A while back, I shared with you the first page or two of a little fairytale I’m writing called “Smidge.” Man I loved that opening scene – I read those words and just smiled until I realized that I’d done it to myself again. I’d started the story with a prologue. So I got to work, and re-wrote and sat back once again, smiling until… yup, yet again I’d filled the first page with back story.
Why? Why must it always be this way? (insert the wail of a tormented writer here)
So, as this has been my secondary focus all week (genealogy being the first and you’ll just have to shoot over to letters to rosa to catch up on that amazing journey), I thought I’d share the first page or two of “Smidge”, revised. Please feel free to comment away as apparently, I still need guidance and feedback…
And here we go-
The colors just weren’t right. Streaks of muted blue tinged with pink laced the sky and brought another wave of disappointment to Tipper. Some would’ve appreciated the hand that created this subtle palette and at another time in her life, she would’ve found them at least pretty.
Another time and way before the vision.
“Adjust,” she directed the smidgen beneath her right foot. The tiny creature protested, but obeyed and the horizon straightened.
Tipper searched ahead, looking for that blast of color that would make the vision real. A soft glow signaled the pending sunrise, deepening the blues and pinks, but it still wasn’t enough. This wasn’t the dream sky; they weren’t the right colors. Expectation gave way to exhaustion.
She had to smile at the hope in that one word. “Rest,” she agreed.
The horizon shifted as the smidgen angled her away. Trees whizzed by, turning into a blur of greens and browns and gold. Tipper laughed and threw her arms out with joy as if she were flying by herself, not from the help from a crabby smidgen beneath her foot.
She closed her eyes and imagined him, the boy who waited in her vision. Black hair, pitched and dark, worn loose like a rogue, and piercing blue eyes – cobalt she corrected herself. He was for her if only she could find him.
Tipper knew they were almost home by the colors of the sky. Pale blue edged in purple; the delicate shades of her mother. Her father – how had he known to weave such soft colors to woo her? The match had lasted a lifetime.
“Home,” the smidgen whispered as a lodge came into view. She felt him adjust for the descent. It wouldn’t be a soft landing; they never were with this creature. It just wasn’t a good fit, her and James. A woman was never meant to fly.
She tried to prepare for what was to come, but the ground rose at her too fast.
“Adjust,” she cried.
James just snickered as he gave her a heave, sending her rolling across the cold, damp grass.
What a mess. She could already see her mother cringe and hear the taunts of her sisters when they saw her soiled tunic and leggings.
“You go too far,” she accused James.
He gave a small shrug and turned to walk away. Tipper rested her head on the grass and wondered; would this be the day he wouldn’t return? Would she see the sun set and be land-bound, locked and unable to continue her search?
Doubt drove her to near panic. “You’ll come back?”
James continued and Tipper, helpless to reach him, watched him go.