Leanne Dyck blogs three days a week about writing and knitting, but mostly writing.
Monday: who am I without a pen; Thursday: Leanne Dyck's author journey; Friday: interviews or articles by those in the publishing industry.
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He spoke to her, touched her. A cool hand of longing traced down her body and made her shiver.
Why do I feel like this? What’s wrong with me? This is wrong.I should stop. She knew she wouldn’t; she knew she couldn’t. She was his. He possessed her.
Annie longed to stroke his cheek, kiss his lips, melt in his embrace.
So there she sat upon her bed—alone with him. Her nose buried in the book. Annie turned each page in eager anticipation. Her imagination was a world they shared. To her he lived, breathed.
She’d found him in the school library. The book was tattered. How many years had he waited for her? Annie shuttered to think. It wasn’t important. What mattered was that she had found him.
She longed for their life together to continue. So she turned the pages very slowly, savouring each word.
Annie had excused herself immediately after breakfast. “I have to make my bed and fix my hair,” she’d told her granny, pushing back her chair. Annie hadn’t lied. Those tasks needed tending to; but what she’d wanted was to spend more time with him.
Granny would never understand. How could she possibly? She’s way too old. And she thinks I’m a good girl—her darling angelic granddaughter. Granny doesn’t really know me. She only knows the shadow illusions in which I hide. *** Next post: reading: discussing Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close