This is the first half of a prologue. I have the second half written, but I figured it would be better recieved in smaller portions. Anyway, the timeperiod is supposed to be kind of vague, though definitely before the 1900's. As well I'm leaving the location up to your interpretation.

Incidentally, Freeda thought as she rolled over one morning to see a yellow envelope with her name on the front, I’ve nowhere to be.

Invitations such as the one sitting on her armoire seemed to appear at only the most convenient of times, though she figured that wasn’t too much of a surprise, as she never had anywhere to be. But these invitations, unlike the usual ones one might receive bore no addresses, return or otherwise, postage, decoration or R.S.V.P date (Respondez-vous s’il vous plait, if you didn’t know). Not at all. In fact, perhaps invitation was the wrong word to describe them. These invitations were more like scribbled notes, almost like after thoughts, suggestions, left for Freeda just in case she was looking. It seemed as though the sender knew Freeda and her habits as well as she did. Always they would come in envelopes, sealed with wax and with Freeda written on the front in neat calligraphy, but inside was always different. At first the invitations would come on plain parchment, different shades of course, but seemingly uniform. But as time moved on they became increasingly odd.

Once it came on a tiny square that was of the brightest orange color! When Freeda had opened the envelope she had nearly torn the paper with surprise. The only nearest to the color she could think of would have been oranges, but they too literally paled in comparison. And on the back of the square there had been a rectangle shape that was inexplicably sticky…though she didn’t dwell on that. For nearly fifteen minutes Freeda had admired the small piece of paper before she had even remembered to read it.

Appreciate color, it had read on the front, Look out the window.

Freeda had fairly jogged to the window of the bedroom and pulled the drawstrings which pushed back heavy fabric curtains. Reds and yellows spilled onto the bedroom floor. She turned to face the sunlight which at first sent a piercing pain through her eyes before they adjusted to the brightness. Outside the sun was setting over rolling hills and a distant crucifix of a church building. Blooming colors burst from behind the horizon and mingled in the evening air—if Freeda had not known better she would have thought it were sunrise, rather than set. Shades of colors curled about themselves shooting in arrow points in all directions, reaching to every possible corner.

Most astonishing of the sight though, was not the brightness, but a dazzling color orange which Freeda fancied twinkled in the sky, matching the square of paper in Freeda’s hand. Realizing this Freeda looked down and lifted her hand with the paper up to the window, level with the color and gasped with delight—exactly the same. While she admired the color she noticed something on the other side of the paper and flipped it over.

Not quite the same, it said, but nearly.

Other times the paper would be a large white sheet, folded many times covered in what Freeda supposed were lyrics, circling towards the center where it would say something like:

You’ve been quiet recently. Sing some.

Or others it would be white with blue horizontal lines which seemed to be a guide for writing in a straight line, and it would maybe say:

The flowers are feeling neglected, followed by a sketch of a tulip. Go visit them.

And once, and this had only happened on her birthday when she was turning thirty, she received an invitation with embossed writing of her name and birth date at the top. Along the sides vines wound themselves into decorative shapes before curling into a bed of lovingly drawn sunflowers at the bottom. In the center of the page the familiar scrawl wrote in green ink:

Happy Birthday, Freeda! Visit the bakery today. You shouldn’t lose your sweet tooth along with your youth.

Secretly Freeda supposed that whoever had been writing these had been saving that comment. And that brought about Freeda’s present dilemma. While it had been going on nearly a year that Freeda would find these mysterious—though lovely—invitations the sender had not at any point tried to come into direction contact with Freeda nor given any indication of who they might be. And though nearly immediately, Freeda admitted to herself with embarrassment, she had ignored any qualms she had of someone following her and breaking into her house fairly frequently, eleven months later it was a different story.

Now, Freeda wanted to meet this stranger. Needless to say Freeda was intrigued to find out who would care enough to go on for this long, know what Freeda liked and disliked, what she did most days, and could find and afford the magnificent types of paper by which they sent her the invitations, for surely they cost a fortune. Only considering these qualities the stranger was already fantastically interesting, but putting into account the fact that they had been able to do all this without being caught was a feat in and of itself. Simply put, Freeda’s curiosity was at the end of its leash.

--
I realize that this is a rather abrupt place to end, but there really wasn't a better place to in the prologue. I'll post the rest later if there's interest.

Thank you for reading!
-Maggie

That was quite lovely, I must say. I had no idea you could write fiction like that! It actually sounded really sophisticated. I'm jealous. :]
I just had a few things to comment on:

but they too literally paled in comparison.

That was great word choice.

Reds and yellows spilled onto the bedroom floor.

