Young Writers Society

I thought I'd attempt this kind of story. I'm not sure if it's entirely historical, but it's set in 1800s England. Roughly, it's about a girl living in a convent who questions God's reality. Sort of. And then...the rest is a surprise.

Prologue! Must read.





Every day, it is the same. We rise at five in the morning, whether or not the sun is up. Most often, the horizon is a misty grey-blue, laying shadow on the English landscape. We slip on the long white dress, and then the black pinafore. Our feet go into the stiff, painful shoes, preparing for yet another day of bloody feet. And then we make our way to the Hall.
In the Hall, the older girls and the Sisters and the Mother are already waiting for us, have already finished their bland breakfast of the typical lumpy oatmeal and small glass of musty water. They wait, each at a part of the lengthy wood table. At every nun, there is a tiny stool on which we are meant to sit upon. The Mother stands at the head of the table, scrutinizing everything. At the stools, we have our hair plaited into a single braid. We eat our breakfast in the allotted fifteen minutes following the plaiting.
My hair is exceptionally difficult to braid because it is so thick. Oftentimes, there is a different nun to deal with my hair. When my hair grew with my height and age, it became even thicker and eventually there would seem to be no nuns to plait my hair. It was so tedious that the Mother finally took the position of braiding my hair. I believe I couldn’t have worse luck.
The Mother is the most horrible person I have ever encountered, which is saying quite a bit since I’ve never left the convent. She is elderly and cantankerous, abiding only by the most ancient of convent regulations. With a harsh and traditional personality, many of the nuns and residing girls respect her except for me. I loathe the Mother to her very core.
I dislike Mother Nora very much.
After she tugs and breaks at my dark hair, we are roughly pushed forward to fetch our less-than-proper breakfast in the icy kitchens and made to eat there as well, with the pigs nipping at our heels and the chickens pecking at our legs. I sit stiff, keeping calm and collected no matter the pain issuing from my calves and feet.
The day only truly begins once breakfast has finished. We will walk in threes to an enduring mass which precedes embroidery. Embroidery is a silent time, but nonetheless stressful as we read biblical stories and then depict them onto pillows and sheets and handkerchiefs. Following that we are marched to some cleaner, more respectable kitchens to learn the basics of cooking. Often lunch is missed because cooking overlaps into the time fixed to eat. Then comes the three hour study session comprised of only two things: the Holy Bible and vicious solemnity. It is by far the most horrible part of each day in which I’m frequently reprimanded for daydreaming. It is habitual that I return to the Hall for some thirty lashings due to an accusation by a Sister that I am “not wholly dedicated to the unmitigated adoration of Him”.
When I receive the lashings, I usually leave to my bed to recover and I stay there until supper is called. If, however, I am stopped from returning to the dormitory, I go out with the others and we have a precious time outdoors. Simply we girls sit on the waving grass atop the hill the convent is built. It is calming and perhaps the most delicious part of the day but it is such a short half hour that it seems to fly by without any notice at all. And within minutes we are settling in the Hall again for a standard supper of lukewarm meat broth and a measly slice of bread. And then there is an hour long evening mass foregoing a quick wash with biting carbolic soap and bed.
We are all expected to be silent and to hold reliance in the daily routine of religion and discipline. If one walked into the convent, one would perceive total organization and gravity. Each young girl would be straight-faced, dressed uniformly in traditional white and black. We would all appear exactly the same. It is the routine and so no one questions it whatsoever.
Except for Elisabeth.
Me.
I am what Mother Nora would call “unnatural”, “uncommitted” and “barbaric”. I have curiosities that we girls are told are evil thoughts implanted by Satan himself. I have intentions that are ostensibly vile and vindictive. I am not the average girl living in a convent. It is all that I have known in my thirteen years and yet I question the routine and despise it as much as I despise the Mother.
