Thank you so much! That was an awesome review.
~Azila~
My bubble of idle thought is burst as the electric school bell rings, sharp and metallic like an alarm clock. The rustle of papers and the squeak of chair springs echo around the little classroom.
Her name is Olivia. Other teachers have told me that she doesn't pay attention in class; that she only talks if encouraged repeatedly and even so, gives two-or-three-word answers at best. The latter was most definitely true, but I have to disagree with the former. She may not seem to be focused, but if one were to look at her essays and stories, one would realize that she is acutely gifted and has taken everything that you’ve said into account.
I smile to myself and lean my elbows on my desk. I should probably tell her to go, like her classmates, so that she won’t be late for the bus—but she looks so intent that somehow I can’t bring myself to disturb her.
In the setting sun, she glows like an emerald. She dresses in green; always green. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear anything else. Today she wears a fair, delicate shirt with dangling sleeves that flutter in the wind. Her short pants reach her calves in faintly-textured folds of forest green.
She reminds me of a fairy; she is so ethereal and quiet. She flits around the school by herself, unlike the other students who always traverse the halls with friends. Looking at her now, I see her narrow, sandaled feet tapping the legs of her desk as her hand pauses, no doubt in search of the right word. She tucks one of her feet under her other leg and her hand begins to dance once again across the paper.
Colorful streamers around the room read, I Want to be Able to Shake Hands With Your Character! It’s a lame slogan, and it makes me cringe every time I read it, but it seems relevant considering that in this year in creative writing we’re focusing on character development and description.
I unfold it and barely notice that the words glow faintly in the dark room. As I read, enchanted, an opalescent aqua mist begins to gather over the neat, cursive letters. It grows and swirls like a tornado. I read on, heart thumping as the gleaming mist rises from the paper and takes the shape of a little girl, the size of my forearm, with gossamer wings and pointed, elf-like ears. As the wings flutter, the radiant little girl solidifies and for the first time, I look away from the paper and straight at her—and know her immediately. She is Naraida, the little fairy orphan who is the protagonist from Olivia’s story.
She dances around in the air, flying in circles around my head and singing in a high tinkle of a voice that reminds me of wind chimes. Finally, she alights on the desk in front of me and begins to twitter rapidly in an unintelligible language—Tornill, the language from Olivia’s fantasy world. As she talks, she gesticulates madly with her delicate hands. Ah yes, didn’t Olivia write that gestures are a very important part of Tornill?
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