update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/marsh/018.md

@@ -4,11 +4,11 @@ Right as it was about to land, the lights went out, leaving the entire auditoriu
 
 The play continued from there. The police showed up. The investigation was swift and decisive. The arrest was made. All of this in utter darkness.
 
-Even at the scene change, though, as the lights came back up, as the foyer disappeared and was replaced with a courtroom done up all in wood, the scene for the rest of the performance, the puddle of blood remained on the floor, untouched and bright red, glinting in the stage-lights.
+Even at the scene change, though, as the lights came back up, as the foyer disappeared and was replaced with a courtroom done up all in wood, the scene for the rest of the performance, the puddle of blood remained on the floor, untouched and bright, arterial red, glinting in the stage-lights.
 
 At first, I thought it must have been a mistake, some stagehand forgetting to clean up the mess. As the play continued, though, it became increasingly clear that this was intentional. The attorneys deftly avoided stepping in the puddle, never looking at it. The judge never looked at it. The jury never looked at it. Neither did the bailiff or any of the witnesses.
 
-The perpetrator, however, couldn't seem to keep their eyes off it. Even as they were brought to the stand, even as they rambled, nigh-incoherently, in response to the whys and hows that the prosecutors threw at them, their gaze never left the blood, still untouched, unsmeared except for where the victim's body had pushed it. Even as flashbacks played in reverse chronological order, from the police's investigation to the murder, to the point at which the perpetrator had first met the victim early in their childhood, all taking place in a feathered spotlight behind the prowling lawyers with the rest courtroom dimmed, they stared, eyes wide. Their expression was at times hungry, at times mournful, but always keenly focused.
+The perpetrator, however, couldn't seem to keep their eyes off it. Even as they were brought to the stand, even as they rambled, nigh-incoherently, in response to the whys and hows that the prosecutors threw at them, their gaze never left the blood, still untouched, unsmeared except for where the victim's body had pushed it. Even as flashbacks played out in reverse chronological order, from the police's investigation to the murder to the point at which the perpetrator had first met the victim early in their childhood, all taking place in a feathered spotlight behind the prowling lawyers with the rest courtroom dimmed, they stared, eyes wide. Their expression was at times hungry, at times mournful, but always keenly focused.
 
 As the play drew up to the climax, as the attacker was convicted and condemned to live forever, mouldering in some dark cell, they at last darted around the defense's table, hands still cuffed before them, and collapsed, laughing and sobbing in equal measure, above the pool of blood, smearing it on their hands, over their face and clothes. "I did it!" they howled. "I fucking did it *and it didn't mean a fucking thing!*"
 
@@ -34,13 +34,13 @@ I shook my head in disbelief and leaned forward to pat her gently between the ea
 
 After another minute or so, Dry Grass carefully swiveled around to face me, looking over Motes's shoulder in turn. "This little asshole *knows* I hate it when she does those scenes."
 
-The skunk squirmed about in her arms until she was sitting sideways in her lap. "I did not know you were here!" she countered. "That would not have changed the show, but I still did not know, or I would have warned you to arrive late."
+The skunk squirmed about in her arms until she was sitting sideways in her lap. "I did not know you were here," she countered. "That would not have changed the show, but I still did not know, or I would have warned you to arrive late."
 
 Dry Grass took the chance to wipe her face with a napkin swiped from the table. "I would have appreciated that, yes."
 
-"You would have hated the original all the more! Ioan wrote it so that my body was supposed to stay on the stage instead of just the blood. When I said I wanted the part, ey changed it to be just the blood so there was not just a kid's body laying on stage, even though it took some creative work with gravity."
+"You would have hated the original! Ioan wrote it so that my body was supposed to stay on the stage instead of just the blood. When I said I wanted the part, ey changed it to be just the blood so there was not just a kid's body laying on stage, even though it took some creative work with gravity."
 
-I glanced back to the stage, realizing that it was actually canted toward the audience by a few degrees. Enough that we could clearly see the surface of the stage --- back to a matte black instead of the parquet that had been there before --- without it being so unnerving as to make us feel like we were going to fall towards it, or that the actors were going to fall into the audience.
+I glanced back to the stage, realizing that it was actually canted toward the audience by a few degrees. Enough that we could clearly see the surface of the stage --- back to a blissfully clean matte black instead of the blood-stained parquet that had been there before --- without it being so unnerving as to make us feel like we were going to fall towards it, or that the actors were going to fall into the audience.
 
 "You are right," Dry Grass was saying, straightening out Motes's shirt and overalls, both of which were thoroughly stained with paint. "I would have hated that even more. I did not even see the rest of the play, skunklet. I put my head down and turned down my hearing."
 
@@ -84,7 +84,7 @@ Motes, preoccupied obtaining as much affection as she could, merely shrugged.
 
 I laughed, nodded.
 
-A Finger Pointing leaned down to her Motes' ear. "My dear, could you--?" she cooed, beckoning Beholden and the other Motes to join us at the table. "Please, Reed; I am *intensely* curious what they have to say about all this."
+A Finger Pointing leaned down to her Motes's ear. "My dear, could you--?" she cooed, beckoning Beholden and the other Motes to join us at the table. "Please, Reed; I am *intensely* curious what they have to say about all this."
 
 Beholden seemed focused on straightening out Motes' mane --- perhaps a little more than could be expected, as though working to distract herself --- though she nodded all the same.