From 41eaef25b1922653a5864115bcfae4c5ac89e41e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Thu, 18 Jan 2024 20:43:15 -0800 Subject: [PATCH] Add edits, epigraph --- content/draft/000.md | 16 ++++++++ content/draft/001.md | 66 ++++++++++++++++--------------- content/draft/002.md | 20 +++++----- content/draft/003.md | 24 +++++------ content/draft/004.md | 42 ++++++++++---------- content/draft/005.md | 22 +++++------ content/draft/006.md | 58 ++++++++++++++++----------- content/draft/007.md | 94 +++++++++++++++++++++++++------------------- content/draft/008.md | 30 +++++++------- content/draft/009.md | 26 ++++++------ 10 files changed, 222 insertions(+), 176 deletions(-) create mode 100644 content/draft/000.md diff --git a/content/draft/000.md b/content/draft/000.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f219bdc --- /dev/null +++ b/content/draft/000.md @@ -0,0 +1,16 @@ +--- +--- + +{{% verse %}}She died at play, +Gambolled away +Her lease of spotted hours, +Then sank as gaily as a Turk +Upon a Couch of flowers. +  +Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill +Yesterday, and Today, +Her vestments as the silver fleece — +Her countenance as spray. + +  +— Emily Dickinson{{% /verse %}} diff --git a/content/draft/001.md b/content/draft/001.md index 37c4eac..f1242a1 100644 --- a/content/draft/001.md +++ b/content/draft/001.md @@ -2,26 +2,30 @@ Motes played. -She played in paint and color. She painted the backdrops for the productions. She painted the props that sat on the stage or rested in the actors' hands. She painted the stage itself, the matte black of so many past productions long abandoned. She painted her nails, her claws, herself. She got it on her fur. She got it on her clothes. She got polka-dots on her nose and stripes over her ears. She painted her dreams, those serene and idyllic landscapes interrupted by hyperblack squares, unnerving holes in the world that depicted a nothing-ness, a missing-ness, a not-there-ness that slid easily between the border of absurd and unnerving. She painted the holes in the world that she dreamed about, afraid to touch and yet which would not stop touching her mind in turn. +She played in color. She played in paint. She painted the backdrops for the productions. She painted the props that sat on the stage or rested in the actors' hands. She painted the stage itself, the matte black of so many past productions long abandoned. She painted her nails, her claws, herself. She got it on her fur. She got it on her clothes. She got polka-dots on her nose and stripes over her ears. She painted her dreams, those serene and idyllic landscapes interrupted by hyperblack squares, unexpected and unexplained holes in the world that depicted a nothing-ness, a missing-ness, a not-there-ness that slid easily between the border of absurd and unnerving. She painted the holes in the world that she dreamed about, afraid to touch and yet which would not stop touching her mind in turn. -She played in her free time, such as it was — after all, her work, such as it was, was a joy beyond joys, but everything is a sometimes food. She played hide-and-seek in the auditorium. She played tag with the performers and techs. She played pretend. She played horses and kitties and mousies. She played with Warmth In Fire, endless forks dotting Serene's countless landscapes, leapfrogging over each other across fields and between trees, bouncing off the walls of canyons, colliding with force enough to knock them spinning and send them dizzy. She hunted down her friends and played hide-and-seek, yes, and tag and horses and kitties and mousies. She hunted down What Gifts and played puzzle games and rhythm games and stealth games and real life platformers and turn-based sims that locked her in place when it was not her turn. +She played in her free time, such as it was — after all, her work, such as it was, was a joy beyond joys, but everything is a sometimes food. She played hide-and-seek in the auditorium. She played tag with the performers and techs. She played pretend. She played horses and kitties and mousies. She played with Warmth In Fire, endless forks dotting countless landscapes, leapfrogging over each other across fields and between trees, bouncing off the walls of canyons and cities, colliding with force enough to knock them spinning and send them dizzy. She hunted down her friends and played hide-and-seek, yes, and tag and horses and kitties and mousies. She hunted down her friends and played puzzle games and rhythm games and stealth games and real life platformers and turn-based sims that locked her in place when it was not her turn. She played with her form. She played with her fur. She played with her mane. She played with her claws and with her tail. She played with her size. She played with her age. She played when she presented as twenty. She played when she presented as twelve. She played when she presented as five. She played always, even when she was as old as the rest of her clade — what was it, now? 275? 276? She played with identity. She played with fire. She played with life, enjoying and enjoying and enjoying. -She played with death. She had died countless times — to knives, to falls, to drowning, to games, to those who said they loved her, to those who said they hated her. +She played with death. She had died countless times, on-stage and off — to knives, to falls, to drowning, to games, to those who said they loved her, to those who said they hated her. She played because she was a kid. She played because she *was* play. Play incarnate. -Motes was a kid because she played. She was a kid because kids are resilient. She was a kid because kids bounced, because they fell, cried, and then picked themselves up once more and went back to playing. She was a kid because she liked being small. She was a kid because she liked it when others played, too, she liked when others fell into enjoyment and laughter along with her. She liked the way that it brought out the best in those in her life. She was a kid because a life would not truly be complete without kids, and she believed with all of her heart that life should be complete. +Motes was a kid because she played. She was a kid because kids are resilient. She was a kid because kids bounced, because they fell, cried, and then picked themselves up once more and went back to playing. She was a kid because she liked being small. She was a kid because she liked it when others played, too. She liked when others fell into enjoyment and laughter along with her. She liked the way that it brought out the best in those in her life. She was a kid because a life would not truly be complete without kids, and she believed with all of her heart that life should be complete. -And so Motes played. She sat atop her stool, one of her feet perched up there with her so that she could rest her chin somewhere while she painted. A palette sat on an infinitely positionable nothing beside her. A canvas sat on an easel, rickety and well-loved, before her. A brush sat in her paw, and paint sat on the brush. A thin, black rectangle sat on that canvas, as did a mountainous landscape. Music sat in her ears, chirpy and glitchy to offset the serenity of the scene in a new way. +And so Motes played. + +She sat atop her stool, one of her feet perched up there with her so that she could rest her chin somewhere while she painted. A palette sat on an infinitely positionable nothing beside her. A canvas sat on an easel, rickety and well-loved, before her. A brush sat in her paw, and paint sat on the brush. A thin, black rectangle sat on that canvas, as did a mountainous landscape. Music sat in her ears, chirpy and glitchy to offset the serenity of the scene in a new way. She hummed, her tail fwipped this way, flopped that, and she painted until the painting was finished — there was no guarantee of when that would be: the painting would be finished when it was finished, and when it was finished, she stopped. +The painting was finished, and the time had come to stop. + Slipping off her stool, she stumbled clumsily to the side, laughing at the sudden rush of pins-and-needles to her backside and the base of her tail. She inserted a step in her list of things to do before cleaning and plopped down onto her belly, using the remainder of the ochre paint in the brush to doodle the face of a fennec fox on the hardboard floor of her studio. It was one of thousands by now, and they had long since started to overlap. Once feeling returned to her rump, she pushed herself back to sit cross-legged and started the process of cleaning up. @@ -48,11 +52,11 @@ A Finger Pointing ruffled a hand lazily through the skunk's mane. "What were you Motes giggled. "I do not know! Probably. Are you making drinks, Bee?" -The other skunk scoffed, tossing her head back. "Am I making drinks? Am *I* making drinks? And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade, what happened to your brain?" She laughed, adding, "Why? Want one too?" +The other skunk scoffed, tossing her head back, adopting a scolding tone. "Am I making drinks? Am *I* making drinks? And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade, what happened to your brain?" She laughed, adding, "Why? Want one too?" Motes blew a raspberry in response. "Yes please!" -"Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps of the Ode clade, you had best not be feeding the child gin," A Finger Pointing said, scowling. +"Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps of the Ode clade, you had best not be feeding the child gin," A Finger Pointing scolded in turn, scowling. "Right, virgin gin fizz it is." @@ -62,11 +66,11 @@ Motes blew a raspberry in response. "Yes please!" Another raspberry. -Beholden poured a tall gin fizz to share with herself and her partner and cocladist, lime muddled with sugar and cardamom bitters, gin, soda water. Then she made a second glass sans gin and turned to lean back against the edge of the bar, drink in one paw and bottle of gin in the other, finally facing the two cuddled up on the couch. She absentmindedly started to top up the glass from the bottle. Or, well, 'absentmindedly'. "Oh, *right!* You said virgin," she said, mock surprise in her voice. Gin continued to pour. She winked to the skunklet. "Oh no. *Oh no!* That is *way* too much! Motes! You had better not drink this!" +Beholden poured a tall gin fizz to share with herself and her partner-*cum*-cocladist, lime muddled with sugar and cardamom bitters, gin and soda water. Then she made a second glass sans gin and turned to lean back against the edge of the bar, drink in one paw and bottle of gin in the other, finally facing the two cuddled up on the couch. She absentmindedly started to top up the glass from the bottle. Or, well, 'absentmindedly'. "Oh, *right!* You said virgin," she said, mock surprise in her voice. Gin continued to pour. She winked to the skunklet. "Oh no. *Oh no!* That is *way* too much! Motes! You had better not drink this!" They all laughed. -Beholden padded over to join them on the couch. She took a long sip from one of the glasses before passing it over to A Finger Pointing, handing the other glass over to Motes. "We are headed out to a pub tonight with Ioan and May Then My Name, my dear. Jazz and burgers and too much whiskey." +Beholden padded over to join them on the couch. She took a long sip from one of the glasses before passing it over to A Finger Pointing, handing the other glass over to Motes. "We are headed out to a pub tonight with a few others, my dear. Jazz and burgers and too much whiskey." "Is that why you are all dressed up?" Motes asked, her paint-spattered overalls contrasting the both of their all-black ensembles. @@ -78,7 +82,7 @@ A Finger Pointing shrugged. "I do not see why not. Do you want to?" Motes grinned. "Not really! I just wanted to see if I could." -Her up-tree pinched her ear between her fingers. "Very well. Will you be staying here by yourself, then?" +Her down-tree pinched her ear between her fingers. "Very well. Will you be staying here by yourself, then?" She laughed, tilting her head and taking a lapping sip of her drink. "Maybe! Maybe I will find someone to flop with." @@ -98,7 +102,7 @@ She shrugged. "Beckoning and Muse. Slow Hours, maybe? Dry Grass? I think Warmth "I do not know. Usually that happens when ey gets a letter from one of the Dear-cules." -"Mm, usually Pollux, yes." She sighed, passing the drink back to Beholden and resting her head against the back of the couch. "It has been a while since you pestered Dry Grass, then. You flopped on Slow Hours earlier today and pestered your aunts earlier this week. You tracked soil all over." +"Mm, usually Pollux, yes." She sighed, passing the drink back to Beholden and resting her head against the back of the couch. "It has been a while since you bothered Dry Grass, then. You flopped on Slow Hours earlier today and pestered your aunts earlier this week. You tracked soil all over the floor." "Alright, I will ping her soon, then." @@ -112,11 +116,11 @@ She shrugged. "Beckoning and Muse. Slow Hours, maybe? Dry Grass? I think Warmth "Not your boss," A Finger Pointing said lazily. -"–fine, to Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself of the Ode clade's sourness." +"Fine, to Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself of the Ode clade's sourness." This netted her a tug on the ear, which earned a laugh in turn. -"Here you are, fat little skunk–" She poked Motes in the belly. +She poked Motes in the belly. "Here you are, fat little skunk–" Motes snorted. "You are also a fat skunk, though." @@ -140,29 +144,29 @@ Motes snorted. "You are also a fat skunk, though." The playful banter continued, and while she would occasionally poke her snout in to make a quip of her own, Motes largely just savored her drink, bitter and sour and sweet, and the comfort of being nestled in between her two cocladists, thinking. -She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Pointing had forked into the other nine instances of her stanza, that point when Motes had become Motes. She thought about the time that had followed when she remained essentially a version of A Finger Pointing who had taken up responsibility for sets and props, about those slow years of individuation and differentiation. She thought about the way she had started to toy with her appearance, her actions, her approach to life, and how she had steered herself into this focus on play to reclaim a childhood that had, yes, been pleasant enough, and yet which could have been so much more. +She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Pointing had forked into the other nine instances of her stanza, that point when Motes had become Motes. She thought about the time that had followed when she remained essentially a version of A Finger Pointing who had taken up responsibility for sets and props, about those slow years of individuation and differentiation. She thought about the way she had started to toy with her appearance, her actions, her approach to life, and how she had steered herself into this focus on play to reclaim a childhood that had, yes, been pleasant enough, and yet which could have been so much more, now that she had all the time in the world.. It had not always been smooth, to be sure. The compromises she made early on far outnumbered the ways in which she was earnest to herself. -She did not blame A Finger Pointing, never once. She, of all those in her life, was trustworthy. Motes had once been her, after all, yes? They had had their spats, more than a few, as would be the case between any parent and child — as would be the case between any two individuals: she had had spats with more than just ma. She and Beholden had fought, and at times bitterly, and it was at those times that Bee's protectiveness had felt most precarious. It had never disappeared, but it had verged well into the realm of sister — the realm of Slow Hours — or bestest friend — the realm of Warmth In Fire — and away from guardian, away from that parental love. +She did not blame A Finger Pointing, never once. She, of all those in her life, was trustworthy. Motes had once been her, after all, yes? They had had their spats, more than a few, as would be the case between any parent and child — as would be the case between any two individuals. She had had spats with more than just ma. She and Beholden had fought, and at times bitterly, and it was at those times that Bee's guardianship had felt most precarious. It had never disappeared, but it had verged well into the realm of sister — the realm of Slow Hours — or bestest friend — the realm of Warmth In Fire — and away from guardian, away from that parental love. She did not remember what the spats were about. She could, yes, her memory was as perfect as anyone else's on the three Systems. But she would not, because that was not the point. The point was that she was Motes. She was their Dot, their *Dóttir.* She was the kid, and they were the grown-ups who loved her. And so their protectiveness made sense, yes? They wanted to keep her safe, yes? They just could not help but keep *themselves* safe as well, yes? -And that is where the friction came from. It came from others in the clade fussing about Motes-as-kid. +And that is where the friction came from. It came from others fussing about Motes-as-kid. She was not always. Often, she was in her early twenties. Certainly a far cry from the 41 she had been when she had been forked, or the 32 she had been when Michelle Hadje had first uploaded, but still, far more acceptable in the eyes of the System, far more acceptable in the eyes of the rest of the Ode clade. -It was them, through A Finger Pointing and, on a few occasions, through Slow Hours and Time Rushes, who suggested that she should not do this thing. It was too close to unwelcome paraphilias, here on the System where one had to be at least eighteen to upload. It was too close to coming off as someone seeking unwanted attention, affection, sexuality. "I understand that you wish to reclaim childhood," they said through her ma or siblings. "But you must understand the optics." Never mind that she had long since set aside sexuality, that she harbored her own fears of those offering unwanted attention, affection, sex. The optics were what needed minding. +It was them, through A Finger Pointing and, on a few occasions, through Slow Hours and Time Rushes, who suggested that she should not do this thing. It was too close, they said, to unwelcome paraphilias, here on the System where one had to be at least eighteen to upload. It was too close, they said, to coming off as someone seeking unwanted attention, affection, sexuality. "I understand that you wish to reclaim childhood," they told her through her ma or siblings. "But you must understand the optics." Never mind that she had long since set aside sexuality in this form, in all but the most carefully curated moments, that she harbored her own fears of those offering unwanted attention, affection, sex. No, it was the optics that needed minding. And so she kept it under wraps for years and decades. First it was the feelings she kept to herself. She alone knew them, and then her stanza alone knew them, but no one else. -Then, it was the appearance that she kept to herself. While, shortly after happening on these feelings, she had built herself into an image of youth parked squarely in her early twenties, a human who dressed in flower-embroidered jeans and blouses, who so often wore a flower crown in her hair, who embodied flower-child, she now spent weeks and months tuning various aspects of her shape, of her sensorium. A skunk, rather than a human. Shorter, yes, but that is not all that makes a child. Shorter, proportionately different, clumsier, less developed in all ways aside from mental acuity. +Then, it was the appearance that she kept to herself. While, shortly after happening on these feelings, she had built herself into an image of youth parked squarely in her early twenties, a human who dressed in flower-embroidered jeans and blouses, who so often wore a flower crown in her hair, who embodied flower-child, she now spent weeks and months tuning various aspects of her shape, of her sensorium. A skunk like so many of her cocladists, rather than a human. Shorter, yes, but that is not all that makes a child. Shorter, proportionately different, clumsier, less developed in all ways aside from mental acuity. -She alone knew this shape, alone in her room, alone in her studio with the doors securely shut and the premises swept. She alone knew what she looked like, and then her stanza knew, but precious few others. +She alone knew this shape, alone in her room, alone in her apartment, alone in her studio with the doors securely shut and the premises swept. She alone knew what she looked like, and then her stanza knew, but precious few others. When first she began to explore outside the sphere of her stanza, when she first began to be perceived by the