thai m zoofquesque (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impactings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2012-02-28 07:55 pm
impactings) wrote in rainbowfic2012-02-28 07:55 pm
tyrian purple #2, opera mauve #7, alice blue #11
Name: Thai
Title: children make wings out of paper and glass
Story: Blood Princess
Timeline: Asma is 13; Astor is still Really Crazy Old, I Don't Even.
Colors: Tyrian Purple #2 - hold up the sky, Opera Mauve #7 - aria, Alice Blue #11 - if you believe in me, I'll believe in you
Supplies and Materials: Stickers (Why Do Wolves Howl?), Feathers (In Arabic, the word “bayt” translates literally as house, but its connotations resonate beyond rooms and walls, summoning longings gathered about family and home. In the Middle East, bayt is sacred. Empires fall. Nations topple. Borders may shift. Old loyalties may dissolve or, without warning, be altered. Home, whether it be structure or familiar ground, is finally the identity that does not fade. -- Anthony Shadid)
Word Count: 494
Rating: G
Warnings: None whatsoever.
Notes: b;lksjfe I don't know why I even try to write dancing.
"Look here," he said, gently enough to make Asma's lip poke out. "And here."
The colored tiles he indicated were still wet around the edges with mud, and Asma squinted at them suspiciously. She felt awkward and ungainly in the dress he'd had made for her, no matter how much more comfortable it was than her usual tunic and pants - dresses were special, something she rarely wore. You couldn't climb buildings, couldn't catch birds in a dress.
She crossed her arms, glaring up at Astor from beneath her eyebrows. He simply gazed back, benign. "What about them?"
"You'll step on them."
"What?"
He bent to pull off his slippers, heel-first. At the corner of the room, the young Roc - Asma hadn't bothered to learn his name - cleared his throat. Astor nodded at him. "Go ahead."
The young Roc put the pipe to his lips and blew. It produced a clear, warm sound, and Astor stepped forward, placing one foot on the colored tile.
"It's pointless to teach you anything formal at this point," he said over his shoulder, stepping forward with the other foot as the note changed. "So we'll just have fun with it."
Then the notes - low, lower - blew into a flurry of music, light and sweet, and Astor was off, spinning away from her across the room. Asma watched him critically.
He danced well, she had to admit. His arms swung - not loosely, but controlled, the sleeves of his tunic whirling with him. His feet never seemed to be in the same place twice, and were never motionless, tripping and swinging across the tiles. It took her a moment to realize that he was only stepping on the colored tiles; red for the high notes, blue for the lows. Yellow as a transition to get from each row.
Astor's face wasn't the mask of concentration she would have expected. He was smiling, really smiling, for the first time in what seemed like a very long time, and Asma was so captivated by the joy on his mouth that she didn't notice his approach until he was grabbing her wrist.
"Now you," he invited, and swung her onto the tile.
They weren't slippery under her bare feet, but the tune slowed, just a little - and before she thought about it, she was leaping from color to color, finding a pattern of her own. Red for her left foot, blue for her right, yellow a safe zone where she could land with either. She spun on her heel with a swirl of melody, landed on the ball of her foot safely on blue.
The tile was cool under her feet, and the music was quick and light. Asma realized she was smiling, too - laughing, even, because this was almost enough to forget -
Then Astor was there, whirling across the floor with her, and flung her up by her waist so she could finally fly.
Title: children make wings out of paper and glass
Story: Blood Princess
Timeline: Asma is 13; Astor is still Really Crazy Old, I Don't Even.
Colors: Tyrian Purple #2 - hold up the sky, Opera Mauve #7 - aria, Alice Blue #11 - if you believe in me, I'll believe in you
Supplies and Materials: Stickers (Why Do Wolves Howl?), Feathers (In Arabic, the word “bayt” translates literally as house, but its connotations resonate beyond rooms and walls, summoning longings gathered about family and home. In the Middle East, bayt is sacred. Empires fall. Nations topple. Borders may shift. Old loyalties may dissolve or, without warning, be altered. Home, whether it be structure or familiar ground, is finally the identity that does not fade. -- Anthony Shadid)
Word Count: 494
Rating: G
Warnings: None whatsoever.
Notes: b;lksjfe I don't know why I even try to write dancing.
"Look here," he said, gently enough to make Asma's lip poke out. "And here."
The colored tiles he indicated were still wet around the edges with mud, and Asma squinted at them suspiciously. She felt awkward and ungainly in the dress he'd had made for her, no matter how much more comfortable it was than her usual tunic and pants - dresses were special, something she rarely wore. You couldn't climb buildings, couldn't catch birds in a dress.
She crossed her arms, glaring up at Astor from beneath her eyebrows. He simply gazed back, benign. "What about them?"
"You'll step on them."
"What?"
He bent to pull off his slippers, heel-first. At the corner of the room, the young Roc - Asma hadn't bothered to learn his name - cleared his throat. Astor nodded at him. "Go ahead."
The young Roc put the pipe to his lips and blew. It produced a clear, warm sound, and Astor stepped forward, placing one foot on the colored tile.
"It's pointless to teach you anything formal at this point," he said over his shoulder, stepping forward with the other foot as the note changed. "So we'll just have fun with it."
Then the notes - low, lower - blew into a flurry of music, light and sweet, and Astor was off, spinning away from her across the room. Asma watched him critically.
He danced well, she had to admit. His arms swung - not loosely, but controlled, the sleeves of his tunic whirling with him. His feet never seemed to be in the same place twice, and were never motionless, tripping and swinging across the tiles. It took her a moment to realize that he was only stepping on the colored tiles; red for the high notes, blue for the lows. Yellow as a transition to get from each row.
Astor's face wasn't the mask of concentration she would have expected. He was smiling, really smiling, for the first time in what seemed like a very long time, and Asma was so captivated by the joy on his mouth that she didn't notice his approach until he was grabbing her wrist.
"Now you," he invited, and swung her onto the tile.
They weren't slippery under her bare feet, but the tune slowed, just a little - and before she thought about it, she was leaping from color to color, finding a pattern of her own. Red for her left foot, blue for her right, yellow a safe zone where she could land with either. She spun on her heel with a swirl of melody, landed on the ball of her foot safely on blue.
The tile was cool under her feet, and the music was quick and light. Asma realized she was smiling, too - laughing, even, because this was almost enough to forget -
Then Astor was there, whirling across the floor with her, and flung her up by her waist so she could finally fly.
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how is dance written??
Even if you obviously are a silly child. >:I Thank you very much, bb!
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Also, the way you describe Astor smiling gives me SO MANY FEELINGS.
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as;ldkjf haha I am blush. Thank you so much!
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Thank you!
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not that good?? but whatever /laps it up)
Thank you so much! :D
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