This is for the Some Kind of Character contest. I'm sure I'll end up doing something wrong with the entry, but I hope the story is satisfactory. I'm kind of worried about this part because I'm kind of setting things up here and I'm not so sure if it's character-related enough.
EDIT: I fixed up a lot of things and took Stella's suggestions. I personally think it's a bit better, but you can be the judge of that.
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Word 057: Leaf
Tilly- 1947
Tilly Parson was the girl that every boy in North Carolina wanted to have for his own. She was young and boundless in beauty with her glossy blonde curls, large plum-shaped lips dusted with a coating of bright crimson lipstick and her vivacious teal eyes. She was perfect.
She was at a local dance and she was the life of the party, as usual. “Would you like to dance, Tilly?” said one boy just as she walked in.
She gave him her wide, sparkling smile. “Of course, Robert!”
A few minutes through the song, most people had stopped dancing to watch the two do the Lindy Hop skillfully. Tilly’s cheeks were rosy with the exertion and her hearty laugh rang around the room and her feet moved rhythmically around the dance floor.
After several dancing with the young men lucky enough to get to her first, Tilly snuck out of the room. The smile slid instantly from her face as she jogged outside. It was chilly and she had left her coat inside. The cool air breathed on her flushed cheeks and as it blew past her, it carried all the cheeriness the dancing and fun had brought along with it.
Tilly seemed like the perfect girl.
But she wasn’t.
Tilly loved fire. She loved that heat that ricocheted off onto her skin and seeped into her bones. It made her feel warm when she felt so cold inside. It could dance far better than any boy. The fire understood her and did whatever it was told. It was her companion when things got unbearable.
Tilly felt frozen inside, and it wasn’t uncommon. She jogged until she was far enough away from people lingering outside and hidden in between trees. She made a small fire out of twigs and grabbed a few leaves from the branches clawing at her hair and dress. She held them over the playful flames and the black slowly eat away at the leaf. It gave her an odd sense of satisfaction watching this happen. Sometimes, the flames would lap her fingers and it hurt, but Tilly knew that the fire meant no harm to her.
The fire was her mother.
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