Fishbowl double-offer

 ysabetwordsmith is having a fishbowl today, and I thought I'd encourage anyone who was on the fence about prompting to go ahead and do so, by offering to post something from my slush pile for each person who prompts her!

It's easy, just go here and leave a prompt, then comment below and I'll put up a poem or short story.

Let the creativity flow my friends!

Let Be And Let See

To be is to think
To think is to communicate
To communicate is to be understood

Being and understanding
Are inextricably linked,
Painfully separated.

Being shouts into a void,
Hoping to hear an echo;
"You are not alone."


Understanding strains to reply
Across gulfs of time and tide;
"And let be, and let see"

We are not so different,
You, in your you-ness,
And I in my me-ness

We both wish only to
Be allowed to be
And be understood.

Voidmaids

A freebie for readera on the Fishbowl double-offer!  Remember to claim yours, because more creativity is always good.

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They tell tales on the stations, warning young spacefarers away from certain lanes.  Haggard old space-salts, hunched over a beer warn of well-traveled areas where you should never, ever turn on your sensors.  They paint horrifying pictures of the dangers, while they sit in comfy chairs in the station tavern.

I really don’t believe them.

Oh I believe they’ve seen strange things, I’ll even believe in the strange, vacuum-dwelling aliens they claim are so dangerous.  I just don’t believe they’re all evil and blood-thirsty, seeking to destroy ships and space their crews for snacking.  There has to be a balance, a light to the dark, a fire to the water.

You see, I hear other tales too.

I hear stories of ships lost, their nav systems worse than useless, the hull leaking O2 like a sieve leaks water, out of fuel, out of heat, out of hope.  I hear stories of them being dragged, dark and cold, unable to fly themselves, out of asteroid fields and returned safely to home.  I hear stories of spacers who lost the line during an EVA, clinging by fingertips in the clumsy suits to the side of the ship, unable to reach the airlock, being gently picked up from behind and carried back to the safety of the side ports.  It’s not in the taverns, but in the back halls, in the shops, whispered tales that start “Did you hear what happened?” and get more secretive as they go.  I wonder sometimes if we don’t fear the good stories more.

And it’s not just the spacers.

I hear stories from the old bards, who sing the songs and tell the tales of an Earth That Was.  They have a name for these creatures, or at least their planet-bound sisters.  They recite tales much like the old men and women of the station taverns, needle-toothed sirens singing sailors to their doom, a man named Odysseus tied to a mast while his men shoved beeswax into their ears.  They also tell stories of a gentler nature, half-women rising from stormy seas to carry shipwrecked sailors to shore.  Who dream of humanity with a much kinder eye than many of us have, and sacrifice much to see it fulfilled.

They call them mermaids.

I keep the stories of mermaids in one binder, and the stories of voidmaids in another.  I collect them and catalogue them as I travel the stars looking at people on different planets.  I may be working to study the known cultures of aliens, but there’s nothing in the Xenopologist’s Charter that says I can’t also prepare for an as yet unmet culture as well.  Because I do believe that one day we’ll meet the voidmaids, and when that day comes, I want us to have a head start on asking them the right questions.  I don’t want us to waste time asking “are they a threat to us” when we could be asking them why they save us.  I feel the same way about the mermaids of the Earth That Was, and I wish we still had a chance to befriend them.  Since we don’t, I look out the view port at the ocean of space, the water of the vacuum, and try to imagine the sleek body of a voidmaid, somewhere out there, among the stars.

A Break(dance) For Freedom

Prompted by readera  and sponsored as a free reward for librarygeek on the Fishbowl double-offer! Remember to claim yours, because more creativity is always good.

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A dancer is simply a dancer,

Moving their body aesthetically

For the enjoyment of others;

This logic proved fatal for invaders.

For the people they conquered

Had tribes of skill and now, only now,

A sudden shared hatred of the

Pale-faced evils that enslaved them.

The graceful, vibrant tribes lent music

And flashing skirts, color and sound

Meant to draw the eye, here, there,

Anywhere but the true intent of rebellion.

The fierce, warrior tribes lent strikes

Kicks and punches meant to hurt or kill,

Aú bringing feet over head, catching

Enemy faces unaware of the danger

Partners in a roda move their bodies

Together, as one, responding to the

Music’s beat, and each other’s hearts,

Leaving the ring stronger, and together.

It was easy for the dividing forces,

To assume that once enemy meant

Always enemy, as they did not move

Towards their foes, except to attack.

It was easy for the rebel quilombos

To meet and trade in the secret clearings

Because the path of non resistance

Moves in esquivas towards friendship.

Capoeira is a dance, and capoeiristas

Are dancers, but they are not merely

Anything.  They are warrior souls, and

Rebel bodies, moving always towards

A break for freedom.

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Capoeira is a Brazillian fighting form that is also a dance form, that flourished as a tool of anti-colonial resistance and rebellion.  You can read about its history here.