world around her, she lasted perhaps a week before the first gentle suggestions began to arrive. Perhaps this was just an 'us' thing, yes? A thing for playing with just Au Lieu Du Rêve, our little theatre troupe? We can play with these feelings somewhere safe. @@ -170,17 +174,17 @@ The discussion of optics did not show up for another few years as she tested the And yet she was of the Ode, was she not? There was an image to maintain that extended beyond the individual. -The feelings, the appearance, rinse and repeat with this and that, with the familial language of 'ma' and 'sis', with sharing a bed when she had a nightmare, as any Odist might. Again and again pushing gently at limitations to search for a slow form of change. +The feelings, the appearance, rinse and repeat with this and that, with moving in together, with the familial language of 'ma' and 'sis', with sharing a bed when she had a nightmare, as any Odist might. Again and again pushing gently at limitations to search for a slow form of change. -It was her use of 'ma' that caused perhaps the most trouble. It was trouble that came not as a gentle suggestion from 'on high', such as it were, but this suggestion in particular had over time led to frustration and anger in her down-tree instance. She kept it to herself, masked it well enough, but Motes knew the signs. +It was her use of 'ma' that caused perhaps the most trouble. It was trouble that came not as a gentle suggestion from 'on high', such as it were, but this suggestion in particular had over time led to frustration and anger in her down-tree instance, A Finger Pointing. She kept it to herself, masked it well enough, but Motes knew the signs. -Still, she did as she was told and kept this particular sense of family to herself and those she loved. She was a good girl, of course, always tried to be, but she was also as much an Odist as those who spoke so often of optics. She saw the trends, the prickly taboo against intraclade relationships, how the subversiveness of found family might rub up against that. She had her guesses, but– +Still, she did as she was told and kept this particular sense of family to herself and those she loved. She was a good girl, of course, always tried to be, but she was also as much an Odist as those who spoke so often of optics. She saw the trends, the prickly taboo against intraclade relationships like that of A Finger Pointing and Beholden, how the subversiveness of found family might rub up against that. She had her guesses, but– "Motes? Did you hear what I said?" Beholden asked, ruffling her mane all up. "Nope!" Motes said, smiling primly. "I have been ignoring you both." -Beholden smiled fondly. "Brat. Lost in thought?" +Beholden rolled her eyes. "Brat. Lost in thought?" She shrugged, sipping her drink yet more. "I guess. Was thinking of fusspots and all the trouble calling ma 'ma' caused. Glad it is not a thing anymore." @@ -242,13 +246,13 @@ Once the dishes had been waved a way and drinks had been made — sweeter cockta "'Being you'?" -"Uh huh, like the whole kidcore thing. I was thinking about how upset it made people for a long time. Even me! I would hear a thing and get all huffy for a while and go Big Motes for a week or two." She giggled, shrugged. "It all seems really silly now, but it stuck with me." +"Uh huh, like the whole kidcore thing. I was thinking about how upset it made people for a long time. Even me! I would hear a thing and get all huffy for a while and go Big Motes for a month or two." She giggled, shrugged. "It all seems really silly now, but it stuck with me." Dry Grass hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I am glad that it has gotten to the point of being silly. Are you thinking about the clade stuff?" "A little, yeah," she hazarded, finishing up the last of Dry Grass's nails. "I was thinking about the whole optics thing, which I thought was all the eighth stanza at first, but I guess it came from all over." -"It did, yes. Much of it came from my stanza, actually." +"It did, yes. Most of it came from my stanza, actually." Motes tilted her head, squinting at her. @@ -264,19 +268,19 @@ The skunk's smile returned. "I know. You are nice to me! I had figured if not th "What was Hammered Silver's problem, then?" -Dry Grass frowned, looking down at her spread out fingers, watching the polish dry. "It is hard to put succinctly into words that make sense because then it just comes off as a series of tautologies. She thinks that there are children and there are adults. She thinks this because that is what makes a mother a mother to someone. The child is the child and the adult is the adult in contrast. It is all very prescriptive." +Dry Grass frowned, looking down at her spread out fingers, watching the polish dry. "It is hard to put succinctly into words that make sense because then it just comes off as a series of tautologies. She thinks that there are children and there are adults. She thinks this because that is what makes a mother a mother to someone. The child is the child and the adult is the adult in contrast. They are complements. It is all very prescriptive." -Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerpads. "So she thinks kids have to be actually kids? Not grown ups pretending to be kids?" +Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerpads. "So she thinks kids have to be actually kids? *Actual* children, even if there are non here?" "I think so, yes, though it does not help that you are a cocladist of hers." "Is this that stupid optics thing again?" -"I do not know. I think in part, though it is also in part because, if you are her, then you could not be her child. You could not be a different age." She hesitated, then added, "It would mean that she had the capability to become you, yes? That any of us would have that, yes?" +"I do not know. Certainly in part, though it is also in part because, if you are her, then you could not be her child. You could not be a different age." She hesitated, then added, "It would mean that she had the capability to become you, yes? That any of us would have that, yes?" "Oh god," Motes said, laughing. "I cannot imagine Hammered Silver as a kid. She would be one of those prissy, stuck up girls who was the daughter of the PTA president or something." -Dry Grass laughed as well. "She is already essentially the HOA president. I respect her as a person, but I do not like her, and I *certainly* do not respect her authority." +Dry Grass laughed as well. "She is already essentially the prissy HOA president. I respect her as a person, but I do not like her, and I *certainly* do not respect her authority." "Right, because she wants you to not talk to *any* of us!" @@ -284,11 +288,11 @@ She nodded. "She cut off the first, eighth, part of the ninth, and now the entir Motes groaned and rolled onto her back, holding her paws up in the air to inspect her claws. "Which is stupid, because Sasha is nice!" -"She really is, though I have not has as much a chance to speak with her as I might like. She was the last straw in a whole series of events. She does not like Sasha, does not like you, she *really* does not like the family dynamic you have set up." +"She really is, though I have not had as much a chance to speak with her as I might like. She was the last straw in a whole series of events. She does not like Sasha, does not like you, she *really* does not like the family dynamic you have set up." Bristling, Motes glared over at Dry Grass. "It is all well and good that she not like me, but to not like my family is bullcrap." -Dry Grass nodded, expression serious. "It absolutely is. She has gotten quite upset at me a few times, but I just smile and nod and tune her out when she goes into her self-righteous spirals. I am not the type to cut anyone out of my life, for better or worse, but I will absolutely ignore people." +Dry Grass nodded, expression serious. "It absolutely is. She has gotten quite upset about it a few times, but I just smile and nod and tune her out when she goes into her self-righteous spirals. I am not the type to cut anyone out of my life, for better or worse, but I will absolutely ignore people." Motes huffed, nodded. "Good. If you stop talking to me, I *will* cry." diff --git a/content/draft/002.md b/content/draft/002.md index 1b45555..397c86c 100644 --- a/content/draft/002.md +++ b/content/draft/002.md @@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ Motes played. -Tonight, she played hard. It was a Big Motes night. It was a human night. It was a night for hovering somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. It was a night for standing as tall as Beholden, as tall as so many of the other Odists, yet far more lithe. Tonight, she dressed up in her finest crepe-cotton blouse and gauzy skirt, and she braided for herself a fresh crown of flowers — marigolds, this time — grown by A Finger Curled and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres. +Tonight, she played hard. It was a Big Motes night. It was a human night. It was a night for hovering somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. It was a night for standing as tall as Beholden, as tall as so many of the other Odists, yet far more lithe. Tonight, she dressed up in her finest crepe-cotton blouse and gauzy skirt, and she braided for herself a fresh crown of flowers — marigolds, this time — grown by A Finger Curled and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres, A Finger Pointing and Beholden's long-lived up-tree instances. Tonight, Motes played in hedonism. A night at a restaurant out on the town, where she stuffed herself with two Chicago-style hot dogs. "Drag them through the garden!" She laughed — and she was always laughing. "Everything but the ketchup!" A night when she ate all of her fries, and even mopped up the last of the fry sauce with a fingertip. @@ -16,7 +16,7 @@ And then it was a night for sitting on his balcony and talking while the waves o They sat and talked, legs dangling through the bars of the balcony's railing over an impossibly high drop, her ears filled with the chatter of an impossible myriad of monkeys some balconies earlier, startled from their slumber by their arrival, her eyes filled with the black and gold of an impossible city built into a cylinder. He pointed to a building in the distance down the length of the cylinder, told her how that one was filled all with gardens, all flowers like those in her hair, now crushed lopsidedly from her forgetting to remove the crown when they'd fucked. He pointed up to the gentle golden glow in the sky, told her that the sun here was in a long, thin line, that it turned on from one end to the other so that one could see dawn coming from down the tube, could hear birdsong come on like a wave, and then turned off in the same direction in a linear sunset. He pointed from one end of the cylinder to another, the bounding walls marked by arcane symbols in neon, and explained that nearly half a billion people called this home, then laughed as she asked, "How many do you think are fucking right now?" -They added one to that number before they slept. +They added one more to that number before they slept. And in the morning, she woke pressed against him, limbs all wrapped together and the satiny subdermal waves of sensation still lingering. She dismissed it easily and slowly disentangled herself from the still sleeping otter-or-fisher-or-mink and started to pull stuff from the exchange for breakfast. Cold, cured meats and fish. Cold cheeses. Cold vegetables, fresh and pickled. Dense, nutty bread. Small pastries. @@ -38,7 +38,7 @@ Empty auditorium. Empty stage, but for one skunk, kneeling in the center with a clipboard and script laid out before her in a neat arc, a bank of three different colored highlighters resting in her lap. -Where so many of the clade had the stark contrast of black and white fur, hers was the warm brown of cinnamon with the pale cream of white chocolate. Where so many of the other skunks had black noses, black fur fading all but seamlessly before them, hers was far more pink, more easily seen twitching this way or that at some scent or another. Where so many of her family had long, poetic names, hers remained simple, a remnant of some more complicated past. +Where so many of the skunks of the clade had the stark contrast of black and white fur, hers was the warm brown of cinnamon with the pale cream of white chocolate. Where so many of the other skunks had black noses, black fur fading all but seamlessly before them, hers was far more pink, more easily seen twitching this way or that at some scent or another. Where so many of her family had long, poetic names, hers remained simple, a remnant of some more complicated past. Motes traipsed down the long, shallow steps of the auditorium aisles, all but skipping in that long-running afterglow. "Sasha!" @@ -80,7 +80,7 @@ She looked up once more, rolled her eyes. "Can you really picture May being into An eloquent shrug was the reply. -"Well, *huh!*" she said, grinning still. She could feel the limerence for the form starting to fade, could feel the humanity begin to itch, so she waved her hand. "But we can talk about that later! I need to re-skunk. I want to keep this shirt, though." +"Well, *huh!*" she said, grinning still. She could feel the limerence for her form starting to fade, could feel the humanity begin to itch, so she waved her hand. "But we can talk about that later! I need to re-skunk. I want to keep this shirt, though." "Alright, dear. I shall look away." @@ -92,7 +92,7 @@ Sasha smiled, tipped her clipboard forward to let the skunk see the stage diagra She laughed. "Well, perhaps that as well. Scheming about dinner. Scheming about coming home to Aurel. Scheming and dreaming." -Motes nodded, carefully turning around one of the piles to read a few lines from the script before setting it back in place. She kicked her legs lazily in the air above her, feeling her tail brush against them. It was all part of the ritual of settling back into being a skunk — this engagement with fur, these childlike acts — in leaning intentionally back into her presented age — somewhere around twelve, today. +Motes nodded, carefully turning one of the piles around to read a few lines from the script before setting it back in place. She kicked her legs lazily in the air above her, feeling her tail brush against them. It was all part of the ritual of settling back into being a skunk — this engagement with fur, these childlike acts — in leaning intentionally back into her presented age — somewhere around twelve, today. She was startled back to awareness by Sasha's voice. "What are you thinking about, little skunk?" @@ -118,7 +118,7 @@ After nearly a minute of silence, Sasha said, "Years back, centuries ago, Jonas "But *she* is!" Motes protested. "She is in a relationship with Waking World!" -Sasha snorted. "Do not let her hear you say that. She would say that she is not, that it is a partnership, it is two actors playing their parts: she, the mother; him, the father. Dad jokes and all. They are roles in a long-running production." She winked conspiratorially, adding, "Though I am not sure that Waking World would agree with her. I think he very much thinks of himself as her husband, of the both of them as very much in love with each other." +Sasha snorted. "Do not let her hear you say that. She would say that she is not, that it is a partnership, it is two actors playing their parts: she, the mother; him, the father — dad jokes and all. They are roles in a long-running production." She winked conspiratorially, adding, "Though I am not sure that Waking World would agree with her. I think he very much thinks of himself as her husband, of the both of them as very much in love with each other." Motes furrowed her brow in concentration. "She does not make any sense," she said. "She hates ma and Bee for dating and hates me for being their daughter and all the others my siblings or whatever, and then she marries Waking World?" @@ -132,7 +132,7 @@ She scoffed. "Probably the second!" Sasha laughed and turned the ruffling into a noogie. "This is not a competition, Motes," she chided. "But if it were, then yes, you would win. She has cut off even A Finger Pointing." -Laughing and pulling herself away from the knuckles grinding against her scalp, the skunk sat up. "I thought they were on better terms, though. Ma met with her once a month, even." +Giggling helplessly and pulling herself away from the knuckles grinding against her scalp, the skunk sat up. "I thought they were on better terms, though. Ma met with her once a month, even." "When she found out that I had joined Au Lieu Du Rêve, Hammered silver cut all contact with the fifth, yes?" @@ -146,7 +146,7 @@ Laughing and pulling herself away from the knuckles grinding against her scalp, The smaller skunk giggled helplessly, slouching down until she was able to use Sasha's thigh as a pillow. "Okay, but why does she hate ma, though? She is, like...the nicest person in the whole world." -"She really is, at least to us, but she is also uncompromising to her very core. She stood up for herself and Beholden, she stood up for you as you are, she stood up for your dynamic as a family–" Sasha took a deep breath through gritted teeth. "And she stood up for me, for which I am endlessly appreciative, and endlessly frustrated that she should have cause to." +"She really is, at least to us, but she is also uncompromising to her very core. She stood up for herself and Beholden as a couple, she stood up for you as you are, she stood up for your dynamic as a family–" Sasha took a deep breath through gritted teeth. "And she stood up for me, for which I am endlessly appreciative, and endlessly frustrated that she should have cause to." "So Hammered Silver is upset that ma has principles," Motes said flatly. "Okay. Got it. Good good, good good good good. Wonderful." @@ -160,7 +160,7 @@ She nodded, pressing her face all the firmer against the stage manager. "A Finger Pointing loves you, Motes, deeply and truly. Do not ever forget that. Hammered Silver can absolutely go kick rocks and go suck an egg and go eat coke and any number of other antiquated idioms. Your ma believed that even then, and when Hammered Silver requested that she not speak of you, in that moment, they ceased being friends and became instead polite adversaries." -"No, I believe that," Motes said, voice muffled against Sasha's own blouse. "I do not blame her. Hammered Silver put her in a stupid position, so she did what she had to because she has principles." +"No, I believe that," Motes said, voice muffled against Sasha's blouse. "I do not blame her. Hammered Silver put her in a stupid position, so she did what she had to because she has principles." "Right, and those principles go beyond just the three of you. She was thinking of Dry Grass, too, yes? And of Waking World and of Fogs The View and of Time Makes Prey, and of all of the other, nicer folks she has spoken to in the sixth stanza on the sly. Many have continued to shun me, which is fine, so be it, they value their relationship with Hammered Silver more than Dry Grass does, but at least they are still talking with A Finger Pointing." @@ -168,7 +168,7 @@ She nodded, pressing her face all the firmer against the stage manager. "That she is." Sasha smiled, nudging Motes on the shoulder. "Now, come. Let us get you home, yes? Get you some food and let you crow about your exploits to anyone who will listen, yes? Show off your blouse, yes?" -She sighed dramatically and pushed herself up to her feet. "Okaaay. I had breakfast a bit ago, but I want pizza or a burger or something greasy. They just feel so good to eat!" +She sighed dramatically and pushed herself up to her feet. "Okaaay. I had breakfast a bit ago, but I want pizza or a burger or something greasy." Sasha laughed, forking another instance to take Motes by the paw, letting her down-tree continue working. "I am sorry that this topic has been nipping at your heels these last few days, little skunk. I have probably shared more than A Finger Pointing may have wished, but she and I will talk, and you will get your pizza or burger or pizza-burger and talk about things at your own pace, dear." diff --git a/content/draft/003.md b/content/draft/003.md index 95f7e5e..6b9f94e 100644 --- a/content/draft/003.md +++ b/content/draft/003.md @@ -64,7 +64,7 @@ They elbow-crawled over to drape unceremoniously over Motes's front, sighing now "You are that," the other skunk admitted. "So am I, mind. Probably cuter than you." -"Mmhm mmhm mmhm." She grinned over at Warmth. "Whatcha doin', anyway?" +"Mmhm mmhm mmhm." She grinned down at Warmth. "Whatcha doin', anyway?" It giggled and pushed its paws up over her face. "Motes Motes Motes! Look at you, all growed up, using contractions." @@ -90,7 +90,7 @@ Its expression soured. "That was part of it. I do not want to talk about that, t Motes nodded. "Tell me about that, then. I do not want mopey Warmth." -"Good," they