Finding Beauty 01I was out looking for the perfect violet. I though I had found one, and had just picked it, it's stem sturdy and strong in my hands, when I found Her laying in a bed of fresh green aspen leaves, their round, slightly serrated edges framing the bright fallen-leaf copper of her curling hair. Her pale face peaked in a sharp little chin. Her long, pale lashes fell on round cheeks that shined with the matte glow of a fresh-fallen yellow apple. And then I saw her wings. Transparent as a dragonfly's, they draped gracefully over her narrow back, mingling with the aspen leaves. Each had an infinitely delicate vein system in crystalline-shimmering gold, and where the veins became to small to see, I couldn't really tell if her wing was there until a slight movement made the light refract off them in a golden sparkling rainbow. I could have watched her sleeping forever, but, clumsy I, I stepped on the smallest of dry twigs, snapping it loudly.
I am the WriterI am the writer.With word as my artI draw picturesacross white paper.Smooth sentencesflow like waterfrom my fingertipsacross the keyboardonto a blank screen.I am the writer.With my wordsnations are foundedor crumble.I am the writer!The great mageswait my commandand all their magicis mine to use.It is my decisionwho will live and die,the world waitsholding their breath!I am the writer!And then I wake upand I'm nobody again.