Why yes, I do have to stay here until 5.

[itsallovernow]

cofax, I will be owing you so many beers before this process is over. I know you're offline for the weekend, but dear, I'm laughing my ass off at the beta, because it's all so true and you're doing an extraordinary job. And that I've become enough of a grownup to see that makes me very happy. But you're also just cracking me up beyond belief.

This being an example of the beta:

“It’s been quite a day, shokoula,” he said to Anix, the endearment slipping out for the first time in cycles. She tilted up her lips, and furrowed her brow, uncertain of what to say. //pov slip again. D may think she's uncertain, but can't know.// D’Argo offered her his hand, which she took(,) and he pulled her to him in a crushing hug.

“I am very, very glad that you are safe,” he said to her [gruffly] //NO MORE GRUFFLY. I hereby forbid you to describe D'Argo as gruff anymore in this story! The next time you do, you owe me a beer! *g*// as she buried her face in his tunic, [holding onto him tightly.] (clinging to him.)

Yeah, there is much beer in her future:)

I wrote a farscapefriday for the First Line challenge that pleased me because the sentence had a very particular structure and the book had a very particular prose style and I tried to flow it out from there, which was an excellent exercise in of itself. And it got a little melodramatic, and while I'm overly fond of high melodrama, perhaps it was a bit much. So I fixed it a little, particularly for crankygrrl. I don't ever write 1st person because it is almost always done badly, unless the writer is incredibly skilled and committed to the words.



Winter Language

It's freezing - an extraordinary 0 Fahrenheit - and it's snowing, and in the language that is no longer mine, the snow is qanik - big, almost weightless crystals falling in clumps and covering the ground with a layer of pulverized white frost.* I like the feel of that word. Snow. Cool and full in my mouth. It is better than the snow itself, weightless at first and then dry and cold, and it is better by far than that odd measurement system that John uses, a scale that starts in the middle, marking temperature back and forth between it, but again, I like the sound and feel of the word, of it's name.

Fahrenheit.

I read that book, sitting in the galley late at night, heavily pregnant, unable to sleep, struggling through the words and trying to keep the ones I liked. The temperature at which books burn and another gap filled, John’s odd affection for these cloth and pulp artifacts peeking out through the rebellion of the firefighter and it translates, becomes round and rich and sensical, John’s need to write things down with ink, to stain his hands with it.

Our footprints mark the snow as we walk towards the shuttle that will take us into the small commercial sector of the city. In the harsh air, the puffs of breath hang suspended. It’s very quiet, very still, ununsual for us, little banter, little bickering, only heartbeats and footsteps and the shush shush of fabric as we march. It feels like a forced march in this cold, but it is necessary. It’s been a long time between planets. We need supplies. We need herbs, and Chilnak willing, we need something to ease Kai’s misery at the push of teeth coming in. I can’t take her pain away, or the rage when her small face contorts in outrage at the discomfort. Neither John nor I has slept well for nearly a weeken, so perhaps the analgesic is as much for us as for Ka’aia.

D’Argo flanks me on one side, grim and weary from a night on watch, furious with the snow. John walks on my left, a little too close, a little too serious, snow and ice visceral and unpleasant for him. The cold brings out the worst in us both. He’d like to hold my hand as we walk, succor for the morning's disagreements, but I brushed him off when we exited the pod. His mouth is set in a flat, unhappy line, and he stubbornly stays shoulder to shoulder with me, determined, so I reach over and take his fingers. He squeezes my hand too tightly and doesn’t let go, and some things are worth the appearance of vulnerability. Reassurance is no longer an indulgence between us, but a thing wordless and needed and worked at together.

Chiana dances along in front of us, making patterns with the soles of her boots, darting and angling in a silent game, face alight with something that she doesn’t need to share. She tiptoes out symbols and signs, and sweeps them away with an arcing brush of her foot. I can feel if not quite wrap a name around this, moments and momentary, here in the silence and crystalline glitter of the snow, skies grey as Chiana’s skin, flakes dotting our hair and clothes, the four of us marching forward.



* Quote from Smila's Sense of Snow by Peter Hoeg