said primly. "Because Codrin#Convergence got my last letter and started asking all the Artemisians ey could for foods that they liked to start sending me all sorts of different flavors. Ey is *such* a nerd. Ey practically set me a tome describing all of the different ingredients they showed em and what they looked and tasted like on their own, and then how they were put together into different dishes and what *those* looked and tasted like." +"Good," they said primly. "Because Codrin#Convergence got my last letter and started asking all the Artemisians ey could for foods that they liked to start sending me all sorts of different flavors. Ey is *such* a nerd. Ey practically sent me a tome describing all of the different ingredients they showed em and what they looked and tasted like on their own, and then how they were put together into different dishes and what *those* looked and tasted like." "All of the Bălans are nerds," Motes said. "Did you write back to tell em that?" @@ -118,7 +118,7 @@ Warmth bust into a fit of giggles and forked several times in quick succession, "It tastes like passion fruit and licking battery terminals at the same time!" Motes cried, bringing into being a glass of water to rinse out her muzzle. -"I know, right?" ey said dreamily. "I hate it!" +"I know, right?" ey said dreamily. "I hate it." "So do I!" At least the water seemed to wash the taste away quickly. "Are the other ones better?" @@ -132,11 +132,11 @@ Motes dipped her fingers into the glass and flicked some of the water at Warmth. "Mmhm! But you saying 'passion fruit' was new! Rye just said it was "sour and sweet and unpleasant" and Praiseworthy would not try it at all. Now I can compare it to passion fruit and try new things." -"Rye is always too polite," Motes said, grinning. "But I like her!" +"Rye is always too polite," Motes said, grinning. "But I like her." It nodded. "She really is, and I love her. She is...mm," ey squinted up at the trees, hunting for words. "We are kind of like an extended family, yes? Like, you have your ma and Bee, and big sister Slow Hours, and so on, all super close, but my stanza is like a bunch of piblings and niblings. We all like each other, and we love family get-togethers, and Rye is the best at making them happen. She wants us all to be happy." -She waved away the fork and glass of water, flopping back onto the grass once more. "That is why I like her, yeah," she said, folding her paws over her belly, pensive. +She waved away the utensil and glass of water, flopping back onto the grass once more. "That is why I like her, yeah," she said, folding her paws over her belly, pensive. Warmth dismissed the *frahabrodåt* and stretched out on their belly. "Now why did *you* get all mopey all of the sudden?" @@ -144,7 +144,7 @@ She shrugged, peeking over at the other skunk through the blades of grass and dr "Precious little of that, my dear," ey said, gently rapping her atop the head while making a hollow clicking noise with its tongue. When Motes merely stuck out her tongue, their expression softened. "Sorry, Mote. Why family stuff? Why is that mope-inducing? Usually you love that. Sometimes you go on about 'ma and Bee this' and 'Sis Hours that' and it is *lovely.*" -"Slow Hours hates it when I call her that," Motes said, smirking, then returned her gaze to the sky. "Just been lots of thinking and talk lately about how much trouble me being small causes." +"Slow Hours used to hate it when I called her that," Motes said, smirking, then returned her gaze to the sky. "Just been lots of thinking and talk lately about how much trouble me being small causes." "But I am small." @@ -152,9 +152,9 @@ She shrugged, peeking over at the other skunk through the blades of grass and dr Warmth huffed, indignant. "But *I* am the youngest! I am the babiest! That is my whole thing, yes? I am the most recently forked, the most recently-claimed line." -Rolling over onto her side, Motes smiled apologetically at her friend. "I know, I am sorry. We are the little ones, right? Dry Grass even calls us that! Her little ones." +Rolling over onto her side, Motes smiled apologetically at her friend. "I know, I am sorry. We are the little ones, right? Dry Grass even calls us that. Her little ones." -The other skunk subsided. "I know. And I think I know what you mean, too: there is a difference between "the babiest Odist" and "Actual Kid: Motes In The Stage-Lights", yes?" +The other skunk subsided. "I know. And I think I know what you mean, too: there is a difference between 'the babiest Odist' and 'Actual Kid: Motes In The Stage-Lights', yes?" "Mmhm. I knew it was weird and all, and a lot of people did not like it, but I am surprised to learn just how much some people hate it." @@ -164,21 +164,21 @@ She laughed, rolling onto her back again. "I know there are lots of people who h "Oh." -"Yeah," Motes said, sighing. "Like, Sasha was the last straw, sure, but it was also because of me being a kid and because we have the whole family dynamic." +"Yeah," Motes said, sighing. "Like, Sasha was the last straw, sure, but it was also because of all of that." Warmth sighed, stretching their arms in front of em. "I know she has not *actually* cut me off, but she might as well have. Her and In Dreams both, with their stanzas." "How do you mean?" -"Well, they cut off Dear, right?" it said. "And I am rather a lot of Dear. I am Dear and Rye and Praiseworthy! I am all of my down-trees. I *like* being all of my down-trees. I am proud of it!" She grinned. "I think of all of those, they might like Rye okay, but they hate Dear, and I cannot imagine them being too into Praiseworthy after the *History* named her as the propagandist during Secession." +"Well, they cut off Dear, right?" it said. "And I am rather a lot of Dear. I am Dear and Rye and Praiseworthy. I am all of my down-trees. I *like* being all of my down-trees. I am proud of it!" She grinned. "I think of all of those, they might like Rye okay, but they hate Dear, and I cannot imagine them being too into Praiseworthy after the *History* named her as the propagandist during Secession." Motes frowned. "Wait, really?" "I mean, I have not actually talked to them, but they cut off Dear for less." Ey laughed bitterly. "But again, I am also a little one, right? We also have our family dynamic, yes? Hell, Rye and Pointillist are *plenty* chummy, if you know what I mean." -She laughed. "They write each other letters!" +She laughed. "They just write each other letters!" -"Yeah. Sexy letters." +"Yeah. *Sexy* letters." "Well, okay," Motes said, still giggling. "Do you really think they have cut you off? Effectively if not actually, I mean." diff --git a/content/draft/004.md b/content/draft/004.md index d5228e7..bad83be 100644 --- a/content/draft/004.md +++ b/content/draft/004.md @@ -4,6 +4,8 @@ Motes played. She played on precipices. She played along the knife's edge. She played at the point of a sword, at the barrel of a gun. She played with death. She– +No. + Motes was played with. She was toyed with. She was dangled by the scruff over the ledge. She was held at the point of the knife. She was backed against the wall with the barrel of a gun to her forehead. She was given a sword and told to fall on it. @@ -18,7 +20,7 @@ It was annihilation. It was the opposite of play — of Motes's kind of play, th In her dream, she played a game. She played one of those games where she forked and was rendered bodiless and immobile, while her fork was sent along a series of platforms, leaping from one to another and swiping out at skeletons and liches with a long spear. The version of her doing the attacking had an incomplete view of the world, while the disembodied Motes watched from some distance away, treating the game like a literal platformer, sending instructions to her 'character' via sensorium messages. -She knew this game. Not from having actually played it in the waking world, but she knew this game in her dream. She breezed through levels, one after the other. Enemies fell to her spear, bosses toppled easily, and when they hit the ground, vines would sprout up and flower with a luscious scent. +She knew this game. Not from having actually played it in the waking world — who knew how real it was? — but she knew this game in her dream. She breezed through levels, one after the other. Enemies fell to her spear, bosses toppled easily, and when they hit the ground, vines would sprout up and flower with a luscious scent. She could beat this game. She knew this game. She was speed-running it. Little tricks that the game's designer had built in allowed her to skip out of the bounds of the world if she jumped at just the right point, or perhaps she would use a damage glitch to end a fight almost before it began. @@ -54,13 +56,13 @@ Motes sobbed. "Please..." she managed at last. None of this was supposed to happen. None of this was right. -Michelle/Sasha straightened up and said, almost bored, "Indulge, my dear." +Michelle/Sasha straightened up and said, almost bored, "Well? Indulge, my dear." -With no recourse, Motes drove the blade into her neck, an agonizing slowness that played itself out in a death she had experienced before, she had surely suffered in its own, consensual way. +With no recourse, Motes drove the blade into her own neck, an agonizing slowness that played itself out in a death she had experienced before, she had surely suffered in its own, consensual way. She died then, whimpering ever more weakly, and as her panicked eyes drifted shut one last time, she awoke with a start, already sobbing. -The house was quiet, as it so often was at this time of the night, when Beholden and A Finger Pointing were either asleep or out at one of their jazzy nightclubs. All the same, she sent a gentle sensorium ping to A Finger Pointing, figuring it best to make sure that they were actually asleep rather than simply under a cone of silence in their room. +The house was quiet, as it so often was at this time of the night, when Beholden and A Finger Pointing were either asleep or out at one of their jazzy nightclubs. All the same, she sent a gentle sensorium ping to A Finger Pointing, figuring it best to make sure that they were actually asleep in their room rather than simply under a cone of silence in their room. *"Dot?"* came the sleepy reply. @@ -114,7 +116,7 @@ Both of the skunks fell into laughter, sprawled awkwardly beneath their down-tre Sighing dreamily, A Finger Pointing nodded. "We should have been poets." -Motes could tell what they were doing: she was as adept as they were. The job of an actor is to trick the audience — just for a moment! — that the story playing out before them is more real than the rest of the world, that it is the rest of their lives that is merely a play. A Finger Pointing and Beholden, ma and Bee, were nudging her to set aside for now this dream-rotted headspace, this mopery. +Motes could tell what they were doing. She was as adept at this as they were. The job of an actor is to trick the audience — just for a moment! — that the story playing out before them is more real than the rest of the world, that it is the rest of their lives that is merely a play. A Finger Pointing and Beholden, ma and Bee, were nudging her to set aside for now this dream-rotted headspace, this mopery. She saw their manipulation and loved them all the harder for it. @@ -126,9 +128,9 @@ Now, the fifth stanza — along with however many other lovers and friends, cowo For each of those who lived there, the neighborhood was theirs in some specific way, and for Motes, it was hers to color. -Motes had painted it all hundreds of times. +Motes had painted it all hundreds of times, of course. -She had painted the prairie, painted the neighborhood, painted those who lived there. She had chosen the colors of many of the houses — had even helped paint some by hand until it had gotten too boring. She had chalked up all of the sidewalks — the sim's designer had made it so that colored chalk lines flower behind her automatically as she walked when she so desired — and she so desired — only to fade some hours later. One could always tell where Motes had come and gone. +She had painted the prairie, painted the neighborhood, painted those who lived there. She had chosen the colors of many of the houses — had even helped paint some by hand until it had gotten too boring. She had chalked up all of the sidewalks — Warmth had conspired with A Finger Pointing and Serene, the sim's designers, so that colored chalk lines flower behind her automatically as she walked when she so desired — and she so desired — only to fade some hours later. One could always tell where Motes had come and gone. Thus, when, still sleepy, she trudged out of the ranch-style home she shared with A Finger Pointing and Beholden, colored lines of flowering vines trailed after her bare paws. She guided those vines with her steps or, relishing in a secret pleasure, pretended like they were propelling her forward, pretending that she was a being of growth — that she was a seed, a being of potential — that she was a giant at the head of some toppled beanstalk. @@ -156,11 +158,11 @@ Motes huffed. "Come, my dear." Slow Hours rested her hand atop the skunk's head. "Do you want to go sit outside?" -"Yes please," she said, feeling suddenly smaller than usual. +"Yes please," she said, feeling suddenly smaller still. -She was a long time in opening up, which seemed to suit her cocladist just fine. She summoned up a blanket and, disregarding the patio furniture that littered the concrete that ringed the solarium as well as the hard-packed dirt trail, picked her way out into the prairie. Holding two of the corners, she threw the blanket out to spread it over the shin-high grass. It seemed to float there for a moment, and for a long moment, neither of them move. Skunk and woman observed this magic carpet in gingham, bending blades and heads of stiff-stalked grass. +She was a long time in opening up, which seemed to suit her cocladist just fine. Slow Hours summoned up a blanket and, disregarding the patio furniture that littered the concrete that ringed the solarium as well as the hard-packed dirt trail, picked her way out into the prairie. Holding two of the corners, she threw the blanket out to spread it over the shin-high grass. It seemed to float there, and for a long moment, neither of them move. Skunk and woman observed this magic carpet in gingham, bending blades and heads of stiff-stalked grass. -When Motes did not move, Slow Hours instead stepped onto the blanket and tramped dutifully around the rim of it, tamping down the grass so that they would not sink so deep into the blanket. That done, she lowered herself to sit cross-legged near the center and patted her lap. +When Motes remained in place, Slow Hours instead stepped onto the blanket and tramped dutifully around the rim of it, tamping down the grass so that they would not sink so deep into the blanket. That done, she lowered herself to sit cross-legged near the center and patted her lap. At last, the skunk sighed and stepped onto the blanket, lowering herself to all fours and crawling forward to flop down beside her cocladist, resting her head on her thigh. @@ -196,7 +198,7 @@ She was not so sure now. The immediacy of the dream felt too bound to time. Sure She was not so sure that dreams were meaningless firings of neurons composed into some semblance of order in the process of waking as she recalled tearfully the way that Michelle had caught her up by the scruff and told her horrible things — such horrible, horrible things — and then bade her drive home the blade to end her own life. -All throughout, Slow Hours listened in silence, letting her talk while brushing her fingers slowly through the thick fur of her mane. Even after she finished speaking, while she lingered a while in those tears, her cocladist simply sat with her in silence, stroking through her fur. It was a comfortable silence. Thoughtful. Patient, with no need of filling. +All throughout, Slow Hours listened in silence, letting her talk while brushing her fingers slowly through the thick fur of her mane. Even after she finished speaking, while she lingered a while in those tears, her cocladist simply sat with her in silence, stroking through her fur. It was a comforting silence. Thoughtful. Patient, with no need of filling. Once her tears began to slow and she wiped at her nose with a tissue, Slow Hours leaned down to kiss her cheek. "I am sorry, Motes. You deserve better than what your sleeping mind has told you," she said gently. "It sounds as though this false vision of your past self was upset with two things: your explorations around age and your explorations around death, yes?" @@ -204,23 +206,23 @@ Stifling some sniffles, aftershocks of the cry just ended, Motes nodded. "Yeah, "And you are not sure where these anxieties came from?" -She shook her head. "Nothing has really changed. I have been seeing friends the same amount, I have not heard from anyone who got upset at me, nothing like that. It feels like it just popped into my head and now I have to live with it." +She shook her head. "Nothing has really changed. I have been seeing friends the same amount, I had therapy with Miss Genet, I have not heard from anyone who got upset at me, nothing like that. It feels like it just popped into my head and now I have to live with it." -Slow Hours smiled down to her. "You know, A Finger Pointing mentioned to me that you brought it up, actually. She says that you have been talking about it lately. Far more than usual." +Slow Hours smiled down to her. "You know, A Finger Pointing mentioned to me that you had brought this up, actually. She says that you have been talking about it lately. Far more than usual." "She did? Why?" "Because she loves you and because I love you. Because we want to see you happy and we notice when you are not." -Motes pushed herself halfway up to sitting so that she could hug around Slow Hours's middle. "Love you too, Slowers," she said, then sat up the rest of the way, wiping her face off more. "I have been talking about it a lot, though, yeah. I talked about it with ma and Bee, and I talked about it with Dry Grass, and also with Sasha. Everyone talked about how some people in the clade got all upset about it." +Motes pushed herself halfway up to sitting so that she could hug around Slow Hours's middle. "Love you too, Slowers," she said, then sat up the rest of the way, wiping yet more tears away. "I have been talking about it a lot, though, yeah. I talked about it with ma and Bee, and I talked about it with Dry Grass, and also with Sasha. Everyone talked about how some people in the clade got all upset about it." She nodded. "I have heard mention of the sixth and seventh stanzas, yes, and I thought for some time that the eighth was also quite unhappy, but I believe Sasha when she says that they had not ever really engaged with it specifically." -"Yeah. Dry Grass said that Hammered Silver was all sorts of upset about it, and In Dreams was pretty unhappy early on." +"Yeah. Dry Grass said that Hammered Silver was all sorts of upset about it, and I know In Dreams was pretty unhappy early on." "Have you heard from any of them lately?" -Motes shook her head. "I never really talked to them, even going way back. I did not really need to, and they never talked to me either." +Motes shook her head. "I never really talked to them, even going way back — I did not really need to — and they never talked to me either." "Much of that was because A Finger Pointing fielded most of their interactions," Slow Hours said. "She is quite protective of you — of all of us — and if she can do something to protect us, she will." @@ -244,13 +246,13 @@ Motes shrugged. "I guess." Slow Hours nodded, letting her paws go. "I will not say "fuck 'em", much as either of us might want. You must not hyperfixate on them, but neither must you disregard them." -"Why? Do you have a prophecy for me?" Motes asked, grinning faintly. "The last time you gave me a prophecy, it was about whether I should stay friends with one of my one-night stands." +"Why? Do you have a prophecy for me?" Motes asked, grinning faintly. "The last time you gave me a prophecy, it was about whether I should stay friends with someone I met at a club." She laughed. "I remember that, yes. You were bound to run into someone who was also into kidcore stuff as Big Motes, and we were stifling you." The mirth faded to something more thoughtful. "But, yes, I have a prediction for you: the clade is not done with you, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights. Even those who have cut you off have not forgotten you, and it is best that you not forget them." The skunk frowned, rubbing her paws over her knees and toying with a rip in the denim of her overalls. "Okay," she mumbled. "Where do you get all of this, anyway?" -Slow Hours smiled, tapped at her temple with two fingers. "I have the outline of the world, do I not?" +Slow Hours smirked, tapped at her temple with two fingers. "I have the outline of the world, do I not?" Motes stuck out her tongue. "That is not an answer!" @@ -258,11 +260,11 @@ Motes stuck out her tongue. "That is not an answer!" She wilted, shoulders slumping. "So I might be hearing more of this, then? From Hammered Silver and so on?" -"You might. You might not." Smiling at the exasperated look on the skunk's face, Slow Hours leaned forward to brush some of her longer headfur from her face. "The key takeaway here, Speck, is not that you need fret about this constantly, but that you should not ignore these feelings. You should not simply dismiss those within the clade that cut contact as irrelevant. Even if they forever live only in some dusty closet in your mind, they will still live there." +"You might. You might not." chuckling at the exasperated look on the skunk's face, Slow Hours leaned forward to brush some of her longer headfur from her face. "The key takeaway here, Speck, is not that you need fret about this constantly, but that you should not ignore these feelings. You should not simply dismiss those within the clade that cut contact as irrelevant. Even if they forever live only in some dusty closet in your mind, they will still live there." "Yes, but what am I supposed to *do?