siaru wrote:

She dropped the brush as she flushed, then she blushed, feeling
her female body respond to that memory in a way that she could
never have felt back then, and firmly pushed those memories
down, ashamed of all the other memories that went with them.
That encounter had been volitional. What she had sought later,
though, would not have been.

   Blushed, flushed, looks a little awkward in proximity. One of them
could be switched for 'colored', perhaps?

   Keep in mind that all of my C&C is nothing more than suggestions.
You can freely ignore me.

She leaned over, brushing her shoulder-length hair against the
side of the easel as she reached to recapture the brush. She
rinsed it in the bucket, purifying it and reshaping its
disturbed bristle back to a form suitable for the purpose.

   Lots of sentences starting with 'she'.

Now she drew back from both men and women, reduced once more to
virginity. But... what is a virgin?

   is -- was (?)

She paused in applying a deft stroke of barely visible color to
the paper, to wipe her eyes with the back of her free hand. This
line of thought was getting wet; she had thought she was past
that.

   this -- that (?)

   I'm not quite sure I understand about the thought getting wet,
though. I'm assured that I'm a particularly dense person, so that might
not mean anything. :p

She hadn't meant to say it aloud. She looked around furtively.
The various men in this corner of Macarthur Park were oblivious,
intent on their own pursuits.

   Hmm...

The brush stabbed the paper, putting hints of ruddy spots on the
developing body of the insect.

   'putting' as a descriptive word doesn't seem to do this scene
justice. It seems to lack impact...

She realized that she was surrounded by the homeless. There, but
for a clan's obligation, its embarrassment... its face... its
surface... supported by the water even after I left it.

   Third to first person shift is a little jarring here.

She shook her head, slowly so as not to dislodge the tears she
felt at the edges of her eyes. When I was a man I had no depth,
only skill with my weapon. Now I am a woman, weaponless, and
depth is all I have.

   Same.

Why does he care about the name? Why do I? Not even a name
matters without other people. If no one ever wants to know your
name, do you have one? If you have no family, do you need a
family name?
Better to take a given name as a surname, then; at least it's
there for the taking, unlike clan names, which are jealously
guarded in clan registries to cast out the impure.

   Missing newline?

   I very much like the line about the impure. Brings to mind the
process for forging a sword in a very subtle manner.

Amenbo is a given name; I can take it as a family-name. A family
of the disowned, a clan of the clanless. No clan, no
obligation... like escaping the water and living on its surface.

   And iron sinks. Maybe it's an unintended parallel, but I rather find
it intriguing.

But it was forced upon me... all of it. I had no choice. I
suppose I gave that away in seeking to force another, to take
away their choice. When I touched, I was touched. That's how the
water works. To touch is to become involved, ensnared, wetted by
another's life, colored by it. Now I'd rather not be touched; it
has washed away too much already.
I am still being purified, then; and the only way to avoid being
touched is to give way immediately. Have it your way, then, Lord
Sosei.

   Missing newline?

   Excelent bit, by the way.

Why not; irony is my only weapon lately. I am being blessed by
the water, unburdened of everything I took for granted. I am
being purified with therapy, too; the process is far from over,
I can tell.

   Then too, finished blades are quenched in water...

She smirked and gestured grandly at the bucket with the brush.
"The water is my weal and my bane..." She stopped herself short
and looked anxiously skyward, half-expecting lightning from the
dirty sky, no longer sure she was immune to its thrust. The Los
Angeles summer sky was static, cloudless and uninhabited, like a
painted backdrop in a movie about itself. It seemed to her to
have no depth. She turned back to her work.

   Hmmm...

She returned to motion, dipping her brush into the bucket water,
and used it to apply more hints of color to the lower part of
the picture. She worked steadily; this part of the picture was
something she felt to be important, something that belonged in
the final image, but she didn't like it. She had to be careful
not to rush things. She distanced herself by deliberately
thinking in a higher context.

I thought I could study theatre, but it puts one into the art; I
would have drowned there.

   I like this -- seperate paragraphs for first and third person
passages seems to help the flow a bit.

It was as perfect as she could make it from memory.
Water-colored water-thin, water-born and water-borne, still
buried beneath the surface-tension, the koi was in the start of
the skyward leap which would put the insect lovingly and
securely in its hungry mouth.

   Should there be a comma after 'Water-colored'?

   Subtle. Koi.

   I like it.

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My thanks to prereader Rakhal on this one.

C&C welcome: ffml@anifics.com, siaru@stormbringer.org

   Nothing short of genius. Keep up the excelent work.