A Dream

A dream I've held in my heart for a long, long time is to write. I've decided to post several of the things I write on this blog. I'm currently writing a book, which I will not post on here except for the first passage, but I also write short stories (they're really begginings of books I don't feel like writing past the first pages, or scenes that I want to write for entertainment but have no desire to continue), poems (which, on occasion, are good, but I do NOT want to become a poet.), and proverbs, or things that strike me worthy to remember and live according to. I want to be a writer and this is a test. To see if people who don't know me can like what I write. To see if the people who do know me understand this part of me. To see if anybody's interested.
If you like what I write, fine by me, leave a post. If you don't, leave a post anyway and critique all you want. I LIKE criticism. People (well, my mother, who else?) who tell me no, no it's good after they've read something that I think isn't get to me.
The first thing I will post on here is a passage called "angel". Originally I wrote it (the first paragraph) for my chinese foster mother who wanted reading material for her english students. Then, the image caught at me and I decided to give it a little twist. Tell me what you think. I'd appreciate it.

Angel
She stood on the cliffs of Mohr, watching as the sun dawned over the horizon, its light glinting off the brilliant waves. She stood, and dreamed, her eyes lost in the hues of the brightening sky. The powerful waves broke on the rock, the mist they created falling on her face, the drops gathering like tears, trickling down her smooth white cheeks. As the flames of the sun’s rays slowly brightened the twilight sky, she sighed, a quiet sound drowned in the ocean’s waves, and feeling the warmth of the sun course through her veins, she smiled, suddenly ethereal, suddenly belonging in the beautiful scene she took in.
The shadows of dawn faded, and as the sun caressed her face with delicate fingers, she seemed to fade, to melt into the brilliant light of the flaming orb. Her winds unfurled, spread, gleaming like jewels. She cried out in joy, and threw herself from the cliff. She soared, and rose into the sun.

Hiding behind the trees, a child watches. Her cheeks are wet with tears, but they are not tears of joy. She watches as the woman soars into the light, crying out in ecstasy, while a child’s heart is breaking in pain.
“Momma!” She suddenly yells, throwing herself away from the trees that hid her, into the light of the Celtic sun. But the angel fades, the creature of glory turns not an ear to her daughter’s plea. She rises in the wind, her joy so strong it denies her any other emotion.
“Mama!” the child sobs again, calling her mother, pleading with her to come back. To come home. But only silence greets her cry. Her mother is gone. There is nothing now, just the sound of the waves crashing against the rock, suddenly angry, suddenly revengeful. The sky, where the sun shown brightly only moments before, darkens as menacing clouds roll over the horizon. A vicious wind whips around the child, as her eyes roll back into her head. Her hand outstretched, she screams.
“Come back to me!” Her voice is deep and resonant, no longer hurt and pleading, she commands. And as her command is unheeded, the wind’s force increases, the waves throw themselves against the rock in violent anger, thunder shakes the sky, and mortals tremble at nature’s wrath. Again the little girl screams, a defiant battle cry to the world that has abandoned her, and she runs, runs towards the cliffs, the cliffs of Mohr, and tears streaming down her pale cheeks, throws herself to the winds, and inside her heart, the heart of a child, she knows, she knows, that her mother will come back, her beloved mother will snatch her away from the deadly rocks below and will sweep her up into the sun. But she falls, she feels the wind at her back, she feels the pain as her small body breaks, slamming into the unyielding rock.
Her slight, tiny form lies broken, the now gentle waves lapping away at the blood on the jagged rock, tinting the water a lovely, pale pink. The little girl’s eyes are wide with pain. The jagged edges of the rock she lies on dig into her back, and she tries to take a breath, to draw in the air that cannot seem to reach her lungs, but she chokes, her broken body convulsing as she swallows her own blood.
“Mama,” she manages to cough. She stares at the sun, disbelieving, horror-stricken. Her mother did not come. And she is broken, like the little wooden doll she threw out of her window one night in a fit of rage, hearing the adults fight beneath her, yelling, throwing, so much anger in their hearts. Her limbs are twisted in awkward angles, her neck snapped. She cannot feel the pain and she knows she is dying. Will she go to heaven? Maybe, maybe they will let her see her mama. But she knows in her broken heart that heaven is not for her. How often has her beloved mother told her that heaven will not welcome her? How often has she said that the gates will not be open? Heaven is a distant dream, a fantasy that she will never fulfill. And the pain in her heart, as she sees the red flames at the edge of her vision, the pain that has never left her.
“Take me, then,” she sobs, but the words cannot leave her mouth. Instead it is a thought that she screams, defying the masters of hell. The world darkens around her, and she knows it is her sight that is fading. The flames are brighter now, and she flinches as they lick her skin. And suddenly a bright light is upon her.
“Daughter of the Nephiliim. Daughter of the skies and earth. You do not die this day. I cast you away from the gates of heaven, and hell will never let one such as you burn in its flames. Rise, let ashes mark your path, and your wings will spread as you bathe the world in blood as you were meant.”
She is drowning, dying in blood. It coats her body, but the drops cannot collect on her wings. They fall and slip away, the feathers staying pure and golden. But there is blood, so much blood, and she feels a hand on those glorious wings, the light touch of a finger. And suddenly her wings gleam, her wings bleed, and the feathers are red, blood-red, and the pain, the pain. It is such that she cannot bear it, and her body thrashes, trying to free herself, to fly.
She rises from the sea of blood, her wings dripping, her body weighted down, and yet she flies, heavy, awkward, rising above into the black clouds until she can see nothing but the spectacular blue sky. And she screams, a sound of pain and heartache and anger, trying to erase her mother’s quiet sigh from the memory of the world. And opens her eyes, her broken body whole once more, the waves crashing around her, the sun shining overhead.