I would do anything to escape the confines of this religious prison. I would like to rush outside and feel the wind of true freedom caressing my face and to see hills of true freedom, grasses of true freedom, and wildflowers of true freedom. I no longer want to gaze out, accompanied by strong desire, to the rolling hills when we’re sitting quietly outdoors.
I feel completely alone. Most times, at least. There is a girl who I could possibly consider under the alien term “friend”: Susanna Sylvester.
Susanna is possibly the prettiest girl I have ever encountered. I envy her honey-coloured ringlets that seem ever glinting gold and her eyes are an impossibly colour of blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. She is also a very kind and gentle girl but rather naive. I seem to be the only girl who loathes living in the convent. Nonetheless, Susanna is a decent girl whom I much like to associate with.
One afternoon, while outside admiring the scenery, I position myself next to the delicate Susanna. She is completely at peace, twirling a drooping violet clover in her fingers. When she feels my presence, I am happy to see she looks up with a smile.
“Why, hello, Elisabeth,” she says sweetly. “Isn’t this a spectacular afternoon?” This is what she thinks is conversation. I do love Susanna dearly, but she’s extremely simple in thought and desperate to please the Sisters and Mother Nora. Even so, I mustn’t snub her for her relaxed lifestyle.
“Dazzling,” I reply, lacking the proper enthusiasm. Susanna naturally notices it, knowing me well enough.
“What’s bothering you?” she asks. It’s this touch of curiosity that allows Susanna to be my friend.
“I...I...,” I can hardly form the words myself. I’m unsure whether in fear or only a twist of the tongue. “I wish to leave the convent.” I hear a sharp intake of breath from Susanna and out of my peripheral vision I can see the twirling of the clover has suddenly paused. Also, there are gasps from nearby girls, indicating that perhaps I should have lowered my voice a little more. One girl, Ann, in particular, crawls closer and rests on her stomach, looking directly at Susanna and me. I glance her way and its obvious Ann wants to be a member of the conversation. Susanna nods slightly, obviously trusting Ann to listen. It’s in Susanna’s character to include most everyone. I let out a clearly exasperated sigh, but I continue. “I’m tired of the convent and I’m honestly not dedicated enough. I’ve lived here my entire life, or, at least, since I can remember.”
“Those are reasons,” Ann pipes up, her high voice piercing my ears.
“Simply reasons?” I ask, unsure if she deems them viable ones.
“They are neither good nor bad. If you leave the convent, though, I doubt you will be allowed to return,” Ann said, emotionless. And then she said, as an afterthought, “But I’m not entirely sure. You might have to enquire with the Mother or the Sisters.” Susanna nods. Is it in agreement? Or in confirmation of Ann’s statements? I don’t bother asking because one of the Sisters, Sister Harriet, lumbers over. Being quite large, her obese shadow looms over us.
“Girls, you seem to be having a rather fascinating conversation,” Sister Harriet says. It’s a seemingly innocent declaration, except for the fact that there are palpable undertones of reprimand. “I’d like to inform you three that the sitting outdoors is meant for the educated viewing of all that He has graciously given us.” She is speaking to us like we are little ignorant children. It is unguardedly condescending and it sends me into an inward emotional frenzy.
Susanna must have noticed my gradually reddening face because she says, in a tone a tad sweeter and silkier than usual, “We were merely discussing how the formation of the hills are so lovely that they simply eke His presence.” It’s a well-structured sentence, dripping in charm that would be even too irresistible for the harshest of nuns. Sister Harriet immediately latches on to Susanna’s manipulating words and nods, finally walking away as if in a daze.
But our conversation has been cut short by the interruption and it is now time to return back inside, to prepare for supper.

Personally, I know nothing about nuns in the 1800s, so if anything's unhistorical, I can't exactly comment. It seems very factual to me, though, and I can definitely say that your story is good so far! I like how you've captured the rather bland lifestyle through the imagery and the characters; I can certainly see there being girls like Susanna in such a convent. Overall, I have to say, you've done and amazing job with this and I hope you continue! The description is simply amazing and the characters are worth following. I'm somewhat hoping Susanna finds a more entertaining lifestyle, but I have a feeling she's not going anywhere. But then, that's up to you.

Okay, that was an incredible amount of ramble. I partially apologize for that. :p

I really don't think there's much you can do to improve this, though perhaps you could take out the line "I dislike Mother Nora very much" - it's just a repetition of the last line, "I loathe Mother to her very core," and doesn't work as well as some of your other repetitions.

Anyway, well done, and please keep writing.

Every day, it is the same. We rise at five in the morning, whether or not the sun is up. Most often, the horizon is a misty grey-blue, laying shadow on the English landscape. We slip on the long white dress, and then the black pinafore. Our feet go into the stiff, painful shoes, preparing for yet another day of bloody feet. And then we make our way to the Hall.
In the Hall, the older girls and the Sisters and the Mother are already waiting for us, have already finished their bland breakfast of the typical lumpy oatmeal and small glass of musty water. They wait, each at a part of the lengthy wood table. At every nun, there is a tiny stool on which we are meant to sit upon. The Mother stands at the head of the table, scrutinizing everything. At the stools, we have our hair plaited into a single braid. We eat our breakfast in the allotted fifteen minutes following the plaiting. Your very much just telling us, sometime I like stories like this but this was too much with out alot of feeling. Put this into two or three paragraph instead of just one.
My hair is exceptionally difficult to braid because it is so thick. Oftentimes, there is a different nun to deal with my hair. When my hair grew with my height and age, it became even thicker and eventually there would seem to be no nuns to plait my hair. It was so tedious that the Mother finally took the position of braiding my hair. I believe I couldn’t have worse luck.
The Mother is the most horrible person I have ever encountered, which is saying quite a bit since I’ve never left the convent. She is elderly and cantankerous, abiding only by the most ancient of convent regulations. With a harsh and traditional personality, many of the nuns and residing girls respect her except for me. I loathe the Mother to her very core.
I dislike Mother Nora very much.
After she tugs and breaks at my dark hair, we are roughly pushed forward to fetch our less-than-proper breakfast in the icy kitchens and made to eat there as well, with the pigs nipping at our heels and the chickens pecking at our legs. I sit stiff, keeping calm and collected no matter the pain issuing from my calves and feet.
The day only truly begins once breakfast has finished. We will walk in threes to an enduring mass which precedes embroidery. Embroidery is a silent time, but nonetheless stressful as we read biblical stories and then depict them onto pillows and sheets and handkerchiefs. Following that we are marched to some cleaner, more respectable kitchens to learn the basics of cooking. Often lunch is missed because cooking overlaps into the time fixed to eat. Then comes the three hour study session comprised of only two things: the Holy Bible and vicious solemnity. It is by far the most horrible part of each day in which I’m frequently reprimanded for daydreaming. It is habitual that I return to the Hall for some thirty lashings due to an accusation by a Sister that I am “not wholly dedicated to the unmitigated adoration of Him”.
When I receive the lashings, I usually leave to my bed to recover and I stay there until supper is called. If, however, I am stopped from returning to the dormitory, I go out with the others and we have a precious time outdoors. Simply we girls sit on the waving grass atop the hill the convent is built. It is calming and perhaps the most delicious part of the day but it is such a short half hour that it seems to fly by without any notice at all. And within minutes we are settling in the Hall again for a standard supper of lukewarm meat broth and a measly slice of bread. And then there is an hour long evening mass foregoing a quick wash with biting carbolic soap and bed.
We are all expected to be silent and to hold reliance in the daily routine of religion and discipline. If one walked into the convent, one would perceive total organization and gravity. Each young girl would be straight-faced, dressed uniformly in traditional white and black. We would all appear exactly the same. It is the routine and so no one questions it whatsoever.
Except for Elisabeth.
Me.
I am what Mother Nora would call “unnatural”, “uncommitted” and “barbaric”. I have curiosities that we girls are told are evil thoughts implanted by Satan himself. I have intentions that are ostensibly vile and vindictive. I am not the average girl living in a convent. It is all that I have known in my thirteen years and yet I question the routine and despise it as much as I despise the Mother.
I would do anything to escape the confines of this religious prison. I would like to rush outside and feel the wind of true freedom caressing my face and to see hills of true freedom, grasses of true freedom, and wildflowers of true freedom. I no longer want to gaze out, accompanied by strong desire, to the rolling hills when we’re sitting quietly outdoors.
I feel completely alone. Most times, at least. There is a girl who I could possibly consider under the alien term “friend”: Susanna Sylvester.
Susanna is possibly the prettiest girl I have ever encountered. I envy her honey-coloured ringlets that seem ever glinting gold and her eyes are an impossibly colour of blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. She is also a very kind and gentle girl but rather naive. I seem to be the only girl who loathes living in the convent. Nonetheless, Susanna is a decent girl whom I much like to associate with.
One afternoon, while outside admiring the scenery, I position myself next to the delicate Susanna. She is completely at peace, twirling a drooping violet clover in her fingers. When she feels my presence, I am happy to see she looks up with a smile.
“Why, hello, Elisabeth,” she says sweetly. “Isn’t this a spectacular afternoon?” This is what she thinks is conversation. I do love Susanna dearly, but she’s extremely simple in thought and desperate to please the Sisters and Mother Nora. Even so, I mustn’t snub her for her relaxed lifestyle.
“Dazzling,” I reply, lacking the proper enthusiasm. Susanna naturally notices it, knowing me well enough.
“What’s bothering you?” she asks. It’s this touch of curiosity that allows Susanna to be my friend.
“I...I...,” I can hardly form the words myself. I’m unsure whether in fear or only a twist of the tongue. “I wish to leave the convent.” I hear a sharp intake of breