InvisionFree gives you all the tools to create a successful discussion community.
| QUOTE |
| It was a dusty, blustery day, nearly a month since the seasonal work had ended and maybe two before first snowfall. When the ice came, I would slip into large boots with rubberized soles to fend off the muddy slush, but that day I was barefooted and the silky-fine layer of dust that coated the ground also transformed my lily-white feet to a soft brown. My feet were my best quality, I always believed, hanging on the ends of my legs just begging for the attention they deserved. I wanted to learn to walk on my hands; I was convinced if the first thing people saw were those shapely slender-toed feet, my squab face wouldn’t disgust them so. My opinions changed that day, though, when my face did what my feet couldn’t – or at least, never had. Every smid in Flouxter had a Modley 42, but we lived out in the Mudland (though the mud was dirt by that time) and even hovercrafts need flat land to equalize. The smid in the Mod was a stranger, and a city one, if the tear-tracks through the dust on her face were any indication. Probably she’d gotten lost, and my Pop always said solar batteries were a bad idea – runaways and thieves could take advantage as they liked, and smids could end up in the Mudland before they knew they were lost. I’m sure I must have looked baked brown as a mudcake, cracking a grin at her, but when she smiled a bit as well and hovered down for me to climb in, I knew it was worth it. My home was just across the dune, hardly a whiplash and a holler away, but it was the closest thing to civilization she’d get before the blazing sun faded and the wolves woke, and the ride was still the best in my life. We comm’d her folks and let her wash, and I did get her comm number, so maybe she can come back when the ice has melted. I’d let her borrow my boots. |
