Sunday Six Sentences

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.

Rose felt so much like the little girl she had not been for twenty years now, and yet when she tried to recall her childhood, it came out blurry. She could not fix on any definite picture of herself here in Storybrooke, though she was supposed to have been born and brought up here. On thinking of those days when she was so young, her mind brought forth pictures of a castle, a boy named Gaston that she hid from and teased, and her loving father wearing a crown upon his head. They called her Belle.

When confusion set in she wanted to cry and yet Rose fought to make sense of everything her head was telling her. Turning to gaze at her desk in the corner, she suddenly had a thought.