(no subject)
The feathers fall. Rue closes her eyes, folds her hands over her heart, breathes, and-
The world freezes.
"No," says a voice, quiet but certain. The shadows part to show a young woman, in a fluffy blue sweater, sitting on a chair. There’s a laptop resting on her knees, and behind her is a wall of still gears. "I can’t do it."
But the story has to go on.
"Oh, I know, I know," she says to - no one, anyone? "I know, but I can’t write it. I can’t let her make this choice, I can’t-don’t you see? It takes me apart every time I have to."
That’s not the point. This isn’t her story, nor is it yours. There are no choices here.
"Don’t say that," responds the woman at the laptop, annoyed. "There are plenty of choices, and you know it. I just can’t write Rue making this one. It's the wrong choice.
"I can’t write her through this."
There’s a long, listening silence as the writer puts her hand to her brow. "Okay," she says, quietly. "Let’s see how this goes.
"Drosselmeyer, this one’s all yours for now."
There’s a moment, and with a creaking noise the gears start to move, slowly at first and then faster.
Rue closes her eyes, folds her hands over her heart, breathes, and becomes Kraehe.
In the background, behind the music, the gears of the story are click-click-clicking.
The world freezes.
"No," says a voice, quiet but certain. The shadows part to show a young woman, in a fluffy blue sweater, sitting on a chair. There’s a laptop resting on her knees, and behind her is a wall of still gears. "I can’t do it."
But the story has to go on.
"Oh, I know, I know," she says to - no one, anyone? "I know, but I can’t write it. I can’t let her make this choice, I can’t-don’t you see? It takes me apart every time I have to."
That’s not the point. This isn’t her story, nor is it yours. There are no choices here.
"Don’t say that," responds the woman at the laptop, annoyed. "There are plenty of choices, and you know it. I just can’t write Rue making this one. It's the wrong choice.
"I can’t write her through this."
There’s a long, listening silence as the writer puts her hand to her brow. "Okay," she says, quietly. "Let’s see how this goes.
"Drosselmeyer, this one’s all yours for now."
There’s a moment, and with a creaking noise the gears start to move, slowly at first and then faster.
Rue closes her eyes, folds her hands over her heart, breathes, and becomes Kraehe.
In the background, behind the music, the gears of the story are click-click-clicking.