Rosalie, Butterfly Rider

Am writing. Middle Daughter is writing her own short story. She dictates the plot to me, and I pretty up the words and type it up. 

Piece of today’s section:


Rosalie never got tired of flying.

She tore her hair free of the bun and let it sail behind her, the wind rushing past her face to tangle in her pale locks. Tiny insect houses dotted the landscape like colorful flowers below her. Butterflies played in free-floating spirals of joyful buzzing, their larvae crawling up stalks to watch and cheer. The forest beneath her was full of billowy branches that gave the appearance of feathers dancing in the breeze, but Vanessa climbed in altitude until Rosalie thought the deep green crowns looked as tiny as blades of grass.

In the corner of Rosalie’s vision, a circular pattern of red light with a deep crimson cross pulsed. With the reigns, she gently nudged Vanessa towards the center of the perpendicular lines.
Beyond the vast forest lay an open plain at the foot of a magnificent mountain peak. Sparse shrubs dotted the outskirts of the lush wildflowers and phlox.

A voice deep inside of Rosalie’s mind whispered that she had arrived. She shouted over the wind to her ride, “Land here!”


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