In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
Being inside the light was like being inside taffy while it's being pulled. She could feel herself being folded over and over again, the light being kneaded into her. It felt enormous: not painful, but very concentrated, as if she had to hold all of it in her arms and not lose track of one iota.
Gradually, she became aware of slowing. Stopping. When she moved what had been her limbs, she was no longer manipulating the light. She was light, perfect and fluid. She held for a moment in darkness, poised, and then the girl opened her eyes.
She felt the shape of her fire. She blazed.
Showing posts with label science fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label science fiction. Show all posts
Friday, February 7, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
116.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
Being inside the light was like being inside taffy while it's being pulled. She could feel herself being folded over and over again, the light being kneaded into her. It felt enormous: not painful, but very concentrated, as if she had to hold all of it in her arms and not lose track of one iota.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
Being inside the light was like being inside taffy while it's being pulled. She could feel herself being folded over and over again, the light being kneaded into her. It felt enormous: not painful, but very concentrated, as if she had to hold all of it in her arms and not lose track of one iota.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
115.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
Being inside the light was like being inside taffy while it's being pulled.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
Being inside the light was like being inside taffy while it's being pulled.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
114.
In
the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if
light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it
made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
There was a sound like a million pieces of paper being krinkled into a million balls. And then there was no sound at all.
Monday, February 3, 2014
113.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
The sun went down. The girl went with it, her light cocoon blinking out like a popped bulb.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
112.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster. Just as the light turned silver, she finished the last row. Taking a deep breath, and hooking her fingers firmly into the shimmering, shifting edges of her cloak of light, she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped it tight.
111.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
As her fingers flew, and the afternoon sun began to weaken and thin, the girl draped the sheet of light over her lap, working furiously faster and faster.
Friday, January 31, 2014
110.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
She decided. Releasing the tension in her fingers, she let the strands of light unravel. Pulling her index fingers towards her, she started over. The girl cast on a strand of light and began to knit.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
109.
In the beginning, before she understood what it wanted, it felt as if light followed her. It bent around her, nearly imperceptible, but it made the wrong shadows. It felt like a sentient thing, tracking her.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
One summer day, she sat in full sun, stretching her limbs like a cat. As she flexed her fingers, luxuriating in the tingle of muscle over bone, she saw the light bent with her fingers. Where she moved, it moved, and she was pulling it in towards her in strands. Thick ribbons of pale sunlight that curved in and popped away again as her fingers bent.
She found that by manipulating her fingers, she could weave the strands of light together; the thicker the cord, the stronger it pulled at her. The tug was gentle, but insistent. As she wove, her fingers taut with ropes of light, her hands and wrists seemed to be pulled into an elsewhere.
The girl became uneasy. She understood that she could keep going, but where would she go? She held her fingers still, thinking.
She was wary, but excited. She could do this thing. This thing that no one else could do, that no one else seemed to see her doing. Pulling at the rope of light a little, experimenting, she saw that she could see through her hands and forearms. "How will I make this big enough to hold all of me?" she wondered.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
100.
My 365 sentences project is a shared venture with @scrufflibrarian. For every day that I write something, he draws something and posts it on Instagram. Early on, we agreed that we'd swap a couple of days here and there, and today is our first. I drew something, and Phil wrote this beautiful piece.
The masks didn't bother the kids, they'd never known any different. A whole generation. But they bothered us, and a lot of others who could remember before. The seals would get wet, or a speck of dust or grit would get lodged in there, and before you knew it your neck would be red raw. You weren't supposed to loosen them, of course, for any reason at all, but sometimes it just felt too good not to break the rules; to slide your finger under the seal and rub the skin there while the warning tone beeped, steady as a metronome.
But worst of all? Imagine never being able to truly look someone in the eye. The slight curve of the glass always distorted things. That bothered me like nothing else.
That night, we lay side-by-side, and we each pulled the catch at the top of our spines until it clicked free. Together, we lifted our masks clear of our heads, and we finally got to really look at each other. We'd promised ourselves we would be quick, but we got lost in the looking, and the chirping of the alarms didn't seem quite so important any more.
The masks didn't bother the kids, they'd never known any different. A whole generation. But they bothered us, and a lot of others who could remember before. The seals would get wet, or a speck of dust or grit would get lodged in there, and before you knew it your neck would be red raw. You weren't supposed to loosen them, of course, for any reason at all, but sometimes it just felt too good not to break the rules; to slide your finger under the seal and rub the skin there while the warning tone beeped, steady as a metronome.
But worst of all? Imagine never being able to truly look someone in the eye. The slight curve of the glass always distorted things. That bothered me like nothing else.
That night, we lay side-by-side, and we each pulled the catch at the top of our spines until it clicked free. Together, we lifted our masks clear of our heads, and we finally got to really look at each other. We'd promised ourselves we would be quick, but we got lost in the looking, and the chirping of the alarms didn't seem quite so important any more.
Friday, October 25, 2013
day 12.
image by Alex Andreev
"When the Fade happened, we started building up. Trying to get closer to the - do you have a light? Thanks. Like that. I'll never get used to that. Cold fire. Just white and grey where the flame should burn yellow. Building up. We thought being closer to the sun would bring back the colors. Maybe it should have, I don't know. But the Fade kept fading, and everything looks murky higher up. A newsprint planet. Now shadow is the same as color, and maybe that's fading too. One day we'll be flat white. Just noise in fog."
Friday, January 8, 2010
when you reach me, by rebecca stead
Miranda lives in New York City in 1978. She has a best friend who's pulling away from her, a sometimes job in a dubious sandwich shop, an extreme devotion to A Wrinkle in Time, and a mystery to solve.When You Reach Me was the first book I read when vacation started last summer. I'd been hoarding it all spring like a nuggety little reward for surviving the year, and I stayed up late to finish it one night during the first week of break. When I was growing up, I also had an extreme devotion to A Wrinkle in Time (still do); this book is a pleasurable little love letter to that classic and a beautiful and complex piece of young adult science fiction in its own right. Miranda is genuine and likeable - full of faults and lessons and yearnings; each of the other characters is just as fully human and real, and their failings and strengths unspool into the fabric of a perfect plot. Enchanting and satisfying. Go read it. Now.
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