| General Fiction posted August 5, 2021 |
  |
Writing
Pages of Life
by zanya
Writing Contest Winner
Sometimes I feel like Miss Havisham in Charles Dickens novel 'Great Expectations' as I wait for the next chapter to unfold.
My creator, a shy budding author would breathe life into me every few months. She had me stroll around the lavish grounds of a Victorian manor while getting my young girl's hopes up that soon I would find a dashing young squire to rescue me from any possibility of impending spinsterhood. Spinsterhood came relatively early in victorian times. My creator, living in more libertarian times smiled benignly at my dilemma. Unlike her, I had to wait for an appropriate suitor to show up at the Manor, whereas she could simply swipe right or left on an electronic device and find a young man to match her desires.
You see I'm something of a relic from another era where young girls were obliged to find a moneyed suitor, who would pay them court appropriately and ultimately propose marriage.
Thereafter, the young heroine grew old gracefully, faded into the mists of time between the pages of a dusty tome before being consigned to the shelves of some charity shop window display.
However, my young creator had different plans for me. I lived for months on end in the Documents section of her computer, hoping each day she would click on my file and breathe fresh life into me.
My author, however, had more pressing concerns, earning a scant living making short video clips or posting photos on her Insta page.
At the witching hour of night, she'd click on my file and take a look, deleting pieces of me or finding more enthusiastic suitors. Sometimes she'd engineer trips for me away from the stifling environs of the Manor where everyday life followed a rigorous rhythm of curtseys and air kisses and suppressed emotions.
I loved it when she decided to have me dress up in wide-brimmed plumed hats and allowed me take long carriage rides into the city of London where life was buzzing with new sights and sounds and smells. Once she forgot she had left me there and I revelled in the experience, hoping not to return, at least until the dreary winter months had come to an end.
My young creator was fascinated with me and my antique mores of vacating the dining room after an elaborate supper and repairing to the parlour. There I usually gave a gentle curtsey before seating myself demurely before the pianoforte to play a soothing sonata for the family dowager or the local vicar.
All the while my young mind dreamed of faraway places and other lands that I had never seen. My grandfather stimulated my travel yearnings with tales of adventures along the Mediterranean sea and hot summer days unlike our chilly summer breezes or damp dreary winters.
Recently my author had a handsome young soldier return to the village. Earl Wilfred was a dashing young man, although he had lost the sight of his right eye on the battlefield.
Limping slightly as he walked up the avenue to the Manor, my young girl's heart began to beat faster than it had ever done before.
Glancing in the long mirror in my boudoir, I straightened my blond tresses and donned my blue cotton bonnet.
Taking the marble stairs two at a time I stopped at the last stair and regained my victorian composure as the young Earl made his entrance through the main hall.
'A handsome young soldier,' I thought as I caught sight of his dark brown eyes.
Papa reached the wooden door first and welcomed him warmly.
'Ah Earl Wilfred,' Papa began,' Delighted to make your acquaintance. You have come to pay court to my only daughter, Estella. I trust the courtship will be brief and you will declare your love with all due haste. A marriage will soon be arranged as has been agreed between your father and I. Estella is the most eligible young woman in the neighbourhood and our two families must soon provide heirs for our properties.'
Earl Wilfred's reply was barely audible. He seemed resigned to his fate. How could a young woman tell if a young man truly loved her? My heart slowed down. Our courtship would be all too brief. No time for swooning in my young man's arms or sharing tender sweet kisses.
My young author, desirous of giving the reader a little romance had us take an evening stroll among the lilac trees where we stole a few sweet kisses. At times it was difficult to maintain our courtship rituals within those strict victorian mores and my author had us kiss passionately behind the Orangerie. Alas, that moment of desire had to be deleted and we had to keep our passion under control.
A few short weeks later, with a sprig of orange blossom in my hair and a posy of daisies in my hand, I walked briskly down the aisle of the church, having promised, to love, honour and obey Wilfred all the days of my life. My author giggled as she wrote those words.
My handsome Wilfred sadly had to return to war to serve his country. Today I sit beneath the bay window in the morning room where five-year- old Wilfred Junior plays happily with his abacus.
'Mama,' he asks,' will papa be home soon from the war?'
Adjusting my needlepoint and looking into his brown eyes, just like his fathers, I reply, 'Wilfred, darling, we shall have to wait and see how the story unfolds.'
My author, preoccupied with earning her precarious living on her social media sites has not recently clicked on our document in her files. Maybe her followers have grown tired of reading her victorian snippets.
