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Aeropia: PrologueMillie lay awake, staring at the ceiling above her. She watched a little droplet of water as it grew into a shiny drop. When it got too heavy to hold its own weight, it fell with a plink into the pot she'd put on the floor beneath it, the sound echoing through the perfectly still air. Then the next little droplet grew and followed the last. It was too quiet. Millie could hear the groaning of the house, the scratching of a mouse underneath her bed, the plink, plink, plink of the water. It wouldn't let her sleep. She found a small amount of comfort in her mum's gentle snoring from the next room. But it couldn't completely lift the eerie silence.
A scream sliced through the almost silence. Millie bolted up in her bed. It was followed quickly by a horse's whinny. It wasn't a scream. Orkie. Millie raced to her window and threw back the shutters. It was too dark to see anything; the moon was hidden behind angry, swirling clouds. There was more whinnying, and banging, like the horses were try
Golden Gray in New YorkNew York from the perspective of Golden Gray in the style of E.B. White.
The train rattled towards the city. I'd heard about it; people called it the City of Dreams. Anybody could do anything and nobody was a nobody. New York.
I expected the high-rise skyscrapers would be peeking over the horizon any time now. People said it was magical there. They said the blacks and whites were all mixed up together there; crammed into the city like tinned sardines. Like they're all the same, equal. I wondered what it would look like, seeing all those people passing each other in the street like it was nothing special. It was this that called to me. It was perfect for me. Not white. Not black. Somewhere in between. True Belle had called me Golden. I think I was just made wrong. Too wrong for the South to accept me that is...
The train staggered to a halt at Grand Central Train Station. People swarmed like bees on the platform, bustling around carrying brief cases and suit cases. Trunks were being off
Her and MeI looked at her.
Skirt swirling around her ankles,
Glossy hair curling its way
To her slender waist.
Huge, blue eyes.
I looked at myself.
Short cropped hair,
Orange tunic, and trousers,
Hanging off my now skeletal form.
Disguised as a man.
He looked at her too.
Thinking his thoughts.
Now I'd lost him.
Cliff TopThe harsh wind whipped around me as I trudged along the muddy path. The leaves crunched under my boots as a drizzle of rain started to fall. I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head only for it to be blown back down immediately. I looked over the edge of the cliff and saw the waves crashing around. This little path was perched precariously on the edge of the land, but I had to stick to it. On my left was a huge stone wall that ran alongside the path for as far as I could see. If I fell, I'd be greeted by a quick death. Smashed against the rocks. I kept my eyes fixed upon my feet.
I couldn't feel my hands any more and my cheeks stung. I wished I could just turn around and go back, but I was more than half way there. It was quicker to keep moving forward. And I couldn't stop. The ground was wet and I'd freeze if I didn't keep my muscles going. The pack on my back was really starting to hurt my shoulders and neck. I remembered the parcel inside it and how important it was, how vital my
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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