Casting her fears aside, she leapt over the top of the spidery wrought-iron gates; her white dress floated out around her as she dropped to the ground. As her pale, sandaled feet met the dust on the other side, her mind flew briefly to Simone, to the uneasy question of whether she had found the black case hidden in the rosebushes.
Tom: 'No, it's pretty good. I like the use of...English.'
Picking herself up, she glanced around warily, expecting an ambush that never came.
It seemed to her that she had come to a fork in the road her life had been taking. In the moment that she had shut her eyes and sprung across the tall fence, her choice had been made. The fall to earth had decided her fate.
‘Your metaphors could use a little innovation.’
Startled, she looked up. There, three feet above her left shoulder, was the waif, tossing a small red object from one handlike extension to the other.
‘You followed.’
Etc, etc. The trouble is, I was trying to write a picture book. The idea was to get Emma to illustrate it and give it to mom for her birthday. (It was a great idea, I thought.) I'm just thinking that it might be better to write it in more Emma-appropriate prose. (I tried. It's a lot worse, normally.) It also sounds a little like something that was written on an airplane. (Much more so further on, when the clouds and stuff come in.) So as usual, I wind up with something I don't know what to do with. I could publish a collection of bits of things I don't know what to do with.
On Simone: In Vancouver, we found a picture of the band Au Revoir Simone somewhere, and one of the girls looked a little like an older, prettier, and more refined version of myself.
I don't belong.
2 comments:
I know this might sound strange, but for a moment I thought the image was of one woman in different poses featured on the same photo.
One of them looks exactly like you. Exactly.
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