Every day, I see him.

He sets his easel up with the others. They line the curved street like portable windows. Squared glimpses into the mind and soul, portrayed in oil or acrylic. Pastel visions of faraway dreams; black and white interpretations of a colored world.

How he intrigues me.

It’s nearly lunchtime, and the other painters on the cobbled street have already gone to eat, leaving him alone to capture the midday sun in all its glory. I pass under the Souvre Arch, lilac skirt swishing gently against my legs. This is the only dress I own, but even if I had others, I would have chosen this one. Not because it flatters my figure, although I like to believe it does, but because purple is his favorite color. He uses it more than any of the others, the paint tube not merely crinkled and worn, but flattened all the way to the top.

I know, because I’ve watched him.

Like the other musicians, I practice for hours every day, honing my singular talent. Often, the light from the window draws me as I play, the warmth mingling with the notes like a visible harmony.

This is how I first noticed him, his dark curls damp from the heat and clinging to his neck and face…

Blue eyes the same shade of blue as the summer sky peer up at me.

I take a quick step back, startled to have found him staring. I sip in a few deep breaths, calming my shattered solitude, but then step back to the opening.

A gentle smile curves his mouth.

Heart pounding, I turn and escape to the safety of my bedroom. I am not prepared for the feelings that chase me into the shadows, following all the way to my dreams as I sleep that night. Azure eyes gaze into my soul, accompanied by his shy smile.

The next day I force myself to practice in front of the mirror, watching my fingers, checking my technique. I do not think of the artist at all, or the dark curls of hair tracing his cheekbones.

I wince as I hit a sour note.

I’m fooling no one. Not even my music.

The following day I give in and practice in the sunlight. As the last strains of Arpeggio of the Heavens in D trail away, I lean forward.

He’s not there.

A strange emptiness fills my chest as I lean on the window ledge, stretching outward as I search. His easel is in its normal place, just opposite my window, but no one stands behind it. Has he left? Gone to eat lunch with the other painters? A woman of his own kind? Was I a fool to let him into my dreams?

Movement catches my eye.

A huddled shape sits half hidden in the shadows. How I first missed him, I don’t know, but as his head lifts, the emptiness inside me fills with wonder. His face is wet with tears, yet his brows tip upward and his lips read ecstasy instead of grief. He shakes his head slowly, as if in awe. I do not understand until he stands and turns his easel, scraping the wooden legs along the cobbled stones until his canvas faces my side of the street.

The shape is indistinct—just a smudge of charcoal gray against the brightness of the window—but the shape of the violin is clear to me. I know my instrument better than I know myself. What I have never seen is the way my arms cradle the bridge and hold the bow, extended to create a shape both feminine and powerful. Or the way my head curves inward as I play with abandon, my hair draped along the wood as if the instrument and I have become one.

Tears prick my eyes.

I don’t know how this is possible. I cannot speak his language. I’ve never painted. Not even drawn with a pencil, except for the tight circles and lines of my musical scores. How could he have understood me so well? Looking at his picture in simple black and white, I see how he sees me. I feel what he’s heard. He speaks in images, I in notes, yet against all odds we’ve communicated.

It was at that moment I made my decision.

To do what I’ve never done.

To step into life.

To venture outside my narrow world and into his.

There is no law against my leaving the musician’s borough, yet I’m the only stranger here in the artists’ village. Inside small cafes, fingers smudged with paint hold slender glass stems. A few look up as I pass, then frown or turn away.

I’m not their kind.

As I pass beneath the Souvre Arch, he comes into view. His easel looks larger from this angle. I peek up at my window, seeing how it catches the sun as the light peeks over the rooftops of the village on the other side, and think he’s chosen the perfect spot. An artist among artists.

His hands stop moving first, as if he senses me before his head turns.

But it’s the moment our eyes meet that nearly undoes me, as he peers from beneath impossibly long lashes. If the sun finding my window is perfect art, the blue of his eyes meeting mine is the perfect chord. His mouth moves, but the sounds he makes are indecipherable.No matter.

I stop beside him. He watches as I take my violin from its case, checking the strings before laying the bow.

I play him my heart.

My words are simple. They speak of innocence.

Discovery.

Love.

When I’m done, his eyes sparkle. I swallow, mouth dry with fear.

He takes my hand.

