Wednesday Night Writing Exercise: Lysha Waits

Tonight’s exercise is based on my old “Marking time” exercise, from May 2010: observing a character at rest, waiting for something to happen. It is also an illustration of what happens when I let someone else choose the characters I write about—Lysha, God of Prophecy and living string-tangle, is difficult enough when just dealing with body language, but even harder to, well, wrap around when its hobbies are concerned, as I’ve almost never played it outside the office. Which, of course, meant that honor demanded that I give satisfaction after having received Lysha as a prompt for “What does the character do while waiting for something, and what are they waiting for?”

It has never been explained in as few words—most often the justification comes out to “That which wraps around must be wrapped around”, or “Can one rise without that which has already risen?”–but it is a part of the God of Prophecy almost as essential as its inability to talk without a riddle that Lysha will not do any sort of work—will not spout a prediction, will not schedule an appointment, may not even engage in conversation—before the morning’s pastries arrive.

And thus, Lysha is outside its office, where the small stairs up to its porch overlook the silvery canal. It drapes itself over the railing of these stairs, just enough of its threads twined around said railing to keep from falling, various portions raised or lowered or made temporarily open, the uppermost spread out to soak up the sun before the sky reverts to something else. Somewhere in this riot of color and fiber, something else stands out, a crystalline flash here, and there, passing from strand to strand and between tangles. It’s a small sphere of quartz, and behind it winds a coil of jade green, sea blue and silver, which tracks its every path, over and around and under, until all its slack is exhausted and Lysha’s entire form has to rearrange itself, the threads disentangling, while the quartz sphere is channeled into a perpetual spiral by two or three loose strands—and then the game begins again.

Leave a Reply