Just a little something I came up with on my way home from writing group Tuesday night.
I wanted to work in words the way that fine smiths wove metals. I wanted the sorrows that I wrote to spill tears of molten honey from the golden eyes of angels. I wanted the joy in my voice to ring out like a wedding chime and its vibrations to fill a reader’s heart until it burst with delight. I wanted my scribbled passions to rise like the wanton sun on a summer’s morn and sear the ears of all who heard them. I wanted the foreboding of my prophecies to shiver the nectar-laced dew from the flowers’ silken petals. I wanted to paint beauty with my words more breathtaking than the pallid orange and steel grey of storm clouds breaking over an autumn sunset.
“Aye child,” my fairy godmother murmured, inclining her head just a fraction of an inch such that a single strand of her impossible silver and gossamer hair whispered across her face and her dragonfly eyes shimmered in the moonlight. “But what are you willing to surrender?”
I wanted to work in words the way that fine smiths wove metals. I wanted the sorrows that I wrote to spill tears of molten honey from the golden eyes of angels. I wanted the joy in my voice to ring out like a wedding chime and its vibrations to fill a reader’s heart until it burst with delight. I wanted my scribbled passions to rise like the wanton sun on a summer’s morn and sear the ears of all who heard them. I wanted the foreboding of my prophecies to shiver the nectar-laced dew from the flowers’ silken petals. I wanted to paint beauty with my words more breathtaking than the pallid orange and steel grey of storm clouds breaking over an autumn sunset.
“Aye child,” my fairy godmother murmured, inclining her head just a fraction of an inch such that a single strand of her impossible silver and gossamer hair whispered across her face and her dragonfly eyes shimmered in the moonlight. “But what are you willing to surrender?”
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