Life is uncertain in the twenty-first century even between the pages of a book!
*********
Sometimes I feel like Miss Havisham in Charles Dickens novel 'Great Expectations' as I wait for the next chapter to unfold.
My creator, a shy budding author would breathe life into me every few months. She had me stroll around the lavish grounds of a Victorian manor while getting my young girl's hopes up that soon I would find a dashing young squire to rescue me from any possibility of impending spinsterhood. Spinsterhood came relatively early in victorian times. My creator, living in more libertarian times smiled benignly at my dilemma. Unlike her, I had to wait for an appropriate suitor to show up at the Manor, whereas she could simply swipe right or left on an electronic device and find a young man to match her desires.
You see I'm something of a relic from another era where young girls were obliged to find a moneyed suitor, who would pay them court appropriately and ultimately propose marriage.
Thereafter, the young heroine grew old gracefully, faded into the mists of time between the pages of a dusty tome before being consigned to the shelves of some charity shop window display.
However, my young creator had different plans for me. I lived for months on end in the Documents section of her computer, hoping each day she would click on my file and breathe fresh life into me.
My author, however, had more pressing concerns, earning a scant living making short video clips or posting photos on her Insta page.
At the witching hour of night, she'd click on my file and take a look, deleting pieces of me or finding more enthusiastic suitors. Sometimes she'd engineer trips for me away from the stifling environs of the Manor where everyday life followed a rigorous rhythm of curtseys and air kisses and suppressed emotions.
I loved it when she decided to have me dress up in wide-brimmed plumed hats and allowed me take long carriage rides into the city of London where life was buzzing with new sights and sounds and smells. Once she forgot she had left me there and I revelled in the experience, hoping not to return, at least until the dreary winter months had come to an end.
My young creator was fascinated with me and my antique mores of vacating the dining room after an elaborate supper and repairing to the parlour. There I usually gave a gentle curtsey before seating myself demurely before the pianoforte to play a soothing sonata for the family dowager or the local vicar.
All the while my young mind dreamed of faraway places and other lands that I had never seen. My grandfather stimulated my travel yearnings with tales of adventures along the Mediterranean sea and hot summer days unlike our chilly summer breezes or damp dreary winters.
Recently my author had a handsome young soldier return to the village. Earl Wilfred was a dashing young man, although he had lost the sight of his right eye on the battlefield.
Limping slightly as he walked up the avenue to the Manor, my young girl's heart began to beat faster than it had ever done before.
Glancing in the long mirror in my boudoir, I straightened my blond tresses and donned my blue cotton bonnet.
Taking the marble stairs two at a time I stopped at the last stair and regained my victorian composure as the young Earl made his entrance through the main hall.
'A handsome young soldier,' I thought as I caught sight of his dark brown eyes.
Papa reached the wooden door first and welcomed him warmly.
'Ah Earl Wilfred,' Papa began,' Delighted to make your acquaintance. You have come to pay court to my only daughter, Estella. I trust the courtship will be brief and you will declare your love with all due haste. A marriage will soon be arranged as has been agreed between your father and I. Estella is the most eligible young woman in the neighbourhood and our two families must soon provide heirs for our properties.'
Earl Wilfred's reply was barely audible. He seemed resigned to his fate. How could a young woman tell if a young man truly loved her? My heart slowed down. Our courtship would be all too brief. No time for swooning in my young man's arms or sharing tender sweet kisses.
My young author, desirous of giving the reader a little romance had us take an evening stroll among the lilac trees where we stole a few sweet kisses. At times it was difficult to maintain our courtship rituals within those strict victorian mores and my author had us kiss passionately behind the Orangerie. Alas, that moment of desire had to be deleted and we had to keep our passion under control.
A few short weeks later, with a sprig of orange blossom in my hair and a posy of daisies in my hand, I walked briskly down the aisle of the church, having promised, to love, honour and obey Wilfred all the days of my life. My author giggled as she wrote those words.
My handsome Wilfred sadly had to return to war to serve his country. Today I sit beneath the bay window in the morning room where five-year- old Wilfred Junior plays happily with his abacus.
'Mama,' he asks,' will papa be home soon from the war?'
Adjusting my needlepoint and looking into his brown eyes, just like his fathers, I reply, 'Wilfred, darling, we shall have to wait and see how the story unfolds.'
My author, preoccupied with earning her precarious living on her social media sites has not recently clicked on our document in her files. Maybe her followers have grown tired of reading her victorian snippets.
Life is uncertain in the twenty-first century even between the pages of a book!
