Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time...

"Bailey poses exquisitely, a single damp tear trailing down her porcelain face, yet an elegant smile painted upon thin rosy lips."

"The raucous caw of the ashy bird resounded carelessly through the vacant beige sky, the calloused sound reverberating above the scarred flesh of numerous fallen soldiers."

"Smile," the voice coos, "they won't know the difference."


Author's note

Dear Readers,

When I was younger I used to play pretend like any other child would. I would play Warriors or I would play make believe; just about anything that could release the ideas the flowed through me. But I’ve changed because of them.

Kids at school had once questioned me why I acted like an animal. And I was confused. I’d never told anybody about that since elementary school, so where did it come from? I don’t quite know myself. All I knew was that something had spread, and that whatever it was, it needed to stop.

And there have been many things that have influenced me to keep writing. Some of my teachers, my parents, and even a couple of my friends. But this event has by far impacted me the most. Ever since that day I stopped playing make believe. And instead, I started writing. Things could come alive on my paper however I wanted them to, and nobody would have to know. It’s all mine.

So call me selfish. But the reason I share that story with you is because I hope you’ll feel something. Not for me, no. But for yourself. We were all children once, and we all played inside our heads to some extent. Some just daydream now, and some of us read, and some like me; write.

Don’t stop dreaming. Cause we all lived in a fairytale. And some of us, we yearn to stay there. So this is dedicated to those of you who are broken. Who are bruised. Who wish they could still play make believe. I just want to let you know, I wish you all a happily ever after. So don’t stop believing.

Note: Please understand that my opinions will be seen in and throughout this story, though somewhat ‘secretly’. It’s your choice how to interpret my writing and what it means to you.



8. The Atrocity of a Sinner

A December breeze capers through the chilly winter atmosphere, its brittle fingers grasping at the flushed faces of those who meander lazily through the aphotic Paris streets. Not a single bulb illuminates the derelict paths and the phosphorescence of the crescent moon has yet to be sighted as it flounders about the bulbous clouds.

This part of the city was not very enthralling and was brimming with abhorrent crime and dirty theft which does not go unnoticed by government officials yet is flouted as if they were some measly strays causing an unnecessary ruckus. Alycia saw the whole opinion as degrading, however, she had no room to assist in contriving changes to the slums as she provided for her only son, Bastien.

The young lady had been dwelling in the portentous ghetto since she had become pregnant, and over that time of wandering the streets endlessly, she’d been well-educated on the dangers that lurked behind every corner and inside every crevice. She now knew that people went unpunished for any crime here, whether it be homicide or burglary; she was no stranger to the wicked.

Although she wouldn’t deem herself the cynical type, she found it quite humorous how in the world where electricity was abundant and the food was plentiful, that humans could still get away with a simple infraction or a major offense. That those who were considered ‘civilized’ were still as unjust and cruel as she was so classified. That there is no line that divides the good and the bad, for the heroes are always the most malevolent.

It was that elementary thought that led to an onslaught of emotions. People aren’t what they say they are. The smart could be the stupid, the clean could be the dirty, the real could be the fake. So what kind of evil would she be if the angel was not the devil, and the do-gooder was not the sinner?

An atrocity, that’s what.

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