His fingers are strong and smooth, where mine are calloused. They twine between my slender digits, playing against my skin, leaving a streak of purple against one knuckle.

And I know…

He understands every word.

She waited in the terminal lounge, clutching her backpack with both arms. Her gaze was glued to the orange carpet. Ten minutes remained until they began boarding her section of the space transport. Ten minutes until she was caught and thrown out.

She risked a quick look around. The other passengers looked as downtrodden and desperate as she did, but their faces lacked her terror. How she envied them. When their names were called and they stepped, one by one, into the testing machine, they had nothing to fear. They would pass through, board the transport, and begin their journey to a new life on the moon.

The testing machine. She didn’t want to look at it. Just a clear-sided elevator. Step inside, the doors closed, it dropped out of sight one floor – they didn’t want the rest of the passengers disturbed by either the test itself or any negative outcomes – and then MSR test activated. If the passenger passed, the elevator rose, the opposite doors opened, and they walked out onto the boarding ramp, free to immigrate. If they failed, the elevator rose without them.

She pulled the backpack more tightly to her chest. She would fail.

MSR stood for Magic Stimuli Response. It was designed to trigger a manifestation of power from magic-sensitive test subjects.

She was magic-sensitive.

A video screen blurred to life nearby. An ad touting the exciting benefits of life on the moon began playing, the blue logo of the corporate government prominently displayed in a corner. She would have rolled her eyes, if she wasn’t so scared. There wasn’t a person left on the planet who hadn’t seen that ad so many times they had it memorized. Everyone knew it was immigrate to the moon, or stay down here and die a slow death.

Her parents had succumbed to illness four weeks ago. Her little brother had passed before them. That was the reality of their poisoned, dying world. Devastated, alone, she’d tried to survive, but she was too young to work, and her parents had left her nothing. Nothing except a small stash of money for a ticket to the moon. Start over, they’d urged. An uncle lived there. He was her only remaining family, and he was expecting her. He’d transferred her more money for the ticket, when the prices had hiked, and she had taken it, desperate to join him and start over.

The boarding cycle began. The first people queued up and began entering the testing chamber.

She swallowed. She would never make it to her uncle because she would never make it out of that machine. It would expose her as magic-sensitive, and they would kick her back out on the street. No magic-sensitives were allowed on the moon. Magic was an aberration, and they intended to keep it out.

“What do you think the moon will be like?”

She jumped at the man’s voice next to her.

“Easy, little deer!” he said. He was older than she was, but not by much. His hair was caught in a ponytail, and he carried a single bag. “They say the domes aren’t as lush as the ad shows, but it’s pretty close.”

She mumbled a response and wished he would go away.

“Look up, not down,” he said, softly. “Don’t give them reason to suspect you.”

Her gaze turned sharply to him.

He smiled. “It’s not as bad as you’re imagining.”

“What isn’t?”

“The test.”

She froze and said nothing.

“It’s designed to startle you, that’s all. It scares you, and your magic will activate automatically to save you. That’s how it works.”

“I have no magic,” she mumbled.

“Of course not. None of us do. What magic-sensitive person would be stupid enough to try to get off world?” She heard the bitterness in his voice and studied his face again. He looked no different from anyone else, but where she was terrified, he merely looked determined. She hadn’t met many other magic-sensitive people. How did he do that? He went on, “They keep your ticket money, you know. If they detect you. It’s not like they refund it so you can go back to whatever cheap hole you used to live in. They keep it.”

Her shoulders slumped. She was giving up everything for a chance at a future that was doomed from the outset.

“Family?” he asked.

“Gone, here. I have an uncle on the moon. He’s waiting for me. He’s sent me a couple communications, told me he’s got a room ready, and what the schools are like there.” Her lip trembled, and she clenched her jaw to steady emotions. “I guess I’ll never see that.”

He sat beside her in silence a long time, and she tried to draw strength from him. Finally, he blew out a breath and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Lara.”

He reached in a pocket and handed her something. It was small and metallic. “Take this,” he said. “Hide it in your pocket and don’t let anyone see it.”

She stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

“Now, hold your head up high, and stop worrying. You’ll be seated on the transport shortly, and your uncle will be waiting to greet you.”

