The air rush of words that came out of my mouth floated dreamily in the air, like a falling feather, landing on black paper. In a thin, curved print, it appeared apon the page. And the story of her became my story too. Ours collided together without making a noise.
There she was, dancing in the dark hall, a dim light making her glow. And there I was, sitting on cold granite steps, only watching. The ache in me whispering, "Dance, dance..."
There she was, dancing in the dark hall, a dim light making her glow. And there I was, sitting on cold granite steps, only watching. The ache in me whispering, "Dance, dance..."
1 comment:
Micaela,
There are at least two stories we hear when we read. The first is the story in print--the one on the pages in front of us; and the other is the story that runs along side it-- the story that is ours. I love how you say stories can merge. You're right. I love how you talk to characters as though they're real people. Were you thinking of a particular book, or did you imagine the story altogether? Perhaps you should write a story about this girl.
There's a line I love in O Pioneers where Willa Cather is describing an old woman named Mrs. Lee. Cather writes, "Sometimes she forgot which were the printed stories and which were the real stories...."
Keep writing stories Micaela. Keep writing stories.
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