Defined by poetry. Lives by prose. Just a girl on the path to becoming a writer.
This is an excerpt from somthing I'm working on. Grammar?
Written By: Norah
June 6, 2015
Rose dreamed of flying, then woke again in a daze of fear and guilt. Her eyes mellow with secrets. For, in this land far from anything, flying was a sin.
The sun rose earlier that day than it had in many years, but no one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care, their busy lives pulled over their heads like a veil. It was this that woke her, the sudden appearance of light in the dark places of early morning. It almost seemed right, when Rose thought of it after, that it the sun should blaze bright and early that morning everything began. Then again, her adventures afterwards were nothing but bright.
Rose woke from her nightmare then, her arms flailing, her hair splayed on the pillow. Her now wild eyes darted across the shafts of sunlight. Her heart raced. Sinful, that's what she was, because she dreamt of flying every night, and it exhilarated her. She shrouded herself in deception before turning to run out of the sun spotted room, just to be safe.
The too large stairwell echoed with her padded steps. Rose kept a hood and robe under her mattress, so that she could sneak into the town without being noticed. That day Rose needed to get out. Out of the too large, suffocating castle with too bright light. She needed to get out.
The marketplace was as usual packed with merchandise. There were bakers selling fresh seed-encrusted loafs. The wives and mothers were scrambling to buy food and faux-leather bibles. Men were bargaining for better prices, selling furs and fruit. There was a temporary prayer-house set up near the fountain, where the poor and homeless cleansed themselves with pretty words. An old women stood haggard and old, carting racks of trinkets and baubles around the square, hunting the susceptible and vain. A street performer or two captivated a glossy-eyed audience while holding out a jar or a hat for spare change. Children were catching pigeons and their mother's were scolding them. A few beggars with wings and strange eyes converged at the edges of the square. Like a thick puddle of oil, they clung to the hope that someone would pity them. The people of the square cast furtive glances at their winged companions, but none could pity them. Rose, even Rose with her flight-ridden mind and distant eyes, felt sick watching them, although the sickness drove her mind into wild agony. The good-folk had planted their words well.
They looked like angels, with large birds wings. It was as if the pale messengers of the good-folk faith had been dyed cerulean and vermillion, emerald and goldenrod. As long as they had been there, with their unlawful, non-conforming brightness, they had been hated. Hate as natural as the rising sun. The religion of this kingdom forbade love, forbade kindness, forbade hope. The good-folk, the religious majority, the first in the government, they thrived on hate.
Rose moved past the colored angles with tight lips and straight-ahead eyes. Her heart throbbed. This was what was wrong. It was all wrong, the blank, simple, shiny faith that made an art of lying.
But there wasn't time. No time was enough.
Rose hurried to a back alley, rusted by dirt and grime, and stealthily crept by two thugs guarding the disheveled gate. Rose had not come for the bustling crowd milling in the forum, she had come for this. An escape. A relief. The black market was as gritty as ever. Rose liked it that way, far from the smooth lie everyone was living, far from it all. Here, life was real, death was even more real, and most of all, truth was real. Her one friend was also here. Rose slipped into a shop.