Short Story: The Star escapes... (PC development)

[twistdfateangel]

She doesn't so much run as chassé, a figure in glittering white and silver shooting like a comet across the meadows beyond the Big Top. Her feet barely skim the grass and she's so light, she might very well jump too high and hang in the sky forever. But, someone has her hand and someone clings to her shoulder. There are others with them, running along like the people who had all coveted the golden goose. They hold fast to each other, making no noise, save the crunch of grass underfoot and the sharp gasps of fear and hard exercise.

Overhead, something flares bright. She cries out and tries to shield her eyes, but a hand claps over her mouth. It doesn't matter. The light wheels around and they keep running, they can hear the Sharpshooters' guns firing, the howls of beasts and the screaming rage of the Red one.

She remembered running. Running at school in groups, wearing clothing that didn't fit and didn't suit her. Running home, clutching forbidden treasures in her schoolbag and praying for the forgiveness of fathers both earthly and Heavenly. Running from the house, in nightgown and snow boots, rebellion burning in her heart like a star.

Someone falls. She tries to turn, but the others don't let go. Stick together. There's no other way. She starts to fall and gets dragged like a doll for a good few feet, until several hands hoist her back up and she stumbles into another springing gallop. They don't dare pause. The survivors can wait to mourn. First, they have to know where they're going.

Had she always been beautiful? She could recall weeping over split ends and red blotchy temples, while a patient, weary woman had braided her hair and told her how plain she'd been as a girl. But, had she dreamed it? Had she always been the damsel in the tower, with sparkling eyes and golden skin? She had worn silk and velvet forever, but there was a breath of scent from somewhere, reminding her of faded calicoes and wools. Her eyes had only sparkled with tears back then and her skin had been sallow and ashy. She hadn't been a princess or a dancer.

Behind her, someone snarls in pain and falls. The group is thinning now. Yet, everyone pulls on. They have to. They have left things behind. This is not home. This is a prison. Vast, open, beautiful, but a prison. They push through the Bigger Top door flaps and crash though a wasteland of dry grass and broken corn stalks left from a harvest so long-forgotten, no one is sure why anyone would plant here. The Red one still chases and screams, demanding heads and blood to dye her veils and her sumptuous gowns. Run on, float above it all. Keep dancing, little princess, don't fall.

She had a name once. A softer, plainer name, hearty like a good breakfast, full of vitamins and minerals and good living. She'd had a mother and a father, then no father, then a stepfather. They'd all called her... What? She could hear them say it. She could hear her friends giggle it and her teachers sigh it with exasperation. But the syllables are fuzzy.

Bonnie Rae. That was it.

And then, thorns claw at her face. She wails, her gown and her hair and her skin ripping and shredding against thorns as she tumbles endlessly. Is she alone? Her allies have released her hands and shoulders as she plummets down. She is the star that falls, a shrieking, tumbling, tattered rag from the sky.

But, she's free again.