*" -"Live, my dear. Grow." She smirked, adding quickly, "Not up, not if you do not want, but take that knowledge, take strength in the fact that you are living intentionally as you are in spite of them, and make yourself better for it." +"Live, my dear. Grow." She laughed, adding quickly, "Not up, not if you do not want, but take that knowledge, take strength in the fact that you are living intentionally as you are in spite of them, and make yourself better for it." Motes nodded sullenly. diff --git a/content/draft/005.md b/content/draft/005.md index 23bf21b..a451511 100644 --- a/content/draft/005.md +++ b/content/draft/005.md @@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ Motes stopped playing. -She stopped playing because she had been out with some friends, some of the others who had decided to give up on grown-up life now that they were here, now that they were decades or centuries old, now that they were functionally immortal. She stopped playing because, as she sprinted full-tilt after a handful of friends, dodging around benches and trees, seesaws and swings, a bolt of panic struck down her spine with an electric intensity and made her tumble into the gravel, made her skid through the pebbles until she crunched up against a jungle gym, left her nose, paws, and elbows bloodied. She stopped playing because for a long minute, she could not breathe, though whether from the adrenaline pulling her nerves taut or the pain in her snout or from the air being knocked out of her, she could not tell. +She stopped playing because, some weeks later, she was out with some friends, some of the others who had decided to give up on grown-up life now that they were here, now that they were decades old or centuries, now that they were functionally immortal. She stopped playing because, as she sprinted full-tilt after a handful of friends, dodging around benches and trees, seesaws and swings, a bolt of panic struck down her spine with an electric intensity and made her tumble into the gravel, made her skid through the pebbles until she crunched up against a jungle gym, left her nose, paws, and elbows bloodied. She stopped playing because for a long minute, she could not breathe, though whether from the adrenaline pulling her nerves taut or the pain in her snout or from the air being knocked out of her, she could not tell. She stopped playing because, as she slowly pushed herself upright to a sitting position, tears already springing from her eyes, an envelope slid nonsensically from the air and fluttered to the ground before her. She stopped playing because her name — her full name, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade — was printed on the front of the envelope in a handwriting that was painfully familiar because it was her own. It was her own and it was A Finger Pointing's and it was Beholden's, it was Slow Hours's and Warmth's and Dry Grass's, and it was the handwriting that flowed from the hand of every Odist even after hundreds of years. @@ -24,16 +24,16 @@ She stopped playing and read: > > I do absolutely mean it when I say all of the fifth stanza. That is, we have not cut *just* Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself out of our lives, but her and all of her up-trees to however many degrees. That includes you, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights. > -> It came to my attention some years back that I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass had nevertheless continued in her association with the fifth, particularly with you and with Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself, given your unfortunate predilection. When first I noticed this, I discussed with her my feelings on the matter and made clear my request that she live up to the original agreement that there remain no contact between our stanza and yours. She, at the time, reminded me that this decision was made unilaterally without input from the rest of the stanza, and yet agreed to upload my request. +> It came to my attention some years back that I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass had nevertheless continued in her association with the fifth, particularly with you and with Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself, given your unfortunate predilection. When first I noticed this, I discussed with her my feelings on the matter and made clear my request that she live up to the original agreement that there remain no contact between our stanza and yours. She, at the time, reminded me that this decision had been made unilaterally without input from the rest of the stanza, and yet agreed to uphold my request. > -> It has once again come to my attention that I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass is once more spending time with you and those you have styled your 'family'. She has the most infuriating habit of going on autopilot when I talk to her, simply nodding and saying 'mmhm' or 'yes, I see' throughout, and, with regards to this topic in particular, this has proven untenable. It is with great regret that she has been added to the no-contact list. +> It has once again come to my attention that I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass is spending time with you and those you have styled your 'family'. She has the most infuriating habit of going on autopilot when I talk to her, simply nodding and saying 'mmhm' or 'yes, I see' throughout, and, with regards to this topic in particular, this has proven untenable. It is with great regret that she has been added to the no-contact list. > > There is a very important set of reasons for this: > -> 1. Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps's ongoing romantic relationship remains a thorn in the side of the Ode clade. Even as the taboo seems to be loosening — a thing that I attribute to the one who has named herself Sasha's ongoing existence — there remains the issue of the image that this presents of the remaining 99 Odists as a clade of some import. +> 1. Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps's ongoing romantic relationship remains a thorn in the side of the Ode clade. Even as the taboo seems to be loosening — a thing that I attribute to the one who has named herself Sasha's ongoing existence — there remains the issue of the image that this presents of the remaining Odists as a clade of some import. > 2. Your insistence on both appearing as and acting like a child on a System where such remains transgressive both by its very nature and relation to paraphilia as well as by the fact that there simply are no children sys-side. -> 3. The 'family' dynamic that you live within inside the fifth stanza. Treating Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps as your 'mothers', as your other cocladists as your siblings, is beyond a mere dalliance with a paraphilia, but a tainting of reputations beyond merely your own; it is a way of dragging others into a behavior that has a very real impact on how they — and, by extension, the rest of the clade — are perceived. -> 4. The inclusion of the one who has named herself Sasha in not just the daily workings of Au Lieu Du Rêve but the social dealings of the fifth stanza. If I Am To Bathe In Dreams and I hold no jurisdiction over the fifth stanza, but we do hold control over our interactions with each other, and we have made our stance on the one who has named herself Sasha and how she as affected the reputation of the Ode clade abundantly clear. +> 3. The 'family' dynamic that you live within inside the fifth stanza. Treating Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps as your 'mothers', as your other cocladists as your siblings, is beyond a mere dalliance, but a tainting of reputations outside merely your own; it is a way of dragging others into a behavior that has a very real impact on how they — and, by extension, the rest of the clade — are perceived. +> 4. The inclusion of the one who has named herself Sasha in not just the daily workings of Au Lieu Du Rêve but the social dealings of the fifth stanza. If I Am To Bathe In Dreams and I hold no jurisdiction over the fifth stanza, but we do hold control over our interactions with each other, and we have made our stance on the one who has named herself Sasha and how she has affected the reputation of the Ode clade abundantly clear. > 5. The involvement of I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass counter to my requests laid out for the entirety of my stanza. This goes beyond her willing participation and into the actions of the fifth stanza in general and you specifically: these no-contact orders are expected to be upheld by *both* parties. Yes, this is complicated by the individual nature of a cladist, and yet the request has been made, and plainly. For a member of a stanza to so flagrantly disregard a request and for that to be enabled by the other party leaves me feeling personally slighted. > > Therefore, I am writing to reinforce the current status: @@ -50,7 +50,7 @@ She stopped playing and read: When Motes overflowed, she cut herself off from play. She froze where she was. She went nonverbal, became all but catatonic. It would last days. She would disappear from the world and she would stop playing, and if she stopped playing, she would no longer be herself. -So, when Motes stopped playing, she promised herself that she would not do that. She promised herself that, as best she could, she would do anything but that. She promised herself that she would keep going because she did not want to be seen like this. She did not want to be caught like this, with a letter in her hand, with shame on her face, with guilt all matted in her fur. +So, when Motes stopped playing that day, she promised herself that she would not do that. She promised herself that, as best she could, she would do anything but that. She promised herself that she would keep going because she did not want to be seen like this. She did not want to be caught like this, with a letter in her hand, with shame on her face, with guilt all matted in her fur. Instead, she stood up, committed the contents of the letter to an exocortex, a hidden and compartmentalized part of her memory that rendered it inaccessible until she went looking, and then destroyed the original. There was a part of her that wanted to rip it up, to rip it into confetti and stomp on the shredded paper, to burn those shreds in a small pyre, to put the fire out with her crying, to grind ash and tears together until she had a paint with which to spell out her anger and despair. @@ -68,7 +68,7 @@ She felt, muffled by those waves of stinging and soreness, the pair of paws that *Interesting,* she thought. *Yet I acted like a child when I was a child. I am an adult...* -Her sense of self lagged behind — an idea of a mote of a Motes tethered like a helium balloon — as Beholden carefully lifted her unsouled-yet-still-living body and hoisted her up to carry her from her studio — the lights, she left the lights on — to her bedroom. A place of soft things. A soft mattress, a too-thick duvet, stuffed animals and yet more stuffed animals. *I should put away childish things, I am...* +Her sense of self lagged behind — an idea of a mote of a Motes tethered like a helium balloon — as Beholden carefully lifted her unsouled-yet-still-living body and hoisted her up to carry her from her studio — *the lights, she left the lights on* — to her bedroom. A place of soft things. A soft mattress, a too-thick duvet, stuffed animals and yet more stuffed animals. *I should put away childish things, I am...* Beholden set her on her feet and carefully lifted her muzzle to face her. "Motes, I know that you are overflowing, but can you fork for me, kiddo? Your nose is swollen and your paws look awful." @@ -87,11 +87,11 @@ But no, Beholden only hugged her, kissed her on top of the head, and tucked her *I am an adult…* -And then it was dark and she was alone, her body and this mere mote of Motes who lingered up above. +And then it was dark and she was alone, her body and this mere mote of a Motes who lingered up above. -Days past out of time and time past out of mind and mind drifted only in darkness where darkness gave no count of days. Delineations came only ever from within. She knew, for instance, that she got hungry at one point and quickly turned the sensation off. She knew that at one point that she got too warm and so she commanded the room to be colder so that she could bundle up. +Days passed out of time and time passed out of mind and mind drifted only in darkness where darkness gave no count of days. Delineations came only ever from within. She knew, for instance, that she got hungry at one point and quickly turned the sensation off. She knew that at one point that she got too warm and so she commanded the room to be colder so that she could bundle up. -The only interruption than came from the outside was the door at one point creaking open. Motes did not know how long had passed — this life without play admitted no hours — but she did know that it must have been night, for precious little light came in, and what light did make it into the room was Moon silver. She also knew that she was far closer to her body now, perhaps halfway there. +The only interruption than came from the outside was the door at one point creaking open. Motes did not know how long had passed — this life without play admitted no hours — but she did know that it must have been night, for precious little light came in, and what light did make it into the room was Moon silver. She knew also that she was far closer to her body now, perhaps halfway there. Even with so little light, it was plain to see A Finger Pointing's silhouette, and so she remained where she was. diff --git a/content/draft/006.md b/content/draft/006.md index d083a14..dcef9b4 100644 --- a/content/draft/006.md +++ b/content/draft/006.md @@ -6,13 +6,13 @@ That is how time's inevitable arrow works, after all, is it not? There was a tim And so, there was a time at which she did not play, did not surround herself with play, did not define herself by it, and then there was a point at which she began to play. It was a starting point. It was an inflection point, at which she collided with the idea of play and her trajectory was changed. -And yet, even before that, before Motes, before the System, before getting lost, Michelle had played, had she not? She had been a kid, yes? The Michelle, even before getting her implants and becoming Sasha, had been five, had been six and seven and eight. +And yet, even before that, before Motes, before the System, before getting lost, Michelle had played, had she not? She had been a kid, yes? Michelle, even before getting her implants and becoming Sasha, had been five, had been six and seven and eight. ----- Michelle played as well. She painted, too, back then. -Roly-poly Michelle Hadje, 263 years ago, sitting in kindergarten, shitty paintbrush in her hand, shitty tempera paint in a dish set before a shitty piece of off-white construction paper. She sat their in her silly little corduroy pants and silly little flower-print blouse, a silly little smile on her face, painting a robin in primary red and deep-dark black. +Roly-poly Michelle Hadje, 263 years ago, sitting in kindergarten, shitty paintbrush in her hand, shitty tempera paint in a dish set before a shitty piece of off-white construction paper. She sat there in her silly little corduroy pants and silly little flower-print blouse, a silly little smile on her face, painting a robin in primary red and deep-dark black. Silly, roly-poly Michelle Hadje in her dirt-brown corduroys splotched with a patch of red from having sat down directly in a puddle of paint. It was not a drip so easily wiped away but well and truly ground into the ridged fabric of her trousers. @@ -28,25 +28,35 @@ Her mother had picked her sobbing daughter up from school, and after much cajoli A Motes who looks like she has stepped straight out of a kindergarten classroom and into the world — a world with a lower age limit, a world where one cannot upload before one turns eighteen — is a Motes who is going to draw attention. A Motes who acts five, or seven, or twelve is a Motes who is going to inspire big feelings. She is going to inspire feelings of confusion, of alarm, of anger. -She is going to be a Motes who gets kicked from sims, who gets barred from entry. She is going to be a Motes who gets her tail stepped on, she is going to get hip-bumped out of the way, and ever they will promise it is an accident, and many times they will even be correct. +She is going to be a Motes who gets kicked from sims, who gets barred from entry. She is going to be a Motes who gets her tail stepped on, she is going to get hip-bumped out of the way, and ever they will promise it is an accident, and many times they will even be telling the truth. She will be a Motes who gets sneered at. She will be scolded for some vague infraction, impropriety, some sin against God, against man, against the sanctity of the System. Or perhaps she will be a Motes who is studiously ignored. She will be the one others cross the street to avoid, the one others stay away from lest they be tainted with transgression by association. -She is also going to be a Motes who inspires feelings of protection, of care, of *joie de vivre.* She is going to be one who is going to show the hedonism in play, one whose *raison d'être* is to have fun, and inspire in others a sense of compersion. She is going to be a Motes who makes one want to play in turn. She is going to be the one you want to hold in your lap, the one you want to call adorable, the one you want to hold close and protect from pain. +She is also going to be a Motes who inspires feelings of protection, of care, of *joie de vivre.