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'Tis over. The semester, I mean. Wow, that was quick. One quarter of the way through. Huh.
Kind of scary, really. Time used to go slowly. Now it slips past - oops, it's summer again. I feel like nothing has changed.
Well anyway, there's this thing I found about writing prompts. I thought I'd try it out.
Seven sins, seven virtues, seven wonders, five senses, two hands. Keep your shirt on, damned if you do damned if you don't, old habits die hard, where there's smoke there's fire. Soar/sore. Brave new world, into thin air, all that glitters isn't gold, truth will out.
Worth a shot.
Hands.
Dear God, for hands.
Wings? Flight? Freedom? I'd give them up in a heartbeat.
I can fly. They're very strong. I can break a man's leg with them. I can gesture, sort of. Did I mention that I can fly?
Otherwise, they're useless. Might as well be an amputee. The fingers and palm on each arm are a fused mass; there's a little thumblike projection in there somewhere. Pluck me, and my arms look like chicken wings. Really long, thick chicken wings.
Useless. They're completely, totally useless. I can make rough gestures; my joints aren't really built for that. My primary feathers look sort of like fingers. I can fan them out or smooth them together. It's a flying thing. But they're completely useless. My hands. Can't give a thumbs up, can't pull a book off a shelf, can't open a cash register, let alone make change with the contents. Can't do anything.
God, why did I agree to this? What was I thinking? So what if I didn't know, if no one knew? I should have. Somehow. I wish I hadn't. I should have said, "No, I'll have this paid off myself in a month or two." Damn debt. Damn me, for looking for shortcuts. Who could have thought that a costume...
I'm almost as tall as I used to be, if I stand straight with my back lined up and my neck curled in pre-strike. Taller if I put my neck up. I weigh something like half of what I did - maybe more if my tailtrain wasn't pulled out. My beak is nine inches from nares to tip. It's very sharp. I can - I can do things that I don't like with it.
My feet. In costume, they were my hands. I remember. Made up all scaly, with little claws over my nails. They still look something like that. They're still shaped like hands. Four fingers, a thumb. Positioned like hands. I can turn them over, palms up. This is high irony. I can't use them.
They're not placed right. My body - I can't lay on my back, not without flailing to get back upright. If I'm not standing, I'm either hunkered down with my chest in the dirt, or I'm "sitting". On my ankles and toe-fingers. I can stand on one leg and use the other if I spread some primaries for balance, but it's not the same. I may have "wrists", but the rest of the leg - well, I can't reach my back, and it's hard to touch my keel. I can manage some things with one foot and my beak. It's not the same.
The only time I don't have weight on my feet is when I'm flying.
Hands. I can't believe how much I miss them.
Kind of scary, really. Time used to go slowly. Now it slips past - oops, it's summer again. I feel like nothing has changed.
Well anyway, there's this thing I found about writing prompts. I thought I'd try it out.
Seven sins, seven virtues, seven wonders, five senses
Worth a shot.
Hands.
Dear God, for hands.
Wings? Flight? Freedom? I'd give them up in a heartbeat.
I can fly. They're very strong. I can break a man's leg with them. I can gesture, sort of. Did I mention that I can fly?
Otherwise, they're useless. Might as well be an amputee. The fingers and palm on each arm are a fused mass; there's a little thumblike projection in there somewhere. Pluck me, and my arms look like chicken wings. Really long, thick chicken wings.
Useless. They're completely, totally useless. I can make rough gestures; my joints aren't really built for that. My primary feathers look sort of like fingers. I can fan them out or smooth them together. It's a flying thing. But they're completely useless. My hands. Can't give a thumbs up, can't pull a book off a shelf, can't open a cash register, let alone make change with the contents. Can't do anything.
God, why did I agree to this? What was I thinking? So what if I didn't know, if no one knew? I should have. Somehow. I wish I hadn't. I should have said, "No, I'll have this paid off myself in a month or two." Damn debt. Damn me, for looking for shortcuts. Who could have thought that a costume...
I'm almost as tall as I used to be, if I stand straight with my back lined up and my neck curled in pre-strike. Taller if I put my neck up. I weigh something like half of what I did - maybe more if my tailtrain wasn't pulled out. My beak is nine inches from nares to tip. It's very sharp. I can - I can do things that I don't like with it.
My feet. In costume, they were my hands. I remember. Made up all scaly, with little claws over my nails. They still look something like that. They're still shaped like hands. Four fingers, a thumb. Positioned like hands. I can turn them over, palms up. This is high irony. I can't use them.
They're not placed right. My body - I can't lay on my back, not without flailing to get back upright. If I'm not standing, I'm either hunkered down with my chest in the dirt, or I'm "sitting". On my ankles and toe-fingers. I can stand on one leg and use the other if I spread some primaries for balance, but it's not the same. I may have "wrists", but the rest of the leg - well, I can't reach my back, and it's hard to touch my keel. I can manage some things with one foot and my beak. It's not the same.
The only time I don't have weight on my feet is when I'm flying.
Hands. I can't believe how much I miss them.
