#misc excerpts

All good stories start with once upon a time, stated or not. So do most bad ones. There is always a beginning to every story, even the greatest story ever told: that began in a lowly stable, where nobody was looking at all.

But this story starts, not with a squalling infant, but a child. It was a girl-child, rather small for her age, but with a heart as great as any twice her size: at least, that was what those around her thought.

When she looked at her heart, all she saw were the mistakes and imperfections. If she had looked a little way into her past she might have seen a time when she did not see the imperfections, and she might have only seen the love that was pent-up within her, but now she looked at her heart and saw the little errors. Everyone (except in the greatest story ever told) has such errors, but the girl-child only saw beauty and strength in the hearts around her, and saw truly only for herself.

People made comments, well-meaning and trying to guide her to smooth out the imperfections as she grew older and at last taller. But the child hugged the words to her heart, and they made very tiny cuts.

Time passed, and presently the child was a girl, and now she needed no words from others to cut at her heart, for she did it to herself, never seeing what others said was in her, a great and full heart.

Cut after cut after cut came to her heart, and slowly scar tissue began to form. And the girl-child looked at the scar tissue and branded herself a failure, and her words cut deeper.

Presently the child grew into a woman, with a greater and more steadfast heart than before. But she saw it not, for all she saw was that which she had made: a monster of scarring, a mockery of the true heart that still beat within her breast. And she whispered those words she had whispered for years, and still had the audacity to be surprised when they cut so deep.

But this is no longer her story, for once upon a time there was a book.

That book contained the greatest story ever told, and many other stories that all built up to and enhanced that story; and all those together told of that which wove the foundations of the earth.

But though that book was finished, the story that book told continued through the ages, and even the girl-child, with all her petty pain and suffering, was part of that greater story: and she was as nothing within it, but the Author of that story looked upon her and saw her distress.

And he gave the girl-child, now a woman, friends to gather around her and hold her together, and in response she tried to help them and make them happier and closer to him, but sometimes all she could see were the scars on her heart. Her friends, true wise souls that they were, spoke often to the Author about her, even at times when she was overwhelmed by her own inadequacies. They tried to show her the heart she had; and sometimes she tried to see it and sometimes she hugged the falsehood close, because the idea of having been wrong was unbearable.

Funny, he’d thought he could run away from his problems, but they followed, like a too-obedient dog. Although those thoughts had never been quite as clearly stated as that. The weariness had stripped him of the ability to hide from the hideous spectre of himself. He’d run away, for lack of a better thing to do. Victor had never quite hated himself so much as at that moment, as he lay shivering on a damp and slightly clammy bed and mourned. He got up, limbs feeling leaden, and went outside, remembering that only sailors would be around, and after all, he shouldn’t be ashamed of crying. The last of the sunrise still hung delicately in the air, as if waiting for him to emerge. He caught his breath, a smile creeping unbidden to his lips. It was beautiful, pale pink delicately patterned on the clouds, with touches of yellow and orange. A clumsy movement might have shattered the delicate beauty, and so he was still, staring at it partially reflected in the ocean. He could almost imagine there being a still, small voice whispering in the quiet: not in the earthquake, or in the fire, but in the silence. It faded into the pale grey-blue of morning, and Victor let out his breath in a sigh.

in which a character has spent years resenting this one specific person. they meet again after a long time. she falls in love. he does not.

it's kind of a tragedy told from her perspective

this is what the ending would be like, something like