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<p>“There is something to be said for curating one’s experiences, but anyone who says the words ‘there is a time and a place for everything’ is just being a bitch. Pardon my language.”</p>
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<p>“What was Hammered Silver’s problem, then?”</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerpads. “So she thinks kids have to be actually kids? <em>Actual</em> children, even if there are non here?”</p>
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<p>Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerpads. “So she thinks kids have to be actually kids? <em>Actual</em> children, even if there are none here?”</p>
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<p>“I think so, yes, though it does not help that you are a cocladist of hers.”</p>
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<p>“Is this that stupid optics thing again?”</p>
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<p>“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?”</p>
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<p>“Perish the thought!” The Odist laughed and leaned over to hug her cocladist, careful of her nails. “I will not. Do not worry, my dear, you are stuck with me for a good while yet. I would rather tell Hammered Silver to go fuck herself.”</p>
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<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
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<p>Motes played.</p>
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<p>Tonight, she played hard. It was a Big Motes night. It was a human night. It was a grown up 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 Beckoning and Muse A Finger Pointing and Beholden’s long-lived up-tree instances A Finger Curled and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres.</p>
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<p>Tonight, she played hard. It was a Big Motes night. It was a human night. It was a grown up 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 Beckoning and Muse, A Finger Pointing and Beholden’s long-lived up-tree instances A Finger Curled and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres.</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>Tonight, she played drunk: a beer with the dogs, drinks made fizzy with champagne and sweet with floral liqueurs at a pop-up bar, then fruity drinks served in tall glasses with taller straws at the venue before the headliner started, the thump of the bass from the opener echoing up through her feet, pressing at her chest, leaving a warmth in her belly that verged on sensual. Tonight, between sets or whenever she felt like she needed a break, she would waft back to the bar and order a vodka soda or some other ridiculous drink meant more to hydrate than taste good.</p>
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<p>Tonight, Motes played as hard as ever, letting that warmth that was building low in her belly be her guide as she latched onto a dancing partner, a solidly built mustelid of some sort — an otter? A fisher? — who wound his way through the crowd in a fluid motion that was dancelike even when the music had stopped. It was a night for letting him dance closer and closer as the sets progressed, a night for letting him press a pill to her lips and beneath her tongue. It was a night for letting him push his whiskery muzzle up beneath her chin, letting him show her just how sharp his teeth were against her throat, for pressing close enough to feel just how thoroughly he shared in her excitement.</p>
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<p>Tonight, she let him take her home. Tonight she let him pin her to the bed, paw on her shoulder and teeth on her throat. Tonight, she let him draw blood.</p>
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<p>And then it was a night for sitting on his balcony and talking while the waves of whatever drug he’d given her continued to roll through her in languid pulses. “It is like someone is brushing the underside of my skin with satin in the best possible way,” she said, and he laughed.</p>
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<p>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 over, startled from 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 glow in the sky, golden stars made of lights from so many buildings just like this one, 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 a quarter billion people called this home, then laughed as she asked, “How many do you think are fucking right now?”</p>
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<p>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 over, startled from 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 would fucked. He pointed up to the gentle glow in the sky, golden stars made of lights from so many buildings just like this one, 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 a quarter billion people called this home, then laughed as she asked, “How many do you think are fucking right now?”</p>
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<p>They added one more to that number before they slept.</p>
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<p>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 — 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.</p>
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<p>They sat on the balcony once more, out in the bright sun, and ate their breakfast together, talking of only the small things.</p>
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<p>Hiking herself up onto the stage, undignified, she plopped down into a cross-legged sit before Sasha. “A fun night out is what. There was an otter.”</p>
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<p>“An otter did that?” Sasha asked, raising a brow.</p>
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<p>“Sharp!” she explained, miming fangs with two fingers.</p>
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<p>She laughed. “Right, right. I didn’t know you were into the slinky types,” she said, leaning forward to gently probe at the side of Motes’s neck and shoulder, investigating the shallow puncture wounds that had been left behind. “One of those ‘looks worse than it is’ things, seems like.”</p>
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<p>Motes sighed dreamily. “Yeah.”</p>
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<p>She laughed. “Right, right. I did not know you were into the slinky types,” she said, leaning forward to gently probe at the side of Motes’s neck and shoulder, investigating the shallow puncture wounds that had been left behind. “One of those ‘looks worse than it is’ things, seems like.”</p>
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<p>Motes sighed dreamily. “Yeah~”</p>
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<p>Sasha snorted. “We are of a type, are we not, dear?”</p>
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<p>“Mm? How do you mean?”</p>
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<p>“A little bit of pain to spice things up.”</p>
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<p>“Almost certainly,” Sasha said, ruffling Motes’s mane affectionately. “But it is fine. I have not spoken with her in more than a decade.”</p>
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<p>“I have not in more than a century,” Motes said proudly. “So I win.”</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>Squeaking and giggling, 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.”</p>
