update from sparkleup
This commit is contained in:
parent
a662974fa5
commit
d8970fb648
|
|
@ -13,8 +13,7 @@
|
|||
<h1>Zk | 001</h1>
|
||||
</header>
|
||||
<article class="content">
|
||||
<!-- # And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights — 2362 -->
|
||||
|
||||
<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<p>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.</p>
|
||||
<p>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.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -164,7 +163,7 @@
|
|||
<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>
|
||||
</article>
|
||||
<footer>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-13</p>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-15</p>
|
||||
</footer>
|
||||
</main>
|
||||
<script type="text/javascript">
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -13,7 +13,8 @@
|
|||
<h1>Zk | 002</h1>
|
||||
</header>
|
||||
<article class="content">
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<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>
|
||||
<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>
|
||||
<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>
|
||||
|
|
@ -101,7 +102,7 @@
|
|||
<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>
|
||||
</article>
|
||||
<footer>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-06</p>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-15</p>
|
||||
</footer>
|
||||
</main>
|
||||
<script type="text/javascript">
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -13,7 +13,8 @@
|
|||
<h1>Zk | 003</h1>
|
||||
</header>
|
||||
<article class="content">
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<p>Today, she played prey. Today, she was a mouse to some fox, some owl, some cunning predator. She crept and crawled at first, prowling through the brush and between the trunks of trees. She stuck to where the pine needles made a thick carpet on the floor of this forest or, failing that, the hard domes of granite that interrupted it. Anything she could do to stay away from the scree or gravel, the occasional stands of deciduous trees with their noisier fallen leaves, the stands of blackberry canes that she knew would tug at her clothes and fur, leaving a wake of whimpers and vines whipping backward.</p>
|
||||
<p>Today, she sought out all of the best ways to move. There were times when all fours was called for — when she climbed a slope, perhaps, or when she needed to force herself through some keyhole in the brush, or when she needed to be quiet. Those digger claws of hers helped at times and hindered others, and if the ones on her toes would clack against rock, she would crawl on her knuckles and knees.</p>
|
||||
<p>Today, she listened hard, head constantly turning to build a better view of the sonic landscape of the world around her. She hunted for the rustle of branches, of footsteps, of breath. Today, her eyes were keen, her gaze sharp, flitting about to hunt for the slightest movement or out-of-place shadow.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -123,7 +124,7 @@
|
|||
<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>
|
||||
</article>
|
||||
<footer>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-04</p>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-15</p>
|
||||
</footer>
|
||||
</main>
|
||||
<script type="text/javascript">
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -13,7 +13,8 @@
|
|||
<h1>Zk | 004</h1>
|
||||
</header>
|
||||
<article class="content">
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
|
||||
<p>Motes played.</p>
|
||||
<p>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–</p>
|
||||
<p>Motes was played with.</p>
|
||||
<p>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.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -151,7 +152,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“Of course, my dear. I am afraid that I did not do quite the job of comforting you that I might, but I do hope that you take that to heart. Live intentionally, and remember that we love you.”</p>
|
||||
</article>
|
||||
<footer>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-06</p>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-15</p>
|
||||
</footer>
|
||||
</main>
|
||||
<script type="text/javascript">
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -13,7 +13,8 @@
|
|||
<h1>Zk | 005</h1>
|
||||
</header>
|
||||
<article class="content">
|
||||
<p>Motes stopped playing.</p>
|
||||
<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
|
||||
<p>Motes stopped playing.</p>
|
||||
<p>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.</p>
|
||||
<p>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.</p>
|
||||
<p>She stopped playing because she had a guess as to who this was from, and that only led to a second spike in anxiety, for while the first had been from a top-priority sensorium ping, this came from fear, from terror. She stopped playing as Alexei hollered, “Motes!” and started to run back to her. She stopped playing as she rolled to the side out of the sim and into her studio.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -81,7 +82,7 @@ But no, Beholden only hugged her, kissed her on top of the head, and tucked her
|
|||
<p>Finally she slept, finally she dreamed.</p>
|
||||
</article>
|
||||
<footer>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-11</p>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-15</p>
|
||||
</footer>
|
||||
</main>
|
||||
<script type="text/javascript">
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
Loading…
Reference in New Issue