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rainbowfic2015-07-31 11:29 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2015-07-31 11:29 pm
Milk Bottle 10: Amniotic
Author: Kat
Title: Amniotic
Story: In the Heart - IN SPAAAACE
Colors: Milk bottle 10 (Dark ride)
Supplies and Materials: Eraser (IN SPAAAACE AU), graffiti (Duck Gallery), yarn (full moon), feathers (hardwood and soft wood), stain (I keep the subject of my inquiry constantly before me, and wait till the first dawning opens gradually, by little and little, into a full and clear light. -Isaac Newton), frame
Word Count: 399
Rating: PG
Summary: Maya begins her work in the odd hours between shifts.
Warnings: none.
Notes: So, uh, yeah. POETIC PROSE. *jazz hands*
It's raining when Maya wakes up. It's always raining here, so the light is wavering and greenish, like the whole planet is living underwater. She likes that feeling. It's restful, like floating in a pool used to be on Earth.
It does make it hard to get out of bed in the mornings, though.
Still. She stretches, cracks her knuckles and vertebrae, then swings her feet out of bed. Time to get to work.
It's quiet in the long corridors between the dorms and her little greenhouse, most of her compatriots either still asleep or long since awake. Maya begins her work in the odd hours between shifts, the slow early morning moments when time moves like syrup and somewhere beyond the endless rain their sun is beginning to rise. She doesn't need to. Plants aren't demanding like animals are, and her automatic systems are mostly functional. She could wait for the start of a shift or even sleep in, but she likes these quiet times. It's contemplative.
Like now, this morning, while she digs her hands into the soil around a fiddlehead fern, she wonders what's become of her baby.
She doesn't regret what she's done. She was much too young to have a child, even by Earth standards, where people have children in their thirties and sometimes twenties and it's only a little odd. Even if her body could have handled it, her mind could not have. She did the right thing, for herself and the baby, and she's never regretted it. But she does wonder.
Someone told her once that the babies go into small, dimly-lit rooms where they float, safe and warm, in their artificial wombs. No effort is spared for them, these children; their caretakers even pump the sound of a heartbeat through their amniotic fluid, even stroke and pat their containers as if they'll give like skin. They have homes before they're born. They're loved from the moment of assignment.
Where did her baby go? To an infertile couple, desperate for a child? To one of the robots, to be loved and cherished as the baby they can't have? To someone with a genetic problem they don't want to pass on? She never asked. But she knows it's loved. As she is.
The fiddlehead's roots are soft in her hands, tendrils delicate and twining. Its new home dwarfs it, but it will grow.
Title: Amniotic
Story: In the Heart - IN SPAAAACE
Colors: Milk bottle 10 (Dark ride)
Supplies and Materials: Eraser (IN SPAAAACE AU), graffiti (Duck Gallery), yarn (full moon), feathers (hardwood and soft wood), stain (I keep the subject of my inquiry constantly before me, and wait till the first dawning opens gradually, by little and little, into a full and clear light. -Isaac Newton), frame
Word Count: 399
Rating: PG
Summary: Maya begins her work in the odd hours between shifts.
Warnings: none.
Notes: So, uh, yeah. POETIC PROSE. *jazz hands*
It's raining when Maya wakes up. It's always raining here, so the light is wavering and greenish, like the whole planet is living underwater. She likes that feeling. It's restful, like floating in a pool used to be on Earth.
It does make it hard to get out of bed in the mornings, though.
Still. She stretches, cracks her knuckles and vertebrae, then swings her feet out of bed. Time to get to work.
It's quiet in the long corridors between the dorms and her little greenhouse, most of her compatriots either still asleep or long since awake. Maya begins her work in the odd hours between shifts, the slow early morning moments when time moves like syrup and somewhere beyond the endless rain their sun is beginning to rise. She doesn't need to. Plants aren't demanding like animals are, and her automatic systems are mostly functional. She could wait for the start of a shift or even sleep in, but she likes these quiet times. It's contemplative.
Like now, this morning, while she digs her hands into the soil around a fiddlehead fern, she wonders what's become of her baby.
She doesn't regret what she's done. She was much too young to have a child, even by Earth standards, where people have children in their thirties and sometimes twenties and it's only a little odd. Even if her body could have handled it, her mind could not have. She did the right thing, for herself and the baby, and she's never regretted it. But she does wonder.
Someone told her once that the babies go into small, dimly-lit rooms where they float, safe and warm, in their artificial wombs. No effort is spared for them, these children; their caretakers even pump the sound of a heartbeat through their amniotic fluid, even stroke and pat their containers as if they'll give like skin. They have homes before they're born. They're loved from the moment of assignment.
Where did her baby go? To an infertile couple, desperate for a child? To one of the robots, to be loved and cherished as the baby they can't have? To someone with a genetic problem they don't want to pass on? She never asked. But she knows it's loved. As she is.
The fiddlehead's roots are soft in her hands, tendrils delicate and twining. Its new home dwarfs it, but it will grow.
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