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<p>“When she found out that I had joined Au Lieu Du Rêve, Hammered silver cut all contact with the fifth, yes?”</p>
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<p>“Mmhm. Did that include Pointillist?”</p>
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<p>“Not at first, but certainly not long after. I think Hammered Silver is more mad with her than any of the rest of the stanza.”</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>“So Hammered Silver is upset that Ma has principles,” Motes said flatly. “Okay. Got it. Good good, good good good good. Wonderful.”</p>
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<p>She laughed. “Yes, apparently. A Finger Pointing had some tense meetings with Hammered Silver early on when it became clear — at least within the clade — that she and Beholden were in a relationship, but that tenseness became the norm when you started to poke your little snout–” She tapped at Motes’s nose-tip, getting a giggle. “–out into the world, which led to a tacit agreement that they were essentially just meeting up to collect data on their respective stanzas, and then only when A Finger Pointing agreed not to talk about you.”</p>
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<p>She laughed. “Yes, apparently. A Finger Pointing had some tense meetings with her early on when it became clear — at least within the clade — that she and Beholden were in a relationship, but that tenseness became the norm when you started to poke your little snout–” She tapped at Motes’s nose-tip, getting a giggle. “–out into the world, which led to a tacit agreement that they were essentially just meeting up to collect data on their respective stanzas, and then only when A Finger Pointing agreed not to talk about you.”</p>
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<p>Motes fell silent for a long minute, then two, and eventually rolled onto the other side so that she could bury her face against Sasha’s side. “Well, that makes me feel like garbage,” she mumbled.</p>
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<p>“Hush, little skunk,” Sasha said gently. “That is between A Finger Pointing and Hammered Silver. A Finger Pointing had to make a tactical decision: maintain contact with the clade, be the glue that binds so many of us together, keep tabs on Hammered Silver and her ilk; or tell Hammered Silver to kick rocks, she was going to talk about her Dot as much as she damn well pleased. Tactically, she chose to agree to not pass on information about you. Strategically, this gained her a better sense of the sixth stanza — and, to a lesser extent, the seventh later on.”</p>
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<p>She nodded, pressing her face all the firmer against the stage manager’s belly.</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-23</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-27</p>
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<p>The two ran directly at each other, weaving slightly to make their way around the occasional tree.</p>
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<p>It was Motes who caved first, ducking down onto paws and knees at the last second before the critter, who deftly leapfrogged over her with a dopplered giggle.</p>
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<p>“Gotcha!” ey cried, scampering off to the forest.</p>
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<p>Motes galloped after her, giggling.</p>
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<p>Motes galloped after her, laughing giddily.</p>
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<p>A few more rounds of leapfrog — repeated a dozen times over with a dozen different instances — and both Motes and Warmth collapsed in the clearing in the woods, panting and laughing. They shoved at each other for a few seconds, rolling about in the grass and wildflowers before sprawling out on their backs, looking up into the cloud-dotted sky.</p>
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<p>“You know,” Warmth said reaching over to poke Motes in the belly. “If you were not such a fatty, you could probably outrun me.”</p>
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<p>“But I like being a fatty,” Motes countered. “If you were not such a string bean, you…you would…uh....”</p>
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<p>“Rye is always too polite,” Motes said, grinning. “But I like her.”</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>Warmth dismissed the <em>frahabrodåt</em> and stretched out on their belly. “Now why did <em>you</em> get all mopey all of the sudden?”</p>
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<p>Warmth dismissed the <em>frahabrodåt</em> and stretched out on their front. “Now why did <em>you</em> get all mopey all of the sudden?”</p>
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<p>She shrugged, peeking over at the other skunk through the blades of grass and drooping columbines. “Just family stuff on the brain.”</p>
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<p>“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 <em>lovely.</em>“</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>“But I am small.”</p>
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<p>“I know, but like the smallest. Like, the youngest.”</p>
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<p>Warmth huffed, indignant. “But <em>I</em> am the youngest! I am the babiest. That is my whole thing, yes? I am the most recently forked, the most recently-claimed line.”</p>
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<p>Warmth huffed, indignant. “But <em>I</em> am the youngest! I am the babiest. That is my whole thing, yes? I am the most recently forked, the most recently-claimed line!”</p>
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<p>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.”</p>
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<p>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?”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>“How do you mean?”</p>
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<p>“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 <em>like</em> 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 <em>History</em> named her as the propagandist during Secession.”</p>
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<p>Motes frowned. “Wait, really?”</p>
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<p>“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? I have dated a cocladist before, have I not? My stanza also has our family dynamic, yes? Hell, Rye and Pointillist are <em>plenty</em> chummy, if you know what I mean.”</p>
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<p>“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? My stanza also has our family dynamic, yes? I have dated a cocladist before, have I not? Hell, Rye and Pointillist are <em>plenty</em> chummy, if you know what I mean.”</p>
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<p>She laughed. “They just write each other letters.”</p>
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<p>“Yeah. <em>Sexy</em> letters.”</p>
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<p>“Well, okay,” Motes said, still giggling. “Do you really think they have cut you off? Effectively if not actually, I mean.”</p>
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<p>“Mmhm. Now, come on. Let us lick a battery terminal and eat a passion fruit and see how it stacks up against <em>frahabrodåt,</em> and then get some <em>actual</em> food.”</p>
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