* She is going to be one who is going to show the hedonism in play, one whose *raison d'être* is to have fun, and inspire in others a sense of compersion for that fun. She is going to be a Motes who makes one want to play in turn. She is going to be the one you want to hold in your lap, the one you want to call adorable, the one you want to hold close and protect from pain. + +----- + +Sometime in the late 2100s, Motes was invited to a weird hyperformal event, one of Rye's book releases. She and her cocladists, her friends, all grumbled about it for their own reasons. It was all well and good to dress up in a skirt, but a dress? Fuck that. + +Warmth dressed in its best mixture of clothes, something that shifted slowly over time between masculine and feminine, and yet those in attendance addressed em as almost exclusively ‘she’, and partway through, they pulled Motes aside to have a little grumbly bitch session. The bitch session quickly turned into into an emotional wave, a tide rolling inexorably in, and Motes burst into tears. She had dressed up in a fine black dress, hip-hugging and chic, and it was making her absolutely miserable. + +As Warmth and her partner, Hold My Name, comforted her, four or five Warmths surrounding her while Hold My Name brushed her hair, the three of them got to talking about identity and the ways in which appearance and social situations ground up against that. Warmth wanted– no, needed that recognition of fluidity that night. + +Motes increasingly needed out of this strict adherence to form. ----- The inflection point came when she, the Motes who had been forked not three years prior, the Motes who was still a human who looked much like A Finger Pointing, her immediate down-tree, sat in a paint tray while painting a stage-wide sunset on a scrim. -There she was, kneeling carefully on the stage and twisting around to see the red splotch ground into the seat of her overalls, and laughing. She laughed as she recognized the mess she had made — one big butt-print on the matte black of the stage — and she laughed at the way the paint had very clearly started to seep into the denim of her overalls. She laughed as memories flooded into her mind, of red paint on corduroy, of Miss Willard's snippy admonition, of her mom's patient reassurances. She laughed and, rather than wave away the mess that she had made on her overalls, she lay down on her front and summoned up a smaller paintbrush instead of the roller she had been using, loaded it up with paint, and started filling in the awkward splotch of paint on the stage into the body of some critter, round and soft. She took a break from her sunset and instead painted a fat, cartoonish skunk all in red. +There she was, kneeling carefully on the stage and twisting around to see the red splotch ground into the seat of her sturdy work overalls, and laughing. She laughed as she recognized the mess she had made — one big butt-print on the matte black of the stage — and she laughed at the way the paint had very clearly started to seep into the denim of her overalls. She laughed as memories flooded into her mind, of red paint on corduroy, of Miss Willard's snippy admonition, of her mom's patient reassurances. She laughed and, rather than wave away the mess that she had made on her overalls, she lay down on her front and summoned up a smaller paintbrush instead of the roller she had been using, loaded it up with paint, and started filling in the awkward splotch of paint on the stage into the body of some critter, round and soft. She took a break from her sunset and instead painted a fat, cartoonish skunk all in red. -By the time That It Might Give, the play's director, found her, she had added an idealized field of grass and dandelions, had painted in a frolicking fennec fox in blue, and still lay on her front, the seat of her pants colored in red from the paint she had sat in. +By the time That It Might Give The World Orders, the play's director, found her, she had added an idealized field of grass and dandelions, had painted in a frolicking fennec fox in blue, and still lay on her front, the seat of her pants colored in red from the paint she had sat in. -Rather than admonish her like Miss Willard of past, That It Might Give The World Orders had stood in silence for a long minute, looking down at her cocladist laying down and painting with a sheepish grin on her face, and then laughed. She laughed, leaned down, and ruffled Motes's hair and then sat with her, doodling bumblebees on the stage's surface, floating up above skunk and fennec, above grass and dandelions. +Rather than admonish her like Miss Willard of past, That It Might Give had stood in silence for a long minute, looking down at her cocladist laying down and painting with a sheepish grin on her face, and then laughed. She laughed, leaned down, and ruffled Motes's hair and then sat with her, doodling bumblebees on the stage's surface, floating up above skunk and fennec, above grass and dandelions, and sharing in memories. ----- -The process of making friends when one is a kid on a System where everyone is old and getting older is, it turns out, not the same as making friends when one is also old and getting older. It is an act of making two sets of friends in two different ways. +The process of making friends when one is a kid on a System where everyone is old and getting older is, it turns out, not the same as making friends when one is *just* old and getting older. It is an act of making two sets of friends in two different ways. Adults feel around the edges of friendship carefully. They ask questions, they get to know each other first. They talk. They chat. They watch and observe before they decide — even if subconsciously — that they might want to be friends with their interlocutor. @@ -66,7 +76,7 @@ Motes leaned hard into that memory. She leaned into the laughter and joy of pain It was not always a kid thing. She aged down her appearance, sure, falling into a comfortable vision of a twenty-something, but it was not just appearance. It was the way she acted. It was owning of playfulness as a form of hedonism, much as the rest of the fifth stanza owned hedonism as a core part of their identity. -She owned playfulness because life is play. She owned it because it was so easy to forget the role that play plays in one's life, with its carefully delineated fun times that one fits in around work and sleep and obligations.. Life is play, and over time, that Motes became play. +She owned playfulness because life is play. She owned it because it was so easy to forget the role that play plays in one's life, with its carefully delineated fun times that one fits in around work and sleep and obligations. Life is play, and over time, Motes *became* play. It changed the way that her cocladists and friends treated her. They started ruffling her hair, trying to get her excited. They started playing with her in the auditorium, hiding to jump out and startle her or running up to tap her on the shoulder and shout "You are it!" before running off to the dressing rooms to change for their role. They started doing all of the good things that one does with kids and none of the bad things. After all, if they needed Serious Motes, they could still talk to her like the fifty year old woman that she was, right? @@ -76,9 +86,9 @@ She liked that. Slow Hours, Motes's big sister, had once had it said about her by Deny All Beginnings, town crier to her town scryer, "It seems so often to me that you have the criss-cross pattern of a schoolyard tool imprinted on your face, no doubt hurled at at you by a god." She explained this to Motes that there was some contemporary interpretation of the Greek god Apollo hurling a dodgeball at the innocent to bless them with the gift of prophecy. -And she had indeed become the prophet of the clade, the one checkered with predictions and who bore the heady scent of omens. She was the Delphic oracle to so many other prognosticators. She would get this dreamy, distant smile on her face and then she would speak. She would say, "I will tell you two truths and one lie about the future" and then she would say unnerving things that will almost certainly come to pass. Yes, they make take years to do so, but the was uncanny in her accuracy. +And she had indeed become the prophet of the clade, the one checkered with predictions and who bore the heady scent of omens. She was the Delphic oracle to so many other prognosticators. She would get this dreamy, distant smile on her face and then she would speak. She would say, "I will tell you two truths and one lie about the future" and then she would say unnerving things that would almost certainly come to pass. Yes, they make take years to do so, but she was uncanny in her accuracy. -So when Motes came to her, to the crowd of other crew, who always seemed to tolerate Slow Hours better than the cast, came to her and threw herself dramatically across her cocladist's lap, requesting some brushings to get the paint flecks out of her tail while she thought about how to say what she needed to say. +So Motes came to her, to the crowd of other crew, who always seemed to tolerate Slow Hours better than the cast, came to her and threw herself dramatically across her cocladist's lap, requesting some brushings to get the paint flecks out of her tail while she thought about how to say what she needed to say. "Slow Hours, I made a friend," she said, relying on the comparatively formal name as opposed to Slow — and she was the only one Slow Hours would accept that name from — or Slowers to convey a bit of the gravity of the question. @@ -96,7 +106,7 @@ Slow Hours nodded. "I sense a 'but', Speck." She nodded, laughing. -"One or two have gotten big feelings for me, but most get it. We negotiate boundaries and move on with our lives, though. There are so many people here! It is not a big deal if someone says no that early on." Motes laughed, adding, "Once, one of them showed up here looking for me, and A Finger Pointing just about tore him in half." +"One or two have gotten big feelings for me, but most get it. We negotiate boundaries and move on with our lives. There are so many people here! It is not a big deal if someone says no that early on." Motes laughed, adding, "Once, one of them showed up here looking for me, and A Finger Pointing just about tore them in half." Slow Hours smiled, but said gently, "You are stalling, my dear." @@ -104,13 +114,13 @@ She groaned and buried her face against her cocladist's shoulder. "I knooow. Any "And you think you might like to follow up on that?" -"They are just into all sorts of things I am. They paint — people, mostly, and some animals — and like a lot of the same music, and also...also are into the whole little thing. They suggested we forget the sex part and maybe do a regular sort of get-together thing." She hesitated before adding, far more bashfully, "You know. As kids." +"They are just into all sorts of things I am. They paint — people, mostly, and some animals — and like a lot of the same music, and also...also are into the whole little thing. They suggested we forget the sex part and maybe do a regular sort of get-together." She hesitated before adding, far more bashfully, "You know. As kids." "Have you told A Finger Pointing about them?" She shook her head. "That was part of what I wanted to talk to you about." -Slow Hours asked her several questions. She asked about the person. She asked about the day before. She asked about the morning after. She asked about Beholden and Unbidden and the crowd around her. She asked about how drunk she had been, how high. She asked like there was some thread being tugged, whether by her fingers or by Motes's or Apollo himself. No one ever asked, not even Slow Hours, and she never said, lest the whole thing come tumbling down. +Slow Hours asked her several questions. She asked about the person. She asked about the day before. She asked about the morning after. She asked about Beholden and Unbidden and the crowd around her. She asked about how drunk she had been, how high. She asked like there was some thread being tugged, whether by her fingers or by Motes's or Apollo himself. No one ever asked how this worked, not even Slow Hours — *especially* not Slow Hours — lest the whole thing come tumbling down. "Speck," she said, interrupting Motes at one point. "Here are two truths and a lie." @@ -118,9 +128,9 @@ Motes frowned. "One: they are a fucking creep." -There was a moment's silence before she giggled nervously. The flow of prophecy had a rhythm, though, and so she remained silent to let Slow Hours continue. +There was a moment's silence before she giggled nervously, a fawning laugh. The flow of prophecy had a rhythm, though, and so she remained silent to let Slow Hours continue. -"Two: you are lonely. You have us, yes. You have your stanza and the rest of the troupe. You have your family and your work, but what you do not have are the types of friends you describe. You are friendly with everyone here, everyone is your friend, but you do not *have* friends in this way." +"Two: you are lonely. You have us, yes. You have your stanza and the rest of the troupe. You have your family and your work, but what you do not have are the types of friends you describe. You are friendly with everyone here, everyone is your friend, but you do not *have* many friends in this way." Still wrong-footed, Motes leaned away from her cocladist. "And the third?" @@ -128,7 +138,7 @@ Still wrong-footed, Motes leaned away from her cocladist. "And the third?" "'Yours' as in the clade's?" -After a moment, Slow Hours spoke again, the edge of prophecy letting off of her throat. "There are as many reasons to keep someone for yourself as there are ways to do so. The whole of the fifth stanza — and, to a lesser extent, the whole of Au Lieu de Rêve — has closed around you. Not tight, of course, we are not keeping you trapped and hidden away, but we are all intensely, intensely protective of you. We have all endeavored to make your life here the best that it can be, as you have invited us to do. This was part of our conversations going all the way back, was it not? That you enjoyed leaning into being cared for, and we enjoyed having someone to collectively care for? We do not like creeps around our Motes, and so we see creeps everywhere." +After a moment, Slow Hours spoke again, the knife-edge of prophecy letting off of her throat. "There are as many reasons to keep someone for yourself as there are ways to do so. The whole of the fifth stanza — and, to a lesser extent, the whole of Au Lieu de Rêve — has closed around you. Not tight, of course, we are not keeping you trapped and hidden away, but we are all intensely, intensely protective of you. We have all endeavored to make your life here the best that it can be, as you have invited us to do. This was part of our conversations going all the way back, was it not? That you enjoyed leaning into being cared for, and we enjoyed having someone to collectively care for? We do not like creeps around our Motes, and so we see creeps everywhere." Once Motes saw what she was saying, saw through the everblue tint of prophecy and her own little game of two truths and a lie, the skunk's shoulders relaxed and she slumped against her, sniffling. @@ -136,7 +146,7 @@ Once Motes saw what she was saying, saw through the everblue tint of prophecy an Motes understood after some days of consideration that it was not her prophecy. It was theirs. It was Slow Hours's and A Finger Pointing's and Beholden's and Unbidden's and the whole rest of Au Lieu Du Rêve's. -She was still good friends with that person years later. That person and so many more. +She was still good friends with that person, that kid who was not a creep, never had been a creep, years later. That person and so many more. ----- @@ -144,15 +154,15 @@ Motes should not, she is told, do many things. She should not look too much like a child. She should not look like a kid because there are those with paraphilias surrounding children, and this would be both potentially harmful to her, as well as to the optics of the Ode clade as a whole. -She should not act too much like a child. She should not act like a kid because, while a focus on play is all well and good, a sense of maturity will keep her grounded in the world around her, as well as potentially be harmful to the optics of the Ode clade as a whole. +She should not act too much like a child. She should not act like a kid because, while a focus on play is all well and good, a sense of maturity would keep her grounded in the world around her where leaning into childhood would not, and would potentially be harmful to the optics of the Ode clade as a whole. -She should not treat her stanza as family. She should not treat her down-tree as her mother, nor A Finger Pointing's partner, Beholden, as a parent, nor Slow Hours and Time Rushes as her sisters, as the rest of the fifth stanza as siblings throughout, because family dynamics within one extended definition of a singular person create more room for potentially unhealthy modes of interaction, just as might intraclade romantic relationships, as well as potentially be harmful to the optics of the Ode clade as a whole. +She should not treat her stanza as family. She should not treat her down-tree as her mother, nor A Finger Pointing's partner, Beholden, as a parent, nor Slow Hours and Time Rushes as her sisters, as the rest of the fifth stanza as siblings throughout, because family dynamics within one extended definition of a singular person create more room for potentially unhealthy modes of interaction, just as might intraclade romantic relationships, and this might also potentially be harmful to the optics of the Ode clade as a whole. Motes should not, she is told, do many things, and yet she does them anyway. She is careful. She is gradual. She has allies. She is told these things via hints and intimations. She is told these things through A Finger Pointing and Slow Hours and countless others. -She is told gently. She is told to be careful. She is told out of a sense of protectiveness. She is told because, regardless of the implications of these warnings, the fifth stanza really does love her — they tell her and she believes — and she is told because even she can see many ways that there are plenty and sufficient reasons that someone looking young in a world with a lower bound on age would be viewed with disdain, and yet she may not see all of those ways. +She is told gently. She is told to be careful. She is told out of a sense of protectiveness. She is told because, regardless of the implications of these warnings, the fifth stanza really does love her — they tell her and she believes — and she is told because even she can see many ways that there are plenty and sufficient reasons that someone looking young in a world with a lower bound on age would be viewed with disdain, and yet she may not see *all* of those ways. ----- @@ -162,11 +172,11 @@ Above all else, Motes enjoyed piggyback rides. But always, Motes played. -She played because play was transgressive for one such as her, was it not? Oh, there were games sys-side. Within her own clade was a game designer and curator — and they often leaned on Motes for input and play-testing — and so of course play was okay, but as soon as one presents oneself as she did, as a child, then suddenly that play becomes something that works to define that very part of her. It was transgressive because when Motes played, it cast the play that every adult around her engaged with as either defined by or contrasted against her very presence. +She played because play was transgressive for one such as her, was it not? Oh, there were games sys-side. Within her own clade was a game designer and curator, What Gifts — and they often leaned on Motes for input and play-testing — and so of course play was okay, but as soon as one presents oneself as she did, as a child, then suddenly that play becomes something that works to define that very part of her. It was transgressive because when Motes played, it cast the play that every adult around her engaged with as either defined by or contrasted against her very presence. But she played in that transgression. She used it to push and press against those definitions and boundaries. She played as a twenty-something, letting her cocladists and coworkers ruffle her hair to rile her up or jump from behind a curtain to scare her. -She played as a child — even if, at first, it was only within the confines of home, and then within the apartment building, and then within the troupe, before she ever did so in public. +She played as a child — even if, at first, it was only within the confines of home, and then within the stanza's neighborhood, and then within the troupe, before she ever did so in public. She played in that familial identity, of A Finger Pointing as 'ma' and Beholden as 'Bee' and Slow Hours as Sis Hours — even if, at first, it was only within the confines of home; even if, at first, it engendered awkward and cautious feelings. @@ -184,6 +194,6 @@ Motes dreamed. She dreamed and dreamed and dreamed, her mind wandering over her past, there in the dark, there alone, after A Finger Pointing left, there in her extra soft bed with her overstuffed duvet and all of her stuffed animals. -At some point, minutes or days or hours later, she slept and dreamed true. She dreamed that she was sitting in a field of well-tended grass that was nonetheless dotted liberally with dandelions, speckled with bumblebees. She dreamed that she had all the wonder of a child and that the day was sunny and lovely and the grass was inviting her to roll around in it, and just above, just in the distance, a hyperblack rectangle, a hole in the world that hungrily devoured all of the light that it could lingered, and it was neither good nor bad, and even with its insatiable hunger, the day was sunny and lovely and the grass was inviting her to roll around in it. +At some point, hours or days or minutes later, she slept and dreamed true. She dreamed that she was sitting in a field of well-tended grass that was nonetheless dotted liberally with dandelions, speckled with bumblebees. She dreamed that she had all the wonder of a child and that the day was sunny and lovely and the grass was inviting her to roll around in it, and just above, just in the distance, a hyperblack rectangle, a hole in the world that hungrily devoured all of the light that it could, lingered, and it was neither good nor bad, and even with its insatiable hunger, the day was sunny and lovely and the grass was inviting her to roll around in it. And then she awoke. diff --git a/content/draft/007.md b/content/draft/007.md index 7f448b5..6b3bb28 100644 --- a/content/draft/007.md +++ b/content/draft/007.md @@ -28,7 +28,7 @@ She was not going to play around, here. She was not going to play soft. She was ----- -Some