Yes he secretly likes dancing. No i am not drawing his outfit. Yes i know I’m on hiatus, but I’m in between camp sessions so getting this done
—The Angel’s Performance — I step onto the rushing, moving vastness of a steam engine, the shrill whistle and puffing, billowing steam. It doesn't make me flinch as it does for some others, as I’m used to loud whistle-calls and the occasional passing steamboat. I can feel the flow of the fabric around me, the netting ‘cross my back. They dressed me up like an angel, ethereal and bright, yet still kept the simple suit-and-tie motif. I’ve got fishing lines and nets, completely with lights, on my back and neck, and a slight veil. The rest is, deep blue, light and flowy, complete with a tie made of,, coral? I know nothing about fashion and can’t be sure at all. My stylist is nice enough, a warm brown-coated cat, though his fur is complete with swirls of many other muted colors. He’s got glasses perched on his face, and two smart little horns. Honestly, I don’t hate him, and he’s practical. Some days, I’ve been fed up with the styles and ideas, but some, my complete transformation under their paws has amazed me. My other district-mates seem to be enjoying their parades, one in a rustling gown of paper is showy, and I know she’s won at least a few hearts. One other is angry, shouting, but I ignore him. Myself, I stand, spin and twirl, half-full globes full of water strung across me glitter and slosh, and I do my best to imagine there are no watching eyes as I step and leap. I’ve been bad at words from some time now, but the motions of the fur and bone speak volumes, the way a cat pricks their ears, or frowns. Motion is more earnest than sound, easier to listen to. My motion speaks to pain and worry, but also to elation and wonder, knowing I’ll at least get to see these views before I expire, and the fish take motion through my bones. The way the outfit flows and rustles, but stays where it is allows movement, and at last I come to a stop, with a simple bow-dip, and speak for the only time. “Angler Hookmouth of district four, here to preform” And I realize it’s true. I’ve spent time absorbed in nothing but the motion of the waves and water and fish. But what other motion can I display? The dance of combat, or perhaps just a terror-filled burst? We may see, in time to come, I think, as I head off the stage and out of view. —end—