Also a fantastic contrast to what it could have been, like "the sun was bright on the floor".
"spilled"? So much better.

Blooming colors burst from behind the horizon and mingled in the evening air

Wow. It's like you're actually giving life and personality to the colors. Very nice to read.

Shades of colors curled about themselves shooting in arrow points in all directions, reaching to every possible corner.

See above.

Most astonishing of the sight though, was not the brightness,

here, I think you can have the comma after "brightness" but not after "though", I think it's unecessary

direction contact

It seems like this is supposed to be "direct" contact. If I'm wrong, I'm sorry.

Now, Freeda wanted to meet this stranger. Needless to say Freeda

I think the second "Freeda" could just be "she", since because we don't know the gender of the stranger we can assume that "she" would be "Freeda". Just to make it "FLOW" more. Yeah, Ms. Coleman, I went there.



Other than that, I can say with a fair amount of certainty that I would love to hear the rest of the story. Sorry most of what I had to offer was just me being impressed. Keep it up!

Incidentally, Freeda thought as she rolled over one morning to see a yellow envelope with her name on the front, I’ve nowhere to be. Interesting enough beginning. Already hearing the reader’s voice with “incidentally”
Invitations such as the one sitting on her armoire seemed to appear at only the most convenient of times, though she figured that wasn’t too much of a surprise, as she never had anywhere to be. But these invitations, unlike the usual ones one might receive,comma bore no addresses, return or otherwise, postage, decoration or R.S.V.P date (Respondez-vous s’il vous plait, if you didn’t know). [s]Not at all.[/s] In fact, perhaps invitation was the wrong word to describe them. These invitations were more like scribbled notes, [s]almost[/s]Try avoid being passive. like after thoughts, suggestions, left for Freeda just in case she was looking. It seemed as though the sender knew Freeda and her habits as well as she did. Always they would come in envelopes, sealed with wax and with Freeda written on the front in neat calligraphy, but inside was always different. At first the invitations would come on plain parchment, different shades of course, Why of course? but seemingly uniform. But as time moved on they became increasingly odd.
Once it came on a tiny square that was of the brightest orange color! When Freeda had opened the envelope she had nearly torn the paper with surprise. The closest thing to the color she could think of would have been oranges, but they too literally not sure if this is the right word choice. paled in comparison. [s]And[/s] On the back of the square there had been a rectangle shape that was inexplicably sticky…though she didn’t dwell on that. For nearly fifteen minutes Freeda had admired the small piece of paper before she had even remembered to read it.
Appreciate color, it had read on the front, Look out the window.
Freeda had fairly jogged Again this sounds passive. It’s like saying she ”almost jogged”, when you should either say she did jog, or she walked fast etc to the window of the bedroom and pulled the drawstrings which pushed back heavy fabric curtains. Reds and yellows spilled onto the bedroom floor. She turned to face the sunlight which at first sent a piercing pain through her eyes before they adjusted to the brightness. Outside the sun was setting over rolling hills and a distant crucifix of a church building. Blooming colors burst from behind the horizon and mingled in the evening You said at the start that it was morning... air—if Freeda had not known better she would have thought it were sunrise, rather than set. Shades of colors curled about themselves shooting in arrow points in all directions, reaching to every possible corner.
Most astonishing of the sight though, was not the brightness, but a dazzling color orange which Freeda fancied twinkled If you mean she thought it twinkled, then you are being passive again – just say it did twinkle. But if you meant to say she fancied it, then rephrase that. in the sky, matching the square of paper in Freeda’s hand. Realizing this,comma Freeda looked down and lifted her hand with the paper up to the window, level with the color and gasped with delight—exactly the same. While she admired the color she noticed something on the other side of the paper and flipped it over.
Not quite the same, it said, but nearly. Nice.
Other times the paper would be a large white sheet, folded many timescomma covered in what Freeda supposed were lyrics, circling towards the center where it would say something like:
You’ve been quiet recently. Sing some.
Or other times it would be white with blue horizontal lines which seemed to be a guide for writing in a straight line, and it would maybe say: All the “woulds” aren’t necessary. You can just say ”Another time it was...” instead of all the maybes and passivity.
The flowers are feeling neglected, followed by a sketch of a tulip. Go visit them.
And once, and this had only happened on her thirtieth birthday [s]when she was turning thirty[/s], she received an invitation with embossed writing of her name and birth date at the top. Along the sides vines wound themselves into decorative shapes before curling into a bed of lovingly drawn sunflowers at the bottom. In the center of the page the familiar scrawl wrote in green ink:
Happy Birthday, Freeda! Visit the bakery today. You shouldn’t lose your sweet tooth along with your youth. Oh cute!
Secretly Freeda supposed that whoever had been writing these had been saving that comment. I don’t understand. Of course if they wrote it they said it? Make your meaning clearer. And that brought about Freeda’s present dilemma. While it had been going on nearly a year that Freeda would find these mysterious—though lovely—invitations, the sender had not at any point tried to come into direct contact with Freeda nor given any indication of who they might be. And though nearly immediately, Freeda admitted to herself with embarrassment, she had ignored any qualms she had of someone following her and breaking into her house fairly frequently, eleven months later it was a different story.
Now, Freeda wanted to meet this stranger. Needless to say Freeda was intrigued to find out who would care enough to go on for this long, know what Freeda liked and disliked, what she did most days, and could find and afford the magnificent types of paper by which they sent her the invitations, for surely they cost a fortune. Only considering these qualities the stranger was already fantastically interesting, but putting into account the fact that they had been able to do all this without being caught was a feat in and of itself. Simply put, Freeda’s curiosity was at the end of its leash.
Hmm intriguing enough. Quite cute. Small unimportant note – you sure her name isn’t meant to be Frieda? But that infers a certain nationality... Anywho, I am interested to see where you go with this. It has the makings of falling into dangerous cheesy love story category, and while love stories are fine – be careful you don’t end up being cliché. I would actually like it if there was something sinister going on ... some twist behind this mystery person. Perhaps a family member keeping her busy to hide something else ... or a sick older man haha. I don’t mind where you go with it, as long as you have nicely developed characters. While a woman who likes flowers, singing and sunshine is sweet, it’s not exactly interesting. Make sure your character stands out. By this I don’t mean make her quirky or “individual” or “weird”, I mean give her little traits and things that make her worth reading about. Good luck!

