Not Another One...
"Hey, no, wait!" I exclaim. "I was looking for short story ideas, not novels!"
The slim shadow in his black cloak says, "You were looking for the Calligrapher's foil."
"Yes, but--"
"Here I am," he says. "Or shall I depart?"
"No," I say and cover my eyes. "But I have too many irons in the long-fiction fire. I need fewer of them, not more."
The hem of his robe and cloak flare, twin black edges thin as paper, looking almost like the petals of a flower in motion. I find myself looking up--way up--at an angry Ai-Naidari male with stunning, colorless eyes, their pupils crisp against the white. "Cram me into a shorter story, if you like. Try."
I squeak.
His smile is faint and without humor. When he stalks away the hood slides down his silky hair, stygian black.
I sit abruptly, holding in my metaphorical hands a depth of sudden linguistic concepts that I didn't even realize I needed. That I would need to explain the long, slow resolution of the wounded mess of the visitor's heart. He doesn't have a name yet. Just a vocation. The Calligrapher, golden and gentle, serves Civilization.
This creature...
I am the altar upon which Civilization sacrifices its murderers, its thieves. I am their Correction... or their destruction. I serve that which all civilizations need to survive.
I serve Shame.
I lean my head into my arm and wonder what I'm getting into this time.
Stardancer Home.
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haikujaguar) wrote,
