Who Am I?
The concept of Marjorie Pots was hatched in the wee hours of the mid-week morning while pretending to be someone else to a friend I had somewhat lost contact with.
The concept is this: think of a superpower, magical ability or supernatural curse or some kind. Make it as unique and complete as possible, without being overly complex. Build a character around it.
Marjie's ability is to delete any object or living thing by touching it. Yes, anything. Fire hydrants, cups of coffee, clothing, money, even living people. But there's a catch; every time she uses her power, an image of what she poofed appears somewhere on her body, as an indelible, unmovable tattoo. No surgical procedure or brutal use of knives will get rid of them, short of completely removing whatever limb they're on. Just cutting off bits of skin won't work- eventually that wound will heal. Eventually the ink will resurface. Eventually her skin will fill up, every inch an image of something stolen forever from the world.
And when that finally happens, Marjorie Pots will die.
She knows it's coming, too. It's how her grandmother died, barely fifty and filling the last blank portion of her face with the inky visage of a terrified mugger. It's how her eldest sister went, drunk and high, too drugged up not to lean on a building that covered her entire back and all the skin she had left after six gin-soaked one-night stands twisted in orgasmic poses around her arms and legs.
It's how everyone dies, in Marjie's family. Everyone. They call this ability "inking" and the verb form...I'm sure you can figure it out.
She smokes, she drinks, she cusses and she has sex as often as she can. She eats food that's bad for her and takes stupid risks because every once in a while she screws up. A messy break-up with an ex leads to an open-handed slap, charged with rage and stupidity...and now they're etched forever onto her hipbone. The heady rush of prom night and the first taste of alcohol unknowingly taken in spiked punch brought the sparkling dress that dances across one shoulderblade...and one of the worst memories of her life. We'll laugh later, they said. They were laughing even then.
When you can measure your lifespan in the square inches of ink-free skin you have left, the meaning of life takes on a different tone.
Ladies and gentlemen, Marjorie Pots.
The concept is this: think of a superpower, magical ability or supernatural curse or some kind. Make it as unique and complete as possible, without being overly complex. Build a character around it.
Marjie's ability is to delete any object or living thing by touching it. Yes, anything. Fire hydrants, cups of coffee, clothing, money, even living people. But there's a catch; every time she uses her power, an image of what she poofed appears somewhere on her body, as an indelible, unmovable tattoo. No surgical procedure or brutal use of knives will get rid of them, short of completely removing whatever limb they're on. Just cutting off bits of skin won't work- eventually that wound will heal. Eventually the ink will resurface. Eventually her skin will fill up, every inch an image of something stolen forever from the world.
And when that finally happens, Marjorie Pots will die.
She knows it's coming, too. It's how her grandmother died, barely fifty and filling the last blank portion of her face with the inky visage of a terrified mugger. It's how her eldest sister went, drunk and high, too drugged up not to lean on a building that covered her entire back and all the skin she had left after six gin-soaked one-night stands twisted in orgasmic poses around her arms and legs.
It's how everyone dies, in Marjie's family. Everyone. They call this ability "inking" and the verb form...I'm sure you can figure it out.
She smokes, she drinks, she cusses and she has sex as often as she can. She eats food that's bad for her and takes stupid risks because every once in a while she screws up. A messy break-up with an ex leads to an open-handed slap, charged with rage and stupidity...and now they're etched forever onto her hipbone. The heady rush of prom night and the first taste of alcohol unknowingly taken in spiked punch brought the sparkling dress that dances across one shoulderblade...and one of the worst memories of her life. We'll laugh later, they said. They were laughing even then.
When you can measure your lifespan in the square inches of ink-free skin you have left, the meaning of life takes on a different tone.
Ladies and gentlemen, Marjorie Pots.