I stopped at the very edge of the forest and slowly extended a hand towards the nearest tree. Its skin was strange—chunky, jagged, and craggy. I had never been close enough to one to see it in detail, so I was unprepared for such a texture. Fruit trees were confined within carefully secured orchards, and the few varieties of small, ornamental flowering trees—little more than bushes, really—that were allowed inside the Clearings all had skin that was more or less smooth with only an occasional bump in it.
By the end of my first day of teaching the following week, the ball seemed years ago, a distant memory buried under an avalanche of paperwork, schedules, lesson plans, grading, and assignments. Had it not been for Devorah Erren’s insufferable boasting to the other girls about the ball (she being the only one of the class whose parents had allowed her to attend) I might not have thought of it at all.
By the middle of the week, however, my thoughts had turned to the upcoming festival that I was to attend with Mira and her family.
My plans of showing Mira around Havenwing were dashed by torrential rains that lasted all day. By the time it finally relented, the sun was going down and it was time to prepare for the ball.
Mira and I declined the lady’s maid’s offer to arrange our hair for us, in favor of experimenting on each other. After hearing of our intentions Aunt Monria presented us with her entire chest of hair ornaments to choose from, offered a few casual suggestions for styles that would suit our hair colors, facial shapes, and dresses, and then left us alone.
I can feel the ground whispering as I continue in the shoes which were never imagined for this walk. My dear, sweet mother, would choke on her breath if she saw me out here, wearing strapped, high heeled dress shoes in the forest covered in snow. I love it.
I might see him now, or is that another tree? He never did promise that he would come. But I came anyway. I am always seeking. I must always know. A tree again. No? Yes. Nothing moves in this forest but me. Everything hides but the woman in a black ball gown who doesn't know where she's going. He will not come. He isn't here.
The Mold creeps
Beyond the happy chimney tops
Into forsaken cabin’s corners
Out of rotting rickety cupboards
From decaying trees and logs
Out of boundless time and ancient empires
Beyond the roaming woodlands
Down to the dark depths of depression
Underneath the lowest branches
Beside lethal mires
Into dripping caverns
The Mold creeps
Past blinding darkness
Into the criminal’s damp den and
Out to the bog’s vapors
To torture the weary maiden in her grief
I did this story/essay when I was twelve, so excuse me if it isn't the best I've ever done.
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This story happened when I was ten years old. My friends, Bree, Avery, Ben, Isaac, Sarah, my older brother Zay and I all went on a hike. Our guide was Isaac and Sarah’s great-aunt Martha. When we first started, we all picked out our own staffs (walking sticks) to help us along the way. I picked one about 5.1 because I was only about 5 feet back then. (Uh huh, you heard me right.)
I'm so bogged down in confusion on the plot for A Steampunk Tale that I'm taking a break from writing it to work on plotting and backstory and drawing maps, and figuring out how everything in the story world works. I should have known this would happen. I guess I'm not a seat-of-the-pants-er. :)
she was a girl in a forest with no trees
he was a boy of fire and blind belief.
it was Chicago, planes flew overhead
now she's in bed
and who will wake her from her dreams?
who dares disturb her restless peace?
everything he knows blazing wild to ash
flames won't catch
eyes won't meet.
in constant noise, she does not speak
through clouds of smoke, he cannot see.
she takes her bitter pills to swallow
forget those hollow
On the table a candle was set, flickering and dancing. The flame gave forth enough light to see the faces around the table. I sat next to a man who was young and had appearance like myself, Will, by name. Across from him was another man, John, who was tall, bearded, with merry eyes. He held his hand to his forehead with his elbow resting on the table. And directly in front of me was a man with scarlet hair, Martin. His lips were pinched in frustration, as he leant back in his chair with his cloak tightly wrapped about him. Such was Martin’s disposition.
here is another story. I have finished the story but do not want to overwhelm you, so here are the first two chapters.
What started It All
Once upon a time there lived a prince named Robert. He had never loved anything in his life. He hated his books (but he read them anyway to pass the time of day), he hated his horse, his slaves, his sword, his kingdom, even his wealth (because it did nothing but buy more hated things).