Two perfect naked people come bolting out of a room, skin glistening with sweat and magic. their ears are long and graceful like old videos of silk, and their faces are flushed and happy. Things jiggle most appealingly as they run past, laughing.
Surely, turning to stare would be… not right? #amwriting #solomonschoice
Weather migraine? Definitely approaching.
So I'm writing NOW. #amwriting #createit22 #cantstopme #solomonschoice
“It is supposedly human.”
At that, I scoff. “No, it isn’t.”
“I did say supposedly, doctor,” says Notte, and I feel like there’s humor there, but I can’t get distracted about where it’s aimed.
“This isn’t human at all.” I point, annoyed that anyone would suppose this thing to be human. “Just look at those ventricles! Look at them!”
https://ruthannereid.com/writing/wip-solomons-choice-ravena-takes-a-look/
“Not initially. I do plan to reinstate you to equality, someday; but to make such a move right away will infuriate those who already doubt me. It would be too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I bark laughter, harsh, acidic. “To acknowledge us as people? For gods’ sake, why?”
His smile is slow and creeping dark, a knowing thing, and I do not like it. “Because you are terrifying monsters.”
I stiffen in Terrance’s arms. “Now, wait a minute!”
I want to believe him.
It would be so convenient, would it not? To believe this powerful being is on my side, to just look past the fact that we are food for them, that we provide husks for their reproductive purposes.
To ignore the reality that our home is dead, and we will be prisoners, for as long as humans shall live. “We wouldn’t be free here, would we?” I ask.
“There was no hope for you,” he says softly. “No human would survive beyond that generation. It was…” He stops, closes his eyes, and something passes over his face.
Breeze moves through the garden, whispering, carrying things it has no right to do, and I feel, I *feel*, that he wept bitterly for us, and watched in helpless horror that no god-like being should ever know.
I can’t know that. How can I know that? Is it a trick? How can I *know* that?
“When the Event happened, three hundred years ago - ”
“The Flare?”
“Those here call it the Event,” he says, and frowns. A tiny frown, the tiniest re-angling of his lips, but I feel the weight of it. “It lessens the horror for them. Truly, I do not find ‘Flare’ shocking enough, but ‘Event’ is hardly better. I personally would have preferred something along the lines of ‘Catastrophe,’ but the nomenclature has stuck.”
I agree. *Catastrophe* would be far better. #amwriting #solomonschoice #wip
Ruthanne