treacherously sunny afternoon some centuries back, Sasha/Michelle Hadje sat tiredly on the edge of a fountain in the middle of a brick-paved pedestrian mall. Just a woman or a skunk or perhaps both sitting on the rough stone in classical white, head bowed in concentration as the sun warmed the back of her neck. Beside her sat a man, a politician, watching as she drained her reserves of reputation to bring into being ten more instances of herself, each blissfully unafflicted by the restlessness-of-shape and in many ways less affected by the restlessness-of-mind that plagued her. +Some treacherously sunny afternoon some centuries back, Sasha/Michelle Hadje sat tiredly on the edge of a fountain in the middle of a brick-paved pedestrian mall. Just a woman or a skunk or perhaps both sitting on the rough stone in classical white, head bowed in concentration as the sun warmed the back of her neck. Beside her sat a man, a politician, watching as she drained her reserves of reputation to bring into being ten more instances of herself, each blissfully unafflicted by the restlessness-of-shape and in many ways less affected by the restlessness-of-mind that plagued her, though never completely without. "So, what next?" the man asked. @@ -68,9 +68,9 @@ From that point on, A Finger Pointing made herself the glue of this growing clad ----- -Yes, there were steps that she needed to take. There were ways that she needed to keep herself safe. There were ways that those who above all else she loved might come to harm and she need to keep them safe as well. She needed to ensure their safety even above her own. +Yes, there were steps that she needed to take. There were ways that she needed to keep herself safe. There were ways that those who above all else she loved might come to harm and she needed to keep them safe as well. She needed to ensure their safety even above her own. -Dry Grass was the first she kept safe. A home was provided to her within the fifth stanza's neighborhood, a little cottage some doors down from her own home. She may have been safe as she was, they both agreed, but safety from her down-tree's anger was not the only safety that was needed. There was also safety from being alone, from being left in without support. +Dry Grass was the first she kept safe. A home was provided to her within the fifth stanza's neighborhood, a little cottage some doors down from where A Finger Pointing, Beholden, and Motes lived. She may have been safe as she was, they both agreed, but safety from her down-tree's anger was not the only safety that was needed. There was also safety from being alone, from being left without support. Dry Grass did not weep. She did not sob. The tears she shed that night, sitting around the kitchen table with A Finger Pointing and Beholden, were tears of fury. They were tears of betrayal. @@ -86,7 +86,7 @@ Both nodded. "It has been more than a few years since I have spoken to Hammered Silver," Sasha admitted. "I last spoke with her around the time that the Artemisians arrived, yes? Before I became that which I am, yes?" A faint smirk painted her muzzle as she added, "The one who has named herself Sasha, yes?" -A Finger Pointing grit her teeth together, counting silently to ten. "That she weaponized all of our names against us only makes me all the angrier. I do not know what to expect of her, though. I do not know what her true intent is." +A Finger Pointing grit her teeth, counting silently to ten. "That she weaponized all of our names against us only makes me all the angrier. I do not know what to expect of her, though. I do not know what her true intent is." "As in what is her goal for sending this letter?" @@ -94,7 +94,7 @@ A Finger Pointing grit her teeth together, counting silently to ten. "That she w Dry Grass snorted. "She is an Odist; of course it is not. I am only sorry that I tuned her out for so many years, or I might have a better idea of precisely what, though." -"She is an Odist, yes," Sasha said. "She is not a bad person, but neither is she good, and now we are seeing the bad side in particular. Similarly, though, I do not have an answer for you. She has been inaccessible to me for sixteen years now, and before that, I was too distracted to spend much time engaging with her." +"She is an Odist, yes," Sasha said. "She is not a bad person, but neither is she good, and now we are seeing the wickedness of which we are all capable in particular. Similarly, though, I do not have an answer for you. She has been inaccessible to me for sixteen years now, and before that, I was too distracted to spend much time engaging with her." A Finger Pointing sighed, slouching back against the chair. "That is okay, my dear. You have had no easier a time of it than the rest of us. Decidedly worse, actually." @@ -102,9 +102,9 @@ Sasha laughed. "Still, can you at least tell us if you believe there is anything that we need to worry about?" -"Worry?" The skunk took a moment to think as she lapped at a bit more of the whipped cream. "Are you asking in particular after danger? Are you asking if she might make your name anathema or find someone to hunt you down with a vial of CPV?" +"Worry?" The skunk took a moment to think as she lapped at a bit more of the whipped cream. "Are you asking after danger? Are you asking if she might make your name anathema or find someone to hunt you down with a vial of CPV?" -Her two cocladists tensed. Neither wished to contend with the thought that Hammered Silver might have it in her to kill anyone in the only way the System knew how, some object loaded up with a contraproprioceptive virus to pierce their very being and crash them entire. Though neither wished to, the both had to, however, and so they both nodded. +Her two cocladists tensed. Neither wished to contend with the thought that Hammered Silver might have it in her to kill anyone in the only way the System knew how, some object loaded up with a contraproprioceptive virus to pierce their very being and crash them entire. However, though neither wished to, they both had to, and so they both nodded. Sasha smiled reassuringly. "I do not believe you need worry about *that.* She is mad, yes, and perhaps feeling betrayed, but she is not feeling murderous. She does not have that within her, I do not think. Would you like me to check all the same?" @@ -116,7 +116,7 @@ Dry Grass nodded. "Please do, then." -The skunk bowed briefly and then let her gaze drift briefly around the kitchen, unseeing, while she sent her question via sensorium message. It took all of thirty seconds before she returned her focus to A Finger Pointing and Dry Grass, smiling. "More than just a no, When I Dream let me hear eir laughter at the very idea. You are *quite* safe from that." +The skunk bowed and then let her gaze drift briefly around the kitchen, unseeing, while she sent her question via sensorium message. It took all of thirty seconds before she returned her focus to A Finger Pointing and Dry Grass, grinning. "More than just a no, When I Dream let me hear eir laughter at the very idea. You are *quite* safe from that." The others both sighed, then laughed at the shared relief. @@ -128,7 +128,7 @@ Sasha smiled and patted the back of that hand. "Of course. If I am able to sooth To fall in love with a cocladist is to engage in a radical form of self-love. To fall in love with a cocladist is to find a way that perhaps you *are* your type. To fall in love with a cocladist is to accept that you are large; you contain multitudes. To fall in love with your cocladist is to recognize that your hyperfixations define, in part, your sense of self, and that if you expand beyond one, then perhaps you are more than just one self. -A Finger Pointing forked all nine of her up-tree instances in systime 3, back in the early days when it still cost to fork. She had plans, though, and she had a way around those costs. She forked once, leaving her and her new instance with half of her original reputation, less than it would cost to fork again, and then her new instance simply granted the reputation back to her, enough to fork once more. She had a way around those costs, for in those days, back before the reputation market had patched out that particular glitch, her up-tree instances did not need reputation beyond hers. She had plans. She had ideas for her particular joy. She would lean into theatre, build up a troupe made up of just herself, for surely there were ten roles that needed to be filled in running a theatre. +A Finger Pointing forked all nine of her up-tree instances in systime 3, back in the early days when it still cost to fork. She had plans, though, and she had a way around those costs. She forked once, leaving her and her new instance with half of her original reputation, less than it would cost to fork again, and then her new instance simply granted the reputation back to her, enough to fork once more. She had a way around those costs, for in those days, back before the reputation market had patched out that particular glitch, her up-tree instances did not need reputation beyond hers. She had plans. She had ideas for her particular joy. She would lean into theatre, build a troupe made up of just herself, for surely there were ten roles that needed to be filled in running a theatre. There was her, the executive director and administrator. @@ -156,7 +156,7 @@ She spent time with them all, yes, but the benefit of diving deep into music is At some point, though they disagreed on when — was it five years later? Ten? Each argued passionately for one, and then the other — they *became* dates. -There was sense of aromancy in A Finger Pointing that grew after she forked. She never could say where from; perhaps it was simply that she would rather have been friends with anyone than foster a particular friendship with one person. And yet there was something about Beholden. Something fulfilling, perhaps, or complementary, or a self-love that rose above others. +There was sense of aromancy in A Finger Pointing that grew after she forked. She never could say where from; perhaps it was simply that she would rather have been friends with anyone than foster a particular friendship with one person. And yet there was something about Beholden. Something fulfilling, perhaps, or complementary, or a self-love that rose above all others. And so they fell in love, each in their own way. They fell in love and, for the most part, reveled. Yes, they had their spats. Yes, they had their flings besides, and the occasional relationship, all negotiated and cherished and bound up in compersion. But yes, they had each other. @@ -176,13 +176,13 @@ A Finger Pointing hardly needed to wait for some explanation more true, for when Did she not know what she was doing? Did she — A Finger Pointing! One of the first lines! — not consider the optics of an intraclade relationship for the rest of her stanza? The rest of the clade? Really, *the* A Finger Pointing ought to know better. -It was the first letter of several. It was the first time of many that she stood stock still, seethed, and counted to ten before opening her door to greet Beholden — her partner regardless of Hammered Silver's haughty implications — with her usual smile once more firmly in place. +It was the first letter of several. It was the first time of many that she stood stock still, seethed, and counted to ten before opening her door to greet Beholden — her partner regardless of Hammered Silver's haughty implications — with her usual jaunty smile once more firmly in place. ----- A Weapon Against The Waking World, it turned out, was perfectly happy to meet with them. -Waking World had long ago taken up the mantle of 'dad'. Not father, not pa, but specifically dad. Where Hammered Silver reveled in feelings of motherhood, of caring and cherishing and clinging tight, such as they might be sys-side, he had reveled in all the glorious humor of fatherhood, of protecting and uplifting and letting go. He was a being of idle quips and truly terrible dad jokes. He was a man who might call you 'sport' or 'champ' as easily as 'friend'. He was, in all ways except actual, *your* dad, whoever you might be. +Waking World had long ago taken up the mantle of 'dad'. Not father, not pa, but specifically dad. Where Hammered Silver reveled in feelings of motherhood, of caring and cherishing and clinging tight, such as they might be sys-side, he had reveled in all the glorious humor of fatherhood, of protecting and uplifting and letting go. He was a being of idle quips and truly terrible dad jokes. He was a man who might call you 'sport' or 'champ' as easily as 'friend'. He was, in all ways except physical, *your* dad, whoever you might be. He had long ago taken the form of a stocky man, hairline receding, tall enough, looking just enough like an Odist that one could see that he might belong to the clade — his name aside, of course — and yet the resemblance was slight enough that seeing him beside Hammered Silver would not inspire comments of "siblings...?" @@ -198,7 +198,7 @@ Beholden, leaning back with her arms crossed over her chest, snorted. "Great," s He held up his hands and shook his head. "No, no, I do not think you do. She hit me because that is the relationship that we have. Despite how often we say 'I love you' or the fact that we share a bed, despite the fact that I *do* earnestly love her, she remains staunchly of the opinion that we are in no way in a relationship." -"Okay, but how can you love her after all she has done?" the skunk snapped. A Finger pointing rested a hand on her paw, but, even as she rested her free paw atop that hand, she continued regardless. "Motes is fucking catatonic in bed now. She cut us all off, cut off whole stanzas, cut off the Bălans. Now she has cut off Dry Grass — one of her own stanza — and here you are, skulking into the library because you know that she cannot track you here." +"Okay, but how can you love her after all she has done?" the skunk snapped. A Finger pointing rested a hand on her paw, but, even as she rested her free paw atop that hand, she continued regardless. "Motes is fucking catatonic in bed now. She cut us all off, cut off whole stanzas, cut off the Bălans. Now she has cut off Dry Grass — one of her own — and here you are, skulking into the library because you know that she cannot track you here." Waking World averted his gaze. "That is not how love works, Beholden. I do not like what she has done. I *hate* what she has done. I wish that I could get to know Motes better, even, but I do love her, and my position in our little game is...precarious. I must be careful." @@ -224,7 +224,7 @@ Waking World shrugged. "She even sent me one. I got it while in the next room ov "Right. Sasha is right, though, you do not need to worry about any existential threat from her. She is not going to come hunting any of you down. She is not going to do anything but seethe." -"Is that something we need to worry about, though?" she asked. "Beholden is not the only one worried about her getting violent." +"Is that something we need to be concerned about, though?" she asked. "Beholden is not the only one worried about her getting violent." "Really, no, I do not think you have anything like that to worry about from her". Rubbing his palms together, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I might, but that is my role in this." @@ -238,13 +238,13 @@ Waking World laughed weakly. "Please do not do that, my dear. That is not what a "She needs to feel like she has hurt you," he said, speaking slowly. "She needs to know that her words had the power to do that. She needs to feel like she accomplished something through them." -"She did hurt us, though," A Finger Pointing said flatly. "She hurt Motes and Dry Grass, and she re-traumatized us all all over again. I would say that she succeeded admirably." +"She did hurt us, though," A Finger Pointing said flatly. She could feel a wave of dissociation, of vertigo. She pushed it down so that she could continue. "She hurt Motes and Dry Grass, and she re-traumatized us all all over again. I would say that she succeeded admirably." He shrugged helplessly. "Well, I ask again, then: can we do anything about it?" -They sat in silence for nearly a minute while Waking World thought. A Finger Pointing gave Beholden's paw a squeeze before retrieving her hand once more. Her sensorium felt like it was lit up with fairy lights and arc lamps. She could hear the rushing of water, and much of what she was seeing was beginning to blur, but she forced herself to remain as present as she was able, turning her senses down as much as she could get away with in the moment. +They sat in silence for nearly a minute while Waking World thought. A Finger Pointing gave Beholden's paw a squeeze before retrieving her hand once more. Her sensorium felt like it was lit up with fairy lights and arc lamps, a gently twirling Christmas tree of a self. She could hear the rushing of water, and much of what she was seeing was beginning to blur, but she forced herself to remain as present as she was able, turning her senses down as much as she could get away with in the moment. "Hammered Silver is having a tantrum," he said at last. "She does not want to argue with you. She will not be convinced because she does not really care if anything changes. She does not *want* anything to change, really. She does not want to win. She just wants to be angry and she just wants you to hurt." @@ -260,7 +260,7 @@ A Finger Pointing snorted. "You are not wrong, my love. Motes at her youngest ha "Well, whatever you do," Waking World said cautiously, "be careful. Keep yourselves safe above all else. If not from her, then at least from your own anger." -She nodded and pushed herself slowly to her feet, swaying for a moment. "We will," she said, bowing to him and turning to Beholden. "My dear, I am quite done, will you take me home?" +She nodded and pushed herself slowly to her feet through a wave of unreality, of derealization, swaying for a moment. "We will," she said, bowing to him and turning to Beholden. "My dear, I am quite done, will you take me home?" ----- @@ -280,7 +280,7 @@ And yet their apparent friendship continued. Somehow, against all odds, they con They would meet up and they would talk, and A Finger Pointing would swallow enough of her frustration with the letters to maintain this friendship without compromising her morals. -But at some point, even the closest of friendships find a point of irreconcilable difference. There is a point at which there is now way to agree upon a topic, and one must choose: do we agree to disagree? Do we argue forever and hate it? Do we argue forever and turn it into a cherished pastime? Do we simply part ways? Even the closest of friendships must make this decision. +But at some point, even the closest of friendships find a point of irreconcilable difference. There is a point at which there is no way to agree upon a topic, and one must choose: do we agree to disagree? Do we argue forever and hate it? Do we argue forever and turn it into a cherished pastime? Do we simply part ways? Even the closest of friendships must confront this decision. Theirs was not the closest of friendships. @@ -331,9 +331,9 @@ The wrinkle that appeared dead center between Hammered Silver's eyebrows made a A Finger Pointing sighed. "Please, my dear. I would love to be able to address your concerns about Motes, but I cannot do so unless you tell me what they are." -And so she did. She laid out several points about what she felt described Motes's behavior as inappropriate. The lack of children on the System. The existence of pedophilia. The accusations that Lagrange had been a haven for pedophiles. The reception that others who presented themselves as children had received. Point after point after point. +And so she did. She laid out several points about what she felt described Motes's behavior as inappropriate. The lack of children on the System. The existence of pedophilia. The baseless accusations that Lagrange had been a haven for pedophiles. The reception that others who presented themselves as children had received. Point after point after point. -They all boiled down to yet more of the same. Optics and optics and optics. Even True Name thought less about optics than Hammered Silver. +They all boiled down to yet more of the same. Optics and optics and optics. Even True Name thought less about optics than Hammered Silver. Even the politician. The lunch date ran long and A Finger Pointing grew weary of discussing point after point after point, talking about optics and optics and optics. Even refuting these claims about the optics of the problem led to Hammered Silver admitting in essence that the core of the problem was that she did not like it. Simply did not enjoy it. @@ -351,29 +351,41 @@ The walk home was slow, any faster, and she feared that she might stumble. Beholden walked with her paws stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, mostly looking down to her feet as