Okay, so as a Creative Writing Challenge, we had to write little pieces with words that were only one syllable. It was actually kind of hard. But here's mine. It's from the perspective of Shyasha, but I obviously couldn't have it in third person because both her name and her nickname (Shya) are more than one syllable. ARGH!
“I am the girl they hate now, Tel,” I say. “I’m not worth it.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Need I say, once more –” I start, but he cuts me off.
“You’re strange now,” he says, a sad note in his voice. “I’m not sure I like it.”
“Why?” I say. “It should not be worse than what I am named by the public.”
“I met you as a child,” Tel said, out of the blue. “I fell in love with you as a man. Now I feel shame when I see you. Does that make me more of a man or more of a child?”
“Shame for me?” I say. “I need no help in that area, thank you.”
“No, shame for me,” he says. “I hurt you. I killed you. Once I fell in love with you, I killed you. And then I wed your –”
“I know what you did,” I cut off. “But it must be much more… nice, to be the King with the Rose of the Land as your bride, not the groom of a girl with scars of shame and no true home.”
“I would pick the girl with the scars,” Tel says, “because the scars have a past. They show that the girl has a spark that the rich bride lacks. Last time I saw, the scars had a past that should be told; a past that wants to get out.” He steps near to me and stares down at me like I am not what he is used to; it is true, I am not. This look still has a thought in back of the sad look. “Does that wild girl still have fire?” he asks in a soft voice; his dark eyes watch mine. “Or has the shame of her face put it out?” His hand comes up to touch my face; I brush it off.
“The wild girl has fire,” I say, “but she knows now what to do with it. If it is not used right, though, she has scars to tell her. I think you may need the scars too, Tel. It would do you good.”
“I could use them,” he says in a soft voice. “Then I would know how you feel.”
“You have no chance to know,” I say, as I pull up my hood and turn to go, “Until you feel the pain of a heart that has been hurt. Until then, you have no clue.”
“My heart has not been hurt by this?” he asks as I reach the door.
“Not as bad as mine has,” I grunt, too quietly for him to hear.
