PMOCT- Round One, Part ThreeSorrel stumbled. She didn't like that. She decided to tell whoever was pulling her along that she didn't appreciate this ridiculous little half-tripping. Either she was running or she was walking, and that was the end of that.
"Hgzm," she said angrily. The only answer she got was a loud huffing sound.
Her ribs hurt, she realized. They really hurt. Oh lord, they were killing her.
She became slowly aware that her legs were trying to run, hence the stumbling, and that she remained pressed against a body that smelled like sweat and leaves. That dang huffing in her ear was driving her crazy.
She was going to try to tell the sweaty, leaf-smelling huffer to stop the stumbling thing again, when they stopped suddenly and Sorrel felt herself being lowered to a cool, hard ground.
She peeled her eyes open and caught sight of the tree-man with his hands on his knees, his narrow chest heaving. She tried to sit up, then hurked when something shot through her ribs. She fell back to the ground with a p
PMOCT- Round One, Part TwoWhen Sorrel stepped onto the floor of the stadium, she realized there was no sun. Sorrel had been hoping for sun. She blinked blearily up at the ellipse of space above her, above the churning crowds, and felt her eyes ache from the sudden flood of unnatural light.
She lowered her face and looked at the walls of humans before her. They sounded distant, and blurred, and their individual faces had run together into a pattern of fabric that draped and wrinkled itself across the stadium. Sorrel turned away. No need to get nervous before a rustling bit of fabric.
And then she saw him, across the stadium.
He was a man, she supposed, thin and sparsely clothed. There were sticks in his hair. Sorrel realized that her feet had been carrying her forward, without her permission, and so she stopped herself a few long paces from him.
A voice pooled across the stadium air, and the fabric shushed and rippled as if agitated by a sudden, strong gust of wind. The two opponents studied one anothe
PMOCT- Round One, Part OneDuck.
Sorrel jumped back and tried to snap out a kick at her invisible enemy. She frowned as her foot only barely reached waist height, feeling the pants restrict her movement in ways the dress never did.
Sorrel had only given in to wearing the pants and shirt that had appeared beside her cot after her dress had become unbearably itchy and dirty upon her skin. She'd had some trouble figuring out the metal baubles that kept the cream-colored pants up, and the underclothing was a mere loincloth of fabric, but she'd managed in the end, even if she did feel like a man. At least the simple gray shirt fit her well enough.
Sorrel dropped her arms and panted in the stale air. Then, wiping at the thin film of sweat on her brow, she went to the small silver sink and bent down to scoop water into her mouth. As she wiped her chin, the door clicked.
Sorrel's heart jumped into her mouth as she whirled around to spot a tall woman with blue hair. That threw Sorrel for a few seconds. Th
PMOCT- Round 1, PrologueArtemis looked annoyed. Or, more accurately, more annoyed than usual. In fact, Athene mused as the G.O.D. strode past one of her spider-cams, Artemis looked downright unpleasant. Exasperated. Ready to toss anyone in her way towards the nearest wall.
Athene wasn't sure that she could blame Artemis of course. Athene herself had spent the last few days trying to "track down" escaped prisoners and reminding Artemis not to call her Spider. But why the head of security would be storming in the direction of Minos's office remained beyond her.
Artemis turned a sharp corner without slacking her brisk pace, and the blue-haired nymph behind her did the same with only a tad less dexterity. Her curiosity piqued just enough, Athene flowed into a spider-cam that sat perched above the secretary which Artemis and her nymph approached. There were a few words exchanged, and within moments the doors behind the secretary glided open. Artemis moved past the desk into the room without so much as a glance aro
She DancesShe dances
Across the stage
With a whirl of movement
And a burst of unmitigated energy
She grabs at their attention
And twists herself up in it.
But I cannot help but see
With every soaring success
Shadows behind her
Young faces, eager faces
Unseen to most
Barely felt by her,
That when she swoops
Trip and soar behind
And as she grabs at the audience
Watch behind her
And when the show is done
The seats vacated
The theater gutted and echoing,
I stand alone
And still their shadows flit
In and out of memory,
For I see my own visage there among them
Walking the path of what might have been
Across an empty stage.
Why Keep Out the RainWhy keep out the rain?
Why keep out the storm?
Why be frightened of the sharp smells
The damp, static air,
That whirls life into a musty room?
Why shield yourself from water of the heavens
That has traveled so long to find you?
Why close the windows to their soft
Why not have your hair whipped into
A new configuration,
Your world seen in a fresh perspective?
Why not breath in the smell of life?
The smell of change?
The smell of the earth's timeless cycle?
Why sit docile and hidden under stagnant air.
When you can fly above with
"a hey ho, the wind and the rain"?
Paint bucket and Two SpoonsWith a paint bucket
and two spoons
he placed himself on the side of the street
And played a rhythm.
A slow and steady one,
never faster, never slower,
like a human heart.
And he became blended
with the rest of the city,
who passed him every day
without glancing once
in his direction.
His drum was a sound,
a puzzle piece,
that made up the picture
of that street.
But one day,
for some reason,
he didn't show up.
And the people
who walked by his post every day
without a second thought
and said to one another
that something was missing
in the picture of that street.
A puzzle piece was missing.
What could it be?
And they listened
and they looked
and they realized
that the man with the paint bucket,
and two spoons,
who played a slow and steady rhythm,
like a human heart,
whom they had never glanced at
and who had become a part
a puzzle piece
of the picture
of this street
"We miss him,"
And the next day
the man came back,
and set down his paint bucket