they trudged along the sidewalk, while A Finger Pointing walked with her arm looped through her partner's, trusting the skunk to get them both home. -She needed it; the world had indeed stopped making sense, as though seen in watercolors, too much ink on canvas. The sound of their footsteps on gravel and concrete and grass was a fine grit within her ears. +She needed it; the world had indeed stopped making sense, as though seen in watercolors, too much ink on canvas. The sound of their footsteps on gravel and concrete and grass was a fine grit within her ears. The sound of the door opening, the feeling of the couch beneath her. -In a fit of play some decades back, one of her ephemeral up-tree instances had quit right as they started to crash and she, ever curious, had accepted the merge. After all, when else would she ever know what a crash felt like without crashing herself? +There was panic, there, yes — there was dissociation, derealization, depersonalization — panic about the events, panic about Dry Grass and Motes and herself and Beholden, but there was also exhaustion. There was also the knock-on effects of a fit of play some years back, all welling up within her. -The effects were both subtle and drastic. +In that fit of play, that bout of instance artistry decades prior, one of her up-tree instances — two degrees up, a fork of a fork — started to crash. Before they did so completely, however, they managed to quit, to merge back down. Her immediate up-tree, another instance of ever-curious her, accepted the merge blithely. After all, when else would she ever know what a crash felt like without crashing herself? -They were subtle for their insidious nature. The sensation of the crash was startling, painful, a dissolution of the self that she had not expected. The pain had come in the sensation of her entire sensorium catching fire all at once. The dissolution of self had come with those nerves-on-fire rapidly unwinding. And even after she returned home, even after she slept, the memory of that sensation lingered within her. +Nothing happened. It was strange, yes. It was weird and confusing and uncomfortable, but it did not hurt, it did not leave that instance of her affected in any apparent way. Just a pile of jumbled memories slowly seeping in between the ones she had made, herself. -It was more than just a memory, though. It lingered there, quiet, beneath her own senses. She felt that pain waiting for her, felt the way her every nerve, no matter which sense it controlled, was pulled taut. +And so, A Finger Pointing accepted her up-tree's merge just as blithely. -They were drastic because now here she was, some decades hence, still suffering, still feeling the way her vision and hearing and touch and taste and sense of smell all were affected, and when the stress rose, so too did these sensations. +The effects were both subtle and dramatic. -Beholden led her through the door and into their house, guided her to the couch, and bade her sit. She returned a moment later with a glass of lukewarm water, lest the cold from the tap burn her throat. She drank carefully and then lay back against the cushions. +They were subtle because there was was no sudden incapacitation, no torturous existence that left her craving non-existence. They were subtle because they left her with a life so much like the one she had, but for the fact that her sensorium and sense of self had been severed, separated. + +This was the dissociation. This was the derealization. This was the world around her ceasing to make sense, as though in a dream. As though in a dream because she *did* live in a dream, did she not? She lived in the consensual dream that was the System, yes? It was hyper-dreaming, then, it was understanding a dream within a dream. + +It was like the System before the dream had been made consensual. It was like what image or audio or video transfers had been attempted before the introduction of AVEC, all blurry, all smudged, all almost-but-not-quite what they were, what they were meant to be. + +It was having a conversation with a dear one when tired, when one's attention drifted, and then trying to repeat the words that you had almost but not quite heard. It was looking at a scene and remembering that you were standing on a beach a moment ago, and yet being unable to tell water from shore, from sand. It was looking at your partner and not recognizing their face, not recognizing what a face *was.* + +It was pain, but she could not tell where or what kind or even if it was pain at all. It was vertigo. It was no up or down. + +It was curling in the corner in a fetal position because to do aught else was to risk falling over and breaking a limb. + +She wished dearly that she could do so now. "I am tired, Beholden." -"I know, love," the skunk said, sitting beside her on the couch. +"I know, love," the skunk said, sitting beside her on the couch and dreaming up a glass of water for her. She could still comprehend, at least, and could still see Beholden there beside her, a look of tired concern painted on her face. "Do you need anything else?" -She shook her head. "Nothing in particular, no, though if you could stay here for a little while, I would appreciate that." +She shook her head and carefully sipped her water. "Nothing in particular, no, though if you could stay here for a little while, I would appreciate that." "Do not be ridiculous," Beholden said, grinning wanly. "Like I would ever fucking leave. I *am* going to send a fork to go check on Dot, though." @@ -403,7 +415,7 @@ A Finger Pointing was not sure when it was that her friendship with Hammered Sil There was still that point of realization, though. There was that point when she realized that she had long ago ceased to be Hammered Silver's friend, had long ago become merely her cocladist, some obligation to be followed up upon out of a tired sense of formality or information gathering over friendship-colored lunches. -They were friendship colored because that was the tinted glass that A Finger Pointing held before her eyes. She viewed the world with friendship, with the joy of joy itself. She looked at all times through a gel — one of those transparent, colored sheets used to tint a stage-light — colored friendship, colored joy. +They were friendship colored because that was the tinted glass that A Finger Pointing held before her eyes. She viewed the world with friendship, with the joy of joy itself. She looked at all times through a gel — one of those transparent, colored sheets used to tint a stage-light — colored with friendship, colored by joy. It was not a pair of rose-colored glasses. She was not burying her head in the sand to avoid some unpleasant facts. She was as realistic as ever she had been, as Sasha/Michelle had been before her and Michelle Hadje before that. @@ -427,9 +439,9 @@ And at some point back in the mid 2200s, Motes had begun exploring the concept o For this was true of all of her up-trees, and for much of Au Lieu Du Rêve besides. Going years back, back even to the late 2100s, this reveling in play that Motes brought to the fifth stanza had built in A Finger Pointing a sense of her place in the order: her role was a maternal one. A reveling in care, in the type of friendship that flowered in a particular dynamic. -She was their matron, in a way. She was their protector. She shielded them as best she could from the politics that so much of their cocladists were engaging in throughout the rest of the System. "But that is my job," she reasoned allowed when she became more open about this protection. "That is why we have an administrator for Au Lieu Du Rêve, yes? Someone has to deal with the politics of running a theatre, yes?" +She was their matron, in a way. She was their protector. She shielded them as best she could from the politics that so much of their cocladists were engaging in throughout the rest of the System. "But that is my job," she reasoned aloud when she became more open about this protection. "That is why we have an administrator for Au Lieu Du Rêve, yes? Someone has to deal with the politics of running a theatre, yes?" -The first time she called A Finger Pointing 'ma', there had been a conversation, full of various confusions and inquiries and boundaries. Both came to an agreement that this was not comfortable. Not now, not yet. +The first time Motes called A Finger Pointing 'ma', there had been a conversation, full of various confusions and inquiries and boundaries. Both came to an agreement that this was not comfortable. Not now, not yet. A year later — for what is a year to a cladist? — Motes did it again, and this time she asked first, and permission was granted to see how it felt. It was still uncomfortable, but perhaps there was joy to be found. Perhaps there was expectations and standards and trust that could be built up. @@ -437,19 +449,19 @@ And so, as it had been with each of Motes's tentative explorations and gentle te This private setting, this iterative context, this ongoing play allowed for growth and change. -There was soreness, of course. There was soreness that A Finger Pointing and Beholden still had to deal with the taboo of intraclade relationships, that it was still not permissible for this reason or that for them to kiss in public, for them to share their I-love-yous. +There was soreness, of course. There was soreness that A Finger Pointing and Beholden still had to deal with the taboo of intraclade relationships, that it was still not permissible for this reason or that for them to kiss in public, for them to share their I-love-yous where others might witness that joy. -This built up a false equivalence within all three of them. It allowed them to consider this taboo as applying to all intraclade relationships beyond simple community, simple friendship. Big-R Relationships like those of A Finger Pointing and her Beholden and little-r relationships like those of Motes with the two of them. This desire for family to be constrained to a private setting must apply to all kinds of family dynamics, yes? +This built up a false equivalence within all three of them. It allowed them to consider this taboo as applying to all intraclade relationships beyond simple community, simple friendship. Big-R Relationships like those of A Finger Pointing and her Beholden and like those of Motes with the two of them. This desire for family to be constrained to a private setting must apply to all kinds of family dynamics, yes? -"Beholden and I are still smarting because we must sequester our affection for one another in private. That is why I have been hesitant to take on the caregiver role that you have sought from me," A Finger Pointing had said during a quiet night's conversation, skunklet curled beside her on the couch. "But I do care for you, do I not? I do feel like a sort of matron amidst the fifth stanza, do I not? Perhaps it is time I reconsidered my aversion to familial language. Perhaps it is time I considered reclamation. After all, everything I have done has been so that you can live in peace. Are you living in peace, Motes? Are you at peace when you must restrain your feelings for me for reasons neither of us particularly care for?" +"Beholden and I are still smarting because we must sequester our affection for one another in private. That is why I have been hesitant to take on the caregiver role that you have sought from me," A Finger Pointing had said during a quiet night's conversation, skunklet curled beside her on the couch, getting pets. "But I do care for you, do I not? I do feel like a sort of matron amidst the fifth stanza, do I not? Perhaps it is time I reconsidered my aversion to familial language. Perhaps it is time I considered reclamation. After all, everything I have done has been so that you can live in peace. Are you living in peace, Motes? Are you at peace when you must restrain your feelings for me for reasons neither of us particularly care for?" And so it remained largely at home, at home with the three of them and at home in the neighborhood that was slowly building up around them. It remained a secret, but, like A Finger Pointing and Beholden's relationship, it remained an open one. The quiet of the secret allowed them live to their fullest, and the openness allowed them to share joy where they felt safe doing so. -But then, some time back around systime 182, back around the time the clocks ticked over to 2306, back around the time Michelle/Sasha had summoned them all to her field to merge centuries of memory and then quit, Hammered Silver sent one of her longest letters yet. It was in some ways a screed. It was beyond simply admonition, note, or missive. It was an epistle, some general letter intended to be a point of instruction not just to her but to the world as a whole. +But then, some time back around systime 182, back around the time the clocks ticked over to 2306, back around the time Michelle/Sasha had summoned them all to her field to merge centuries of memory and then quit, perished, Hammered Silver sent one of her longest letters yet. It was in some ways a screed. It was beyond simply admonition, note, or missive. It was an epistle, some general letter intended to be a point of instruction not just to her but to the world as a whole. The screed, well worth embodying as a physical letter if only to be torn up, ripped to shreds, burnt to ash, soaked with tears to douse the fire, ground into a paint, and used to spell out anger and despair, spelled out in nigh-unintelligible detail all of the ways in which she and hers had fallen short. -Motes had existed. She had tested the limits and found them flexible. She had found the boundaries negotiable. She had poked her nose out into the world and found it largely amenable to her existence. She had lived her life in play. She had played as a child and played as an adult. She had gone down slides and been bitten during sex and died on-stage, all countless times. +Motes had existed. She had tested the limits and found them flexible. She had found the boundaries negotiable. She had poked her nose out into the world and found it largely amenable to her existence. She had lived her life in play. She had played as a child and played as an adult. She had gone down slides and been bitten during sex and died on-stage and off, all countless times. All of these were unacceptable. All of these had led to letters and notes of their own. All were rehashed through paragraph after paragraph of spiny invective. @@ -501,20 +513,20 @@ And then, with a small ping of a notification, an envelope blipped into being at She read the letter through twice and then committed it to an exocortex and destroyed the original. -"What a fucking bitch," she muttered to herself as she turned to return inside. "At least it fucking worked." +"What a fucking bitch," she muttered to herself as she turned to return inside. A simple dinner. A few glasses of wine. A quiet evening saying nothing while she lounged with her head on Beholden's lap while the skunk worked. As darkness fell, as they planned on bed, she checked up on Motes for herself. -The skunk lay tightly curled beneath her covers, a pillow in her arms, eyes clenched tightly shut. She was tempted to stand there for a few minutes, simply watching her charge, her Dot, sleep. +The skunk lay tightly curled beneath her covers, a pillow held tightly in her arms, eyes clenched tightly shut. She was tempted to stand there for a few minutes, simply watching her charge, her Dot, sleep. Or...not sleep, but withdraw from the waking world. -Better to show what she could without bothering the girl too much, so she stepped quietly into the room and climbed up onto Motes's bed with her, curling behind her and draping an arm across her. +Better to show what she could without bothering the girl too much, so she stepped quietly into the room and climbed up onto Motes's bed with her, curling behind her and draping an arm across the little skunk. "I love you, Dot," she mumbled, burying her face against the back of the skunk's neck. "I am sorry." -There was more she could say — so much more — but for some reason, words failed her after that. Words and will both failed her, and so she simply lay there with Motes, replying to Beholden's gentle, inquiring ping with a soothing one of her own. +There was more she could say — so much more — but for some reason, words failed her after that. Words and will both failed her, and so she simply lay there with Motes, replying to Beholden's gentle, inquiring ping with a soothing one of her own. She had told Motes that she loved her, as she never tired of doing so, and that was enough. She lay there until she felt Motes slowly relax beneath her arm, heard her breathing slow, and then for a while after. diff --git a/content/draft/008.md b/content/draft/008.md index f054816..06471fe 100644 --- a/content/draft/008.md +++ b/content/draft/008.md @@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ Motes thought of play. -She thought of all of the play that she had taken part in over the years, all of the games and make believe, all of the jungle-gyms and slides, all of the tag and red-light-green-light and duck-duck-goose, everything going back 276 years, as much as she could remember. She thought of all her toys, from the mound of stuffed animals occupying her bed beside her right now to the awful and cheap RC car she had received on her fifth birthday that worked for that day and that day alone, that never again turned on. She thought of all her friends, of Alexei on the playground the other day — three days ago? Four? — calling out to her as she fell under the spike of panic, of Sarah Couch who she had met in kindergarten, who she had told her parents she was dating in third grade, who had died some years after Michelle had uploaded. +She thought of all of the play that she had taken part in over the years, all of the games and make believe, all of the jungle-gyms and slides, all of the tag and red-light-green-light and duck-duck-goose, everything going back 276 years, as much as she could remember. She thought of all her toys, from the mound of stuffed animals occupying her bed beside her right now to the awful and cheap RC car she had received on her fifth birthday that worked for that day and that day alone, that never again turned on. She thought of all her friends, of Alexei on the playground the other day — three days ago? Four? — calling out to her as she fell under the spike of panic, of Frida Couch who she had met in kindergarten, who she had told her parents she was dating in third grade, who had died some years after Michelle had uploaded. She thought of the way that play defined the Motes that she had become, the way it had shaped the way she interacted with the world, the way it shaped her very form. She thought of how Au Lieu Du Rêve had accepted readily just how well it fit her self-definition. She thought of the family that she had built up around her. @@ -24,7 +24,7 @@ The hash browns were the first to go in the pan, laid out in an even layer so th Definitely a morning for a mimosa. -The eggs were fried over easy and the sausage cooked to just this side of burnt so that they offered a pleasant mix of textures, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside with an indulgent oiliness throughout. These were layered on top of a pile of crispy hash browns — the kind that shatter beneath a fork when you try to stab them — before the eggs were laid on top and the yolks punctured so that they oozed out over the mess to add a sauce of their own. +The eggs were fried over easy and the sausage cooked to just this side of burnt so that they offered a pleasant mix of textures, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside with an indulgent oiliness throughout. These were layered on top of a pile of even crispier hash browns — the kind that shatter beneath a fork when you try to stab them — before the eggs were laid on top and the yolks punctured so that they oozed out over the mess to add a sauce of their own. Her plate laden with two burritos in one hand and mimosa in the other, she made her way to the couch rather than the dining table and settled down with a long, worn-out sigh. @@ -58,7 +58,7 @@ She laughed. "Of course you would be. You really set up the sim to ping you when "She was so rude, cutting off a conversation with Sasha mid-sentence and rushing us back here, putting on her most nonchalant act." -Motes laughed as they both scoffed at each other, looping her arms through each of theirs and slouching down, settling into the comfort of touch and family. "You are both nerds," she murmured. "Thank you for keeping an eye out for me." +Motes laughed as they both scoffed at each other, looping her arms through each of theirs and slouching down, settling into the comfort of touch and family. "You are both nerds," she murmured. "Thank you for keeping an eye on me." "Of course, my dear," they said in unison. A Finger Pointing continued, "Motes, did you leave