Of the 5 people who did my previous survey in terms of what my next post should be, 4 said ‘Sample Story,’ so here you go. For that one other person, my next post will be ‘Lit Literature.’
For the next few months, I will be putting out one chapter from the novella I am writing. They are roughly 1,000 words each so shorter than my short story. Every month, I will send out the next chapter and provide links to the previous ones leading up to it. Also, the title (Turning Back Time) is a working title.
Please, for your sake, do not skip ahead.
You are welcome – even encouraged – to leave feedback in the comments. Remember, this is only a first (or second) draft of the chapters, so they are not 100% perfect.
They’re probably not even 75% perfect. Not even done.
This first chapter is called “The angel.”
Well, here we go…
Every day all the children in the village walk half an hour to a field halfway between our beloved Brookwidge and Casdrekit, the neighboring town. We follow a 6-inch strip of bare land, worn down by footwear over the years. No one speaks, but a feeling of expectation hangs in the sweet, spring air.
Swirling myths surround The Path and the field to which we are going. It is said that many years ago, the thin trail we walk on was just a pathway of four-leaf clovers, planted there to get children to follow along, all the way to the field. Generations of children followed that trace. All the parents of children in the village have stories of The Path and the strange happenings that would arise there. I have heard grand stories of bears with patterns on their fur approaching close yet not harming anyone. Other stories seem less believable, but all stories have at least a thread of truth in them, like a glowing golden string holding together a bouquet of flowers for decoration.
It is only my 10th day following them, and, while they walk to a perfect beat, I stumble along after. None of these children know anything about me, my past and current self shrouded in mystery. All they know of me is my name and my parents, and even that they have managed to change. My name is no longer ‘Maggie’ to them; it is ‘Mystery Maggie,’ created by a boy, named Charlie, seven years ago, after I refused to tell him, at age six, basic information about myself. When they first started calling me that, I would plead with them. “Stop! Stop, please! I hate that name!” But they would never stop.
After a year, I gave up. I learned to accept my fate, and I played along, year after year. On my birthday, I would never say anything to anyone other than my parents, who knew better than to speak of it. One year, I found a pitch-black cloak neatly folded on my bed. I had shown my parents, but they claimed it was not from them. Someone came to our house, they said, and gave us the cloak, but this person said to keep it a secret who it was from. The cloak came with a short note that said
After a period of deep detective work, I came up with nothing. This person left no trace. I started wearing that cloak every day, and, soon, none of the children in the village could recognize me without it. As we continue to walk, I see the familiar “Double-Headed Dragon Tree,” or as I like to call it, “‘The Road Not Taken’ Tree.” It reminds me of the two roads Robert Frost wrote about in his poem. Sometimes children run up and climb one of its two arms, swinging their legs, and glancing down on the others. No one ever climbs the other branch, which is always hidden in the darkness. If I could, I would race up the second branch and sit there all day in the darkness, and imagine all sorts of adventures I never went on.
As we pass “‘The Road Not Taken’ Tree,” I can see the thick trees turn to wheat. The Path starts to disappear, but everyone has memorized the trail. Even me. We walk through the wheat for approximately five minutes before we find what we are looking for. There before us is a large oval of land where the wheat was cut and flattened. Across from us, on the other side, there is a Path, like the one we just came from, leading in the other direction. On it walks an elderly woman, the very reason we make this journey every morning.
As she walks, her angel-like dress seems to flow like water in the breeze. Her hair is white and short, and her pine-colored eyes look as though they hold a secret; a secret she is about to unleash. Slowly, she strolls towards us. Her pure white gown twists and turns in the morning wind. She appears powerful and confident yet also gentle and kind. Calmly, she kneels down and takes her place in front of us. She begins to spin a tale of heroes and villains. Even the wind stops to listen.
How was that? Good? I hope so.
Leave your feedback in the comments, so I can take them into account and (maybe) change some parts. We still haven’t had an Expert Editor, so please – please – nitpick this post for grammar and writing mechanics mistakes. Also, I still have not done the Community Poem because there are not enough lines. You only have two more weeks. (Please submit lines for it in the comments!)
Thank you for reading and Just Keep Writing! : )