Where the brook turns into a pond, the sunlight makes the water turn golden and the little fish swimming by are surrounded by a halo of light. There was something unreal about this place, being there after a day in school was like stepping into a whole different world, a place where the word peace was written in a flowery handwriting on every leaf and petal. Inspiration was like the flow of the water, clear and mysterious, and Iris was used to it finding its way into her mind and it was in this way that the magic was brought on the pristine white sheets of paper she brought there. Fantasy had a whole different meaning in this pretty world.
Iris sighed and put down her pen. Life was so much easier in her stories, so much simpler. She drew a circle around her face in the water, sending ripples shivering through the picture reflected. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be that girl in the water, frozen in a pose of bliss, forever happy and carefree. Sometimes she wished she could drown herself in her reverie and stay entrapped in her world of fantasy.
A breeze passed by, tickling her skin, a bubble of laughter escaped her lips. It hurt her face when she laughed however, so she stopped and gently ran the tips of her fingers over the bruises, it would take more time for them to heal. She had grown to like her bruises; they were part of her now, like creases are part of an orchid crushed under the tires of a car… When the scabs fall, they reveal a better skin.
A new variety of flowers had started to grow on the banks of the brook; they smelled like baby’s breath. They bowed towards the water, trying hard to catch a glimpse of what they looked like but never really succeeding. A yellow butterfly fluttered by Iris’s head, then changed its mind and flew away. The sun had begun to set slowly, soaking the woods in a reddish glow. It would be dark soon.
Iris knelt besides her friend the brook and leaned as far as possible over the water and kissed the girl reflected down there. Her loose ponytail became undone and her hair flew forward to hide her face like a golden curtain. She gathered her things and stood up, locking the moment away in a secret place.
A single tear fell on the pages; the book was closed and put back on the shelf.
I wrote this piece when I was seventeen, and I always knew that it would be Page 1 … of something…