*********
My creator, a shy budding author would breathe life into me every few months. She had me stroll around the lavish grounds of a Victorian manor while getting my young girl's hopes up that soon I would find a dashing young squire to rescue me from any possibility of impending spinsterhood. Spinsterhood came relatively early in victorian times. My creator, living in more libertarian times smiled benignly at my dilemma. Unlike her, I had to wait for an appropriate suitor to show up at the Manor, whereas she could simply swipe right or left on an electronic device and find a young man to match her desires.
You see I'm something of a relic from another era where young girls were obliged to find a moneyed suitor, who would pay them court appropriately and ultimately propose marriage.
Thereafter, the young heroine grew old gracefully, faded into the mists of time between the pages of a dusty tome before being consigned to the shelves of some charity shop window display.
However, my young creator had different plans for me. I lived for months on end in the Documents section of her computer, hoping each day she would click on my file and breathe fresh life into me.
My author, however, had more pressing concerns, earning a scant living making short video clips or posting photos on her Insta page.
At the witching hour of night, she'd click on my file and take a look, deleting pieces of me or finding more enthusiastic suitors. Sometimes she'd engineer trips for me away from the stifling environs of the Manor where everyday life followed a rigorous rhythm of curtseys and air kisses and suppressed emotions.
I loved it when she decided to have me dress up in wide-brimmed plumed hats and allowed me take long carriage rides into the city of London where life was buzzing with new sights and sounds and smells. Once she forgot she had left me there and I revelled in the experience, hoping not to return, at least until the dreary winter months had come to an end.
My young creator was fascinated with me and my antique mores of vacating the dining room after an elaborate supper and repairing to the parlour. There I usually gave a gentle curtsey before seating myself demurely before the pianoforte to play a soothing sonata for the family dowager or the local vicar.
All the while my young mind dreamed of faraway places and other lands that I had never seen. My grandfather stimulated my travel yearnings with tales of adventures along the Mediterranean sea and hot summer days unlike our chilly summer breezes or damp dreary winters.
Recently my author had a handsome young soldier return to the village. Earl Wilfred was a dashing young man, although he had lost the sight of his right eye on the battlefield.
Limping slightly as he walked up the avenue to the Manor, my young girl's heart began to beat faster than it had ever done before.
Glancing in the long mirror in my boudoir, I straightened my blond tresses and donned my blue cotton bonnet.
Taking the marble stairs two at a time I stopped at the last stair and regained my victorian composure as the young Earl made his entrance through the main hall.
'A handsome young soldier,' I thought as I caught sight of his dark brown eyes.
Papa reached the wooden door first and welcomed him warmly.
'Ah Earl Wilfred,' Papa began,' Delighted to make your acquaintance. You have come to pay court to my only daughter, Estella. I trust the courtship will be brief and you will declare your love with all due haste. A marriage will soon be arranged as has been agreed between your father and I. Estella is the most eligible young woman in the neighbourhood and our two families must soon provide heirs for our properties.'
Earl Wilfred's reply was barely audible. He seemed resigned to his fate. How could a young woman tell if a young man truly loved her? My heart slowed down. Our courtship would be all too brief. No time for swooning in my young man's arms or sharing tender sweet kisses.
My young author, desirous of giving the reader a little romance had us take an evening stroll among the lilac trees where we stole a few sweet kisses. At times it was difficult to maintain our courtship rituals within those strict victorian mores and my author had us kiss passionately behind the Orangerie. Alas, that moment of desire had to be deleted and we had to keep our passion under control.
A few short weeks later, with a sprig of orange blossom in my hair and a posy of daisies in my hand, I walked briskly down the aisle of the church, having promised, to love, honour and obey Wilfred all the days of my life. My author giggled as she wrote those words.
My handsome Wilfred sadly had to return to war to serve his country. Today I sit beneath the bay window in the morning room where five-year- old Wilfred Junior plays happily with his abacus.
'Mama,' he asks,' will papa be home soon from the war?'
Adjusting my needlepoint and looking into his brown eyes, just like his fathers, I reply, 'Wilfred, darling, we shall have to wait and see how the story unfolds.'
My author, preoccupied with earning her precarious living on her social media sites has not recently clicked on our document in her files. Maybe her followers have grown tired of reading her victorian snippets.
Life is uncertain in the twenty-first century even between the pages of a book!
*********
|
Writing Prompt Write a story or essay with the topic of "writing". Can be instructional or a character in the story can be a writer. Creative approaches welcomed. |
Writing Contest Winner |
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