor who claims that his wife “constantly blurts out the worst scenario possible, verbalizing her nagging woe to the world, before reason enters her mind.”

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