When is a Dance…

I considered not posting anything today, since I’m likely to be abysmal at returning comments or visits for the next few weeks (and I haven’t been great at it as it is lately).  But I will try my best…  I promise.

This week I have eight smallish paragraphs (1-9 for the 19th of April).  It’s from Marche in the Swan Song Series.  It’s part of a smallish “I’m not sure it belongs” scene that came to me when I was thinking about my one character ‘Listii (the ‘he’ in this scene) and how in the eyes of many people around him, his transformation from childhood to that of a mature man with wife and children in the matter of a few days.  Of course, it’s more nuanced and gradual than that, but, despite living with him all his life, these people don’t see the inner developments happening the way most family members see their children/siblings grow and change over time.  Vissellii (the ‘she’ here)  and ‘Listii are two of a set of triplets, and yet… she’s seeing who he is for the first time.

It’s a common thought these days as I watch the news and read biographies…  when do we stop being the child and suddenly become the adult.  Frankly, I still feel like a teenager a lot of the time.  But even beyond that, because I do a lot of reading about the darker sides of humanity…  where do they start?  Is this something that has always been there?

When does this…  become something…  different?

Her brother, instead of watching the dishes, was moving, slowly, almost ritually. Dance moves, yet more. She watched for a moment, marvelling at his balance and control.

She’d seen him being taught to dance and known he would know how to dance… perfectly mimicking the same way he’d been taught it, as with everything. But she’d never expected him to actually dance. Knowing moves was very different than knowing how to move, how to adjust for differences in the ground or proximity. Though he wasn’t following his steps perfectly anymore—she could see several places where he’d have had difficulty with a partner, at the moment he was really feeling the dance.

But she had to smile some, picturing his poor imaginary partner. The woman would have broken toes, shoulders and likely a jaw to match.

“You might want to imagine you have a partner with you, ‘Listii, before you disappoint some lady horridly.”

He paused mid-move, holding his pose so perfectly balanced that Visse could not imagine any statue so solid and yet so fluid—as if ready for flight. The only move was when he cocked a brow at her before replying. “I was.” He set his foot down, standing solid again. “You thought I was dancing?”

She wondered if she shouldn’t leave well enough alone, suddenly realizing those imagined injuries had been intended.

She should have realized that, as malleable as her brother had been through most of his youth, the House Elders would have found him the perfect tool for their private wars with the other High Houses. Emotionless, able to follow an intricate set of directions without needing repeat instructions…

Damn them for turning this… this heartbroken, lovelorn young man into a murderer!

As always, why not head over to the WIPpet linky and visit some our other awesome members after you’re done here.  And while you are there, wave “Hi” to Emily Witt, our gracious host.

WIP…Thursday?

Yep, I’ve definitely got this day late thing down. Just need to watch to make sure I don’t get as good at the “and a dollar short” part.

I’m not doing Wednesday ROW80 check-ins this Round of Words, so these few intermittent WIPpet posts I make are going to be all story. Okay, maybe story and some odd thoughts on a few links.

Plastiglomerate — via The Scientific Fisherman

Like this one…  because I have been seriously trying to imagine what it would be like to be the ‘next species’ on a planet that had perhaps suffered a huge die-off event (say, something post-WWIII apocalyptic experience on Earth or something similar) and to be finding these: Rocks Made of Plastic on Hawaiian Beaches

I have to admit, after a quick Google search on these, that some are oddly lovely.  Will future jewelers look for specific colors for high-class ornamentation?  Will what we now consider detritus become rare and valued art?

And what will the future think of the society that these ‘treasures’ originated from?  Will there be anything left of our books and recordings that will allow them a glimpse into our wonderfully chaotic and often maddening lives?  It was considered a huge boon when in 1973 archaeologists found the first of  what are now known of as The Vindolanda Tablets which include personal letters from soldiers, business people, and even housewives from the 1st century AD.  Yes, archaeologists had found records of lives long before this, not just from Ancient Rome, but somehow those carved letters at the base of triumphal arches and statues just isn’t the same.

An ancient birthday party invitation

Thing is, these are unique resources.  These letters are personal, pieces written by people of the time to share with people of the time…  not a record for the future, not a copied and edited version of an old story.   These are the emails of today and the little notes of less than a century ago written on shaved bits of wood that survived almost 2000 years by chance.

Don’t know about you…  but I’d be interested to know how much of our ephemeral lives will last 100 years, let alone a 1000.    Maybe that’s why I write the stories I do.

Which leads, at last, to…

WIPpet

I should have posted this yesterday. It was picked for yesterday. It’s 12 sentences for the 12th of April, a snippet from The Swan Song Series: Marche (yes, the extra ‘e’ is intentional). Alanii and his aide de camp are the characters, location and time are outside a barn just after sunset on a courier mission.

An evening mist had begun to roll in, far later this evening than it had for the earlier points of the trip. The lack of sun for so many days had finally taken its toll. And, as if the sky were intent on adding its own insult, a soft drizzle, barely more than a mist itself, started.

He stayed where he was despite the sputtering of the torch by the house. His hair began to stick in thick damp hanks to his forehead. Rivulets of oil and traildust and rain began to flow down his cheeks. They stung his eyes. He would not have allowed himself to cry otherwise.

“You should go back in the barn, sire.”

Alanii didn’t allow himself to whirl around despite his surprise to hear Vartanian’s voice. He just sighed, earning himself a taste of gritty water for his trouble, which he spat out promptly.

He could almost hear the Hastor not-smirk, the man’s silence was so blatant.

Hope you enjoyed yourselves today. Head on over to the WIPpet linky and visit some our other awesome members. And while you’re there, give a cheer to Emily Witt for being our gracious host. 😀

And lastly, if you have the time and would like a very nice read:  Please enjoy this little author interview with Margaret Atwood on The Handmaid’s Tale.