Round 17, Hour 21
May. 7th, 2011 04:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lolmac posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
fic_rush_48It was dark (somewhere in the world, at least).
It was light (somewhere else in the world).
It was cold, and it was warm. It was quiet, and there was far too much noise. Everything was under control; everything was dissolving into chaos.
The one thing, the only thing they all had in common was the writing: words, phrases, sentences. Paragraphs that flowed together like streams of sweet honey, chapters that sang in rainbow chords of joyous or awe-filled or dreadful experiences. Writing that triumphed, writing that shivered in despair, writing that struggled to find a voice, writing that waited patiently until research was completed and it could be set free. The writing . . . and the penguins.
They were there, they are here. Surrounding us, hyperdimensionally. The soft click of beaks that you can almost hear. The bright sheen of sable and snow you can nearly see. The intent focus of small, black eyes you can nearly swear you sense behind you.
Penguins, it turns out, are avid readers. They're waiting.
What are you writing for them?
It was light (somewhere else in the world).
It was cold, and it was warm. It was quiet, and there was far too much noise. Everything was under control; everything was dissolving into chaos.
The one thing, the only thing they all had in common was the writing: words, phrases, sentences. Paragraphs that flowed together like streams of sweet honey, chapters that sang in rainbow chords of joyous or awe-filled or dreadful experiences. Writing that triumphed, writing that shivered in despair, writing that struggled to find a voice, writing that waited patiently until research was completed and it could be set free. The writing . . . and the penguins.
They were there, they are here. Surrounding us, hyperdimensionally. The soft click of beaks that you can almost hear. The bright sheen of sable and snow you can nearly see. The intent focus of small, black eyes you can nearly swear you sense behind you.
Penguins, it turns out, are avid readers. They're waiting.
What are you writing for them?