any champagne for the rest of us? I would not say no to a Bellini." @@ -84,7 +84,7 @@ The answer was a long time coming, the silence filled with the gentle tink of gl "Yeah," Motes said at last. "At least, I think so. It was something that I did almost on a whim. I knew I wanted to be Big Motes, or at least that I was not ready to be Little Motes yet. Been thinking about that all morning." -Beholden finished tasting her drink, nodded appreciatively, then asked, "Have you come to any conclusions?" +Beholden tasted her drink, nodded appreciatively, then asked, "Have you come to any conclusions?" "I think so," she said, looking down at her mimosa. Beholden had topped it with a maraschino cherry poked through with a cocktail umbrella. There was a warmth of adoration starting to fill hat hollow space in her chest. "I am not going to stop playing, not going to stop being her, but...but that really fucking hurt, and I need to know what to do with that pain before I reengage with that, you know?" @@ -94,9 +94,9 @@ Motes shook her head gently so as not to dislodge crown or umbrella. "Good. You are allowed to be Big Motes for a bit while you process this. You are allowed to hold back on all sorts of interactions. I have noticed a lack of 'ma' or 'Bee'– no, no. No need to explain, just an observation. These are things that we will miss and then rejoice when they return." -She slouched against A Finger Pointing and hugged around her chest, careful not to spill her drink. "Thank you, my dear. I really do appreciate it. I will get there, too, for all of that. Just...not yet. Not quite yet." +She slouched against A Finger Pointing and hugged around her middle, careful not to spill her drink. "Thank you, my dear. I really do appreciate it. I will get there, too, for all of that. Just...not yet. Not quite yet." -Beholden smiled, reaching out to brush some of her curls away from her face, added, "Yeah. And if you need us to lay off calling you 'Dot', I am sure–" +Beholden smiled, reached out to brush some of her curls away from her face, added, "Yeah. And if you need us to lay off calling you 'Dot', I am sure–" "Absolutely not," Motes said, laughing. "I would not have you change your ways just because I am feeling icky for a bit." @@ -132,7 +132,7 @@ Finally, Motes huffed and flopped back against the couch. "What a fucking bitch. She shrugged. "Well, I pinged Miss Genet, so we are going to meet later." -"Therapy!" A Finger Pointing exclaimed, sitting up straighter. "What a lovely idea." +"Therapy!" A Finger Pointing exclaimed, waving a hand at nothing in particular. "What a lovely idea." "After all that?" Beholden said, smirking. "I am surprised that you have not already scheduled something." @@ -144,15 +144,15 @@ She sat up straight, staring at her partner like she was some alien creature, so As A Finger Pointing and Beholden finally got around to whipping up lunch for themselves, the conversation once more fell into comfortable chatter, the sort of banter that so often filed the house, and while, by the time her appointment arrived, Motes had not yet felt comfortable enough to refer to them as 'ma' and 'Bee', that welcoming sense of family had returned in force, and she felt once more in her comforting role as their Dot, their *dóttir*. -As the afternoon started to threaten to slide right into evening, Motes took her leave and left A Finger Pointing and Beholden on the couch, canoodling. Clearly that had taken precedent over whatever they had had planned at the auditorium for the rest of the day. That they had come home for her, for Motes, was the base of that warmth that had begun to grow within her. +As the afternoon threatened to slide right into evening, Motes took her leave and left A Finger Pointing and Beholden on the couch, canoodling. Clearly that had taken precedence over whatever they had had planned at the auditorium for the rest of the day. That they had come home for her, for Motes, was the base of that warmth that had grown within her. -She made her way out of the house and wandered to the center of the neighborhood. She left the automatic chalk lines going, letting them be the fuel that propelled her forward, left their flowering shapes fit into this perception of herself as a flower child rather than simply a child, a gentle reframing that allowed her to have this thing, this gentle goodness. +She made her way out of the house and wandered to the center of the neighborhood. She left the automatic chalk lines going, letting them be the fuel that propelled her forward, let their flowering shapes fit into this perception of herself as a flower child rather than simply a child, a careful reframing that allowed her to have this thing, this gentle goodness. -The neighborhood formed a lazy semicircle, a 'U' that butted up against an avenue that petered out into the nature of the sim in either direction. Across the street — in accessible to anyone who was unwelcome — sat the back entrance of the theatre Au Lieu Du Rêve most commonly performed at. Just homes and beloved workplace dropped into an endless landscape like sugar into so much tea. +The neighborhood formed a lazy semicircle, a 'U' that butted up against an avenue that petered out into the nature of the sim in either direction. Across the street — inaccessible to anyone who was unwelcome — sat the back entrance of the theatre Au Lieu Du Rêve most commonly performed at. Just homes and a beloved workplace dropped together into an endless landscape like sugar into so much tea. -In the bowl of the 'U' sat all of the common areas. A pool — one with seats and jets, one that could be a hot tub seeing a hundred as easily as an Olympic pool — a few tennis courts for the few — who? — who actually enjoyed the game, a liberal dotting of grills — everyone had a favorite — for cook outs, a "community center" which had long ago turned into a movie-theater-*cum*-cuddlepit... +In the bowl of the 'U' sat all of the common areas. A pool — one with seats and jets, one that could be a hot tub seating a hundred as easily as it could be an Olympic pool — a few tennis courts for the few — who? — who actually enjoyed the game, a liberal dotting of grills — everyone had a favorite — for cook outs, a "community center" which had long ago turned into a movie-theater-*cum*-cuddlepit... -And there, right at the very lowest point of the bowl of the 'U' sat a playground. What was initially intended to be Motes's haunt, hers and her friends, had long ago turned into a place for late-night musings. Thousands and thousands of times over the years, couples or small groups or lone individuals would converge on the swings or the slide and sit in the dark, staring up on the star-speckled sky, the Milky Way glowing bright enough to light one's face beyond even the gold-and-black of the rest of the neighborhood with its sodium vapor lamps and countless darknesses. It was a place for play, yes, and it was often used for such, but it was also a place for couples to work out their problems or groups to chat about everything and nothing or for one to sit alone, drunk, beneath the stars, looking up and feeling good or bad or simply introspective. +And there, right at the very lowest point of the bowl of the 'U' sat a playground. What was initially intended to be Motes's haunt, hers and her friends, had long ago turned into a place for late-night musings. Thousands and thousands of times over the years, couples or small groups or lone individuals would converge on the swings or the slide and sit in the dark, staring up on the star-speckled sky, the Milky Way glowing bright enough to light one's face beyond even the Moon, even the gold-and-black of the rest of the neighborhood with its sodium vapor lamps and countless darknesses. It was a place for play, yes, and it was often used for such, but it was also a place for couples to work out their problems or groups to chat about everything and nothing or for one to sit alone, drunk, beneath the stars, looking up and feeling good or bad or simply introspective. It was not dark now. @@ -194,7 +194,7 @@ She smirked. "You read me like the Sunday comics," she said, laughing. "Yes." Sarah smiled in turn, far more gently. "Tell me about this letter, then. Tell me what'd be enough for you to get knocked out of commission." -And so she did. She summarized portions of it, then pulled it up to read the most impactful bits. She talked about the feelings of the week and change leading up to this, the conversations and the dream. She talked about how she had stopped playing, how it hurt to think of reengaging, how she knew she would but there was work to be done first. +And so she did. She summarized portions of it, then pulled it up to read the most impactful bits. She talked about the feelings of the month leading up to this, the conversations and the dream. She talked about how she had stopped playing, how it hurt to think of reengaging, how she knew she would but there was work to be done first. And then, on Sarah's gentle urging, she worked her way backwards. She worked her way back through the months and years before, the feelings that lingered, the various comings-to-terms that she had had over the years. She talked through and made her own connections, letting Sarah suggest when her voice stumbled to a halt. @@ -242,7 +242,7 @@ Sarah laughed. "I really was just trying to figure things out, not lead you alon Motes frowned. -"It's okay if you act as though they are," Sarah said. "Or if they become a part of your internal conception of the play. They don't need to be actively in on it." +"It's okay if you act as though they are," Sarah said. "Or if they become a part of your internal conception of the play. They don't need to be actively in on it if it's an internal representation of your world." "Right," she mumbled, looking out into the neighborhood and swaying gently from side to side in her swing. "I guess it makes more sense when you talk about family members cutting each other off. If that is a thing that families do with any frequency, then there is no reason for me to not incorporate that." @@ -298,6 +298,8 @@ Sarah laughed, and Motes felt the sound in the air as she breezed past. *Do not worry, my dear,* Dry Grass had said. *You are stuck with me for a good while yet.* +*I would rather tell Hammered Silver to go fuck herself,* Dry Grass had said in the end. + Perhaps Dry Grass had excused herself from the sixth stanza. Perhaps she had taken an opportunity to make her opinions known. Perhaps she had spoken up, talked back, shot down a little bit of Hammered Silver's authority by standing up for Motes. Perhaps she ought to hug Dry Grass extra-tight next time she saw her. diff --git a/content/draft/009.md b/content/draft/009.md index d30fc80..e4b54a5 100644 --- a/content/draft/009.md +++ b/content/draft/009.md @@ -22,7 +22,7 @@ She shrugged and picked at the rock with a claw, worrying loose a thin chip of f She laughed and threw the chip of rock at him. "That is not *not* true. I guess it is extra true, actually, since most of my time away was spent talking." She tried to scratch up another chip, but she seemed to have lucked out that first time. "Sorry I just disappeared a while back." -"Yeah, I was worried. I thought you got hurt bad. What happened?" +"Yeah, I was worried. I thought you got hurt real bad. What happened?" She hesitated, averting her gaze to look out into the park around her, the park she had claimed as her domain not half an hour before. "I got a high priority ping that made me fall, and then I hit my face on that stupid dome." @@ -42,7 +42,7 @@ Alexei screwed up his face in a wince. "Double-ew. So were you in trouble? Are y Motes giggled. "I mean, I guess so. Big Motes understands it better, but she is busy." -This had long ago become a hint to drop into conversations that to continue would be to break the illusion, to pull back the curtain and expose the play for what it was: merely a performance. +This had long ago become a hint to drop into conversations that to continue them would be to break the illusion, to pull back the curtain and expose the play for what it was: merely a performance. Neither of them, neither of these two consummate performers, wanted that. Alexei could probably pry it out of her, pry out all of the details of all that had happened — and she may yet send him a letter as Big Motes for more context later — pry her out of this space for a little bit if he wanted. @@ -66,7 +66,7 @@ She frowned. "I know, but I want to know. I just got back from two weeks of frea "Please?" -"Hmf." +"Hmph." "Pretty pleeease?" she whined. "With a cherry on top?" @@ -98,7 +98,7 @@ She laughed. "Some of us. Some of us drifted apart, but some of us stick togethe Motes sighed. "I guess, yeah. That is why it hurt and why I had to spend a lot of time thinking about it." -He reached out and gave her tail a gentle tug — not something she usually tolerated, but the conversation had been so gentle, it had not scent of meanness to it — and smiled up to her. "Well, *I* think you're better than she is, so clearly she isn't you. Tell her to get stuffed!" +He reached out and gave her tail a gentle tug — not something she usually tolerated, but the conversation had been so gentle, it had no scent of meanness to it — and smiled up to her. "Well, *I* think you're better than she is, so clearly she isn't you. Tell her to get stuffed!" She laughed, reaching out to bat at his hand. "I guess I pretty much did, because here I am!" @@ -112,21 +112,21 @@ Beholden grilled hot dogs and bratwurst and Motes, yes, had them loaded up with Ioan grilled *frigărui,* kebabs loaded up with Carpathian seasonings, and *mititei,* a quick sausage. -Warmth made an array of its best guesses at Artemisian food, some of which were quite tasty. - -Few who tried the fluffy tower of *frahabrodåt* went back for seconds, at which ey seemed quite proud. +Warmth made an array of its best guesses at Artemisian food, some of which were quite tasty. Few who tried the fluffy tower of *frahabrodåt* went back for seconds, at which ey seemed quite proud. Motes ate it all. She ate herself overfull. She ate herself messy, leaving her shirt dotted with mustard and grease, her lips shining with the oily sheen of at least three different types of sausage. Thus sated, she darted around the gathering, the thirty or so people who had showed up from both within the clade and without. She hugged everyone who wanted a hug, chased Warmth in multiples, the two little skunks leapfrogging each other and leaving their fur and clothes stained green with with grass. She drank a few margaritas, allowing through only a modicum of the drunkenness so that she remained cognizant and present through the tipsiness, awake and alert through the haze. +She wove around A Finger Pointing and Beholden, drawing figure eights around these anchors of her life with wanderings of herself, trailing love and affection as she went, demanding that they dote upon her, that they lean down so that she could give them nose-dot kisses. + And then, as she had several times over the last week, she latched herself onto Dry Grass. As they had over the last week, they revelled in the closeness and affection, the joy in allowing themselves to be around each other despite meaningless admonitions. As they had, they spoke mostly of small things, of interesting things they had seen or nice foods that they had eaten or simple stories made up on the spot. -It was important to her that she be around this person she considered a member of her family. One of the close ones, not one of the distant ones, not one that had cut her off. It was important that they spend quality time together, that by that time she live her gratefulness for Dry Grass's presence. +It was important to her that she be around this person she considered a member of her family. One of the close ones, not one of the distant ones, not one that had cut her off. It was important that they spend quality time together, that through that time, she *lived* her gratefulness for Dry Grass's presence. -And then, when they all piled into the movie-theater-*cum*-cuddlepit, Dry Grass slouched into a beanbag and dragged the skunk into her lap. They sat silent through the movie, watching off and on, dozing now and then. The movie was not important. It was good, she was sure, but that was not the point. +And then, when they all piled into the movie-theater-*cum*-cuddlepit, A Finger Pointing, Beholden, and Dry Grass slouched into a beanbag. Dry Grass dragged Motes into her lap while they all settled in. They sat silent through the first part of movie, watching off and on, dozing now and then. The movie was not important. It was good, she was sure, but that was not the point. -An hour or so later, Dry Grass set up a cone of silence over the beanbag and nudged Motes to sit beside her rather than on her and said, "Hey, kiddo. I would like to apologize for everything that happened this month." +An hour or so later, after Beholden and A Finger Pointing had fallen asleep against each other amid all the softness, Dry Grass set up a cone of silence over the beanbag and nudged Motes to sit beside her rather than on her and said, "Hey, kiddo. I would like to apologize for everything that happened this month." Motes scrubbed her paws over her face to wake up more fully. "How do you mean?" @@ -142,7 +142,7 @@ Her cocladist frowned. "That is why I am sorry. So much happened, and I started She shrugged. "But then, maybe I started by whining at you about it. It is nobody's fault but Hammered Silver's." She giggled sleepily, adding, "She made herself mad, even. I do not believe you that you say you did." -Dry Grass's expression softened and she brushed some of her mane out of her face. "I suppose there is that," she said quietly. "We could go back and forth placing blame as much as we would like–" +Dry Grass's expression softened and she brushed some of the skunk's mane out of her face. "I suppose there is that," she said quietly. "We could go back and forth placing blame as much as we would like–" "And she would always be the wrong one," Motes interrupted. "Frick her. She is the one holding grudges, we are the ones doing what we want. She is the one hurting people, we are the ones just playing and having fun and not hurting anyone." @@ -150,9 +150,9 @@ There was another moment of silence, of Dry Grass furrowing her brow and thinkin They stayed like that for the rest of the film, Dry Grass petting Motes and Motes telling Dry Grass stories about the day, little nothings that showed that fun, that lack of pain. -And then, when the movie was over and many of those in the community center had started to doze on their beanbags and couches, when Dry Grass fell asleep one too many times and begged off to go back home — not without yet another tight hug from Motes and a promise to be back soon — when Motes herself started to get sleepy, she disentangled herself from the rest of that dozy comfort and slipped out into the cool of the night. +And then, when the movie was over and many of those in the community center had started to doze on their beanbags and couches, and her ma and Bee put kisses on her snout and left arm in arm, when Dry Grass fell asleep one too many times and begged off to walk back home — not without yet another tight hug from Motes and a promise to be back soon — when Motes herself started to get sleepy, she disentangled herself from the rest of that dozy comfort and slipped out into the cool of the night. -Rather than turning left off toward home, she turned right to the other arm of the 'U' that made up the neighborhood and started wandering through the grass until she hit the sidewalk. There, vines in chalk blossomed lazily behind her footsteps, and in the night, in the light of the stars and the moon and the streetlamps, they seemed to glow in pale oranges and whites and blues. She played with them by taking wobbling, drunken steps, crossing one leg in front of the other, pirouetting clumsily to make them tie themselves into knots. +Rather than turning left, off toward home, she turned right to the other arm of the 'U' that made up the neighborhood and started wandering through the grass until she hit sidewalk. There, vines in chalk blossomed lazily behind her footsteps, and in the night. In the light of the stars and the moon and the streetlamps, they seemed to glow in pale oranges and whites and blues. She played with them by taking wobbling, drunken steps, crossing one leg in front of the other, pirouetting clumsily to make them tie themselves into knots. Even so, she continued down around the slow curve of the neighborhood's main street, not bothering to venture into any of the cul-de-sacs. The chalk lines were fun, a little trail describing where the little skunk had wandered, but she *was* tired. It had been a long first day back as Little Motes, and she had successfully packed it to the brim with all that she had wanted to do, and that success gave to her a sense of rightness.