Username: Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed!

Fratelli: Thank you, as well. I always have problems with the passive voice in narrative scenes...thank you for pointing it out for me!

Anywho, I am interested to see where you go with this. It has the makings of falling into dangerous cheesy love story category, and while love stories are fine – be careful you don’t end up being cliché. I would actually like it if there was something sinister going on ... some twist behind this mystery person. Perhaps a family member keeping her busy to hide something else ... or a sick older man

I can tell you that it is not in anyway a love story, though I can obviously see how you would come to think so. Otherwise, I'm mum on who it is.

it’s not exactly interesting. Make sure your character stands out.

Fair enough.

Also, about the name. I couldn't think of one and so I went to one of the online character name generators and it came up with Freeda Berk...I suppose it's incredibly likely that it was a typo, but for now I'll keep it. *Shrug*

Thank you both.

-Maggie

Hey! Basket here! Sorry it took so long... but I'm here now! Yay!
So, lets get started, shall we?

But these invitations, unlike the usual ones one might receive, bore no addresses,

Ehrmm... I'm assuming you've missed a comma after "recieve". Unless I'm mistaken, which I very well could be. But, look at it and see, because I do think a comma is supposed to be there.

Freeda had fairly jogged to the window of the bedroom

I don't know if that's the best word choice... Maybe "nearly"?

Realizing this, Freeda looked down and lifted her hand

Along the sides, vines wound themselves into decorative shapes

Wow! This was... amazing! I'll tell you the truth, I certainly wasn't expecting this piece to be anything like it was! In a good way, of course. Wow, I'm so jealous...
You're amazing.
Mostly, you just missed comma's. So, really, not that big of a deal.
Please, please, please let me know when you get the next part up! This is so interesting!
-Basket-

So...these letters appear on her armoire with only her name on them and no return address and yet she just opens them right up? How does she feel about these strange letters? Shouldn't they, I don't know, creep her out a little??

But as time moved on they became increasingly odd.

Because random letters without return addresses from unknown senders aren't odd enough?

Freeda had fairly jogged to the window of the bedroom and pulled the drawstrings which pushed back heavy fabric curtains.

Fairly jogged doesn't really work. It's hard to 'fairly' jog. Practically jogged might work though.

So a random letter tells her to look outside and she does? Honestly, who would just obediently do whatever the random letter in their bedroom tells them to do? I'd be freaking out that someone's been in my room...

You’ve been quiet recently. Sing some.

How does the letter writer know? Apparently Freeda has a stalker.

It's a fascinating concept, but Freeda's reaction doesn't seem natural. Most normal people would flip out if they had someone stalking them and breaking into their house every night just to leave a random note. And if they didn't, why would they want to go looking for the person? Why wouldn't they call the police? Why would they continue to follow the notes every day?

I did enjoy the writing style though, was just distracted by Freeda's odd character.

Heya,
This piece is very cool. Freeda's character is freaky. I like it! Keep writing!