“I don’t…”

“It’s a counter-spell. It stops your magic from activating. As long as that’s on your person, you have nothing to worry about from their test. Do you understand? You’re going to make it. You’re going to start again.”

“But you—”

He waved a hand, dismissively. “I can try again later.”

The loud speaker blared her name: “Lara Remin, approach the gate.”

Her heart hammered.

“Go,” he said. “You’ve got an uncle. You have family. I don’t have anyone waiting up there.”

“If I see you again…” she said.

“You won’t.”

The loud speaker called again, “Lara Remin, last call.”

He smiled confidently at her, squeezed her hand, and she hurried towards the gate, the gift of life safe in her pocket.

The same violet colors that bruised the sky swirled on the reflective surfaces of the hot-air balloons. Lavender-tinged sand met the blue of the sea, and the splendor of the dawn stretched to the horizon.

I crammed shoulder to shoulder with the others, behind the laser fence. No one jostled too closely, respectful of the deadly nature of the boundary between us and them. We were not allowed to stand on that pristine beach they floated so easily above; we could only look at it. We were not allowed to touch the gentle waves rolling up the beach. That was reserved for them.

The message they wanted us to believe was that nothing that beautiful could be evil.

They lied.

“Cheer,” the sergeant-at-arms ordered. “Cheer for the lords and the council.”

I wanted to refuse, but it would have just earned me another beating. My voice raised with the others around me.

“Louder.”

We increased the volume enough to satisfy the armed soldiers, but not enough to show honest enthusiasm.

It was all part of their annual Rising Up Ceremony. Once a year, the lords and their puppet council members took to the sky, while we stood barefoot in mud and the detritus of our designated section. For an hour, they drifted over clean sand and clear ocean that we could admire only on this day, from our side of the laser fence. Hundreds of well-fed, well-armed soldiers guarded that fence, from the other side, of course. Most of us stared at the soldiers and the balloons with hunger in our bellies and resignation in our eyes.

I watched with determination.

My child lay ill at home.

I’d petitioned the council three times for the correct medicine. Each time, the message came back rejected. A child that young was not important enough to receive medicine. Children did not yet work, they did not earn their keep, and plenty more children were born every week. Children were disposable.

I was not the only parent with a child who could be cured with the contents of their dispensary, nor was I the only one desperate enough to decide to fight for life, for love.

Nearly their entire garrison of soldiers lined the fence before us, both to witness the celebration and provide a show of force to keep us cowed. They weren’t worried about how few soldiers remained behind in their side of the city during this one hour each year, but they should have been. The power station stood mostly unguarded. When the power failed, the fence would go down. All we needed was a distraction, for the soldiers to look away at the right moment.

“Wave,” the sergeant-at-arms commanded. “Wave to the lords and the council.”

It was the agreed-upon moment. We threw up our arms and waved at the sky, counting silently.

Their hot-air burners hissed on and off, and the colored balloons flew higher. The lords and the council had the power of life and death over us. They flew to remind us that they were always there, looking down, protecting us from ourselves. They controlled our food, our wages, where we lived, what we could own, our medicine. We were not wise enough to have a say in such matters, they told us. We were nothing but faceless workers, and they did not fear us.

But those hot-air balloons required regular maintenance. The burners’ tanks needed to be filled with the right mixture of gases. All equipment needed to be checked and double-checked before flight. That was work for us menials, not them. I doubted the thought of sabotage ever occurred to them.

The love of a mother for her daughter was inconsequential to them.

It was everything to me.

I waited for the explosion.

---

Learn more about @dkoren-cimharas.com (Deborah Koren)

The idea for “Rising Up” originated from my admiration of the beauty of the prompt picture. Light is balanced by dark, and so I wondered what was just out of sight of that pretty view, what weren’t we being shown. The story tumbled out from there.

So this may be the silliest thread you've ever seen, I would accept that. But someone, help me out here.

I can't seem to nail down the difference between a summary and a synopsis. Google had only gotten me so far, and each website seems to have a different opinion on how to write each.
I ask because I'm going to begin querying soon, and I don't want to send an editor who asked for a synopsis a summary instead.
Main problem for me- which one is the back of a book blurb and which one do you outline the major events of the book, including the ending??

You'd think this was a simple thing...

Anyway, sorry if I started a new thread that already exists somewhere else. I couldn't find anything when I looked in the forum.