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Madison Scott-Clary 2023-12-26 09:33:42 -08:00
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writing/post-self/motes/002.md
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Motes played.
Tonight, she played hard. It was a big Motes night. It was a human night, 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.
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.