part of a story

i wrote this story today in chemistry, while everyone was still working on naming binary acids and oxyacids (soooo easy). it’s part story, part poem, part song:

“Who are you Azriella? Why didn’t you accept his offer?”

…Selfish…

The word was airborne like a virus. At least they would speak to her. Most people were so envious they pretended they knew nothing of Azrah and the offer. Ha. The village was so small; it was impossible not to know every detail of every other person’s life. Who were they kidding? But all the same, they were given another reason to despise her. What became of nobility? The other girls, these other people, could they not understand why Azrah could not go into the city? Her mother would die out here alone, as Azrah did many years ago. Strange world where you are selfish for self-denial and not abandoning your blood. Strange world.

Azrah is not a voice; she is a mind hard at work. Visual creature, solitary, self-sufficient. Hold on, dearest, don’t be unattached. She looks into mist and believes whatever emerges. Her blood is thick, it wanders through mountains while the images fall into cauldron. Vortex. Sponge.

Mist colored hair teases the breeze, snow-flaked eyelashes frame crystalized stare. She grins at the forest, at the simpering wind. The soil knows her feet, the trees know her hands.