update from sparkleup
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<p>“What is on your mind, kiddo?” Dry Grass asked. “Usually you do not want to just flop unless you are already worn out or something got you all thinky.”</p>
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<p>“I dunno,” she said. The use of a contraction itched, brushing against the linguistic idiosyncrasies that plagued all of the Odists, even these many years later, but she had practiced for certain occasions. She shrugged, careful not to mess up the current shape. “I spent the day with Slow Hours and Sasha, and they got to talking about the past because Sasha had a question. Just thinking about being me.”</p>
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<p>“‘Being you’?”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>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?”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>“It did, yes. Much of it came from my stanza, actually.”</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.”</p>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-04</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-05</p>
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</header>
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<article class="content">
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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 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.</p>
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<p>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.</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 — an otter? A fisher? — of some sort 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>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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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2023-12-31</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-05</p>
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<p>She wilted, shoulders slumping. “So I might be hearing more of this, then? From Hammered Silver and so on?”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>“Yes, but what am I supposed to <em>do?</em>“</p>
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<p>“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 as you are in spite of them, and make yourself better for it.”</p>
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<p>“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.”</p>
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<p>Motes nodded sullenly.</p>
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<p>“I know that you said that you do not need to hear that you are not wrong or doing wrong things,” Slow Hours said, drawing the skunk up into her lap. “But I will tell you all the same: you are not in any way a mistake. You are approaching this cognizant of the implications. You are holding in your mind both the truth that this <em>is</em> you and that an expression of identity like this coming from an adult is fraught.”</p>
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<p>“I know,” she mumbled, burying her face against her cocladist’s shoulder. “Thank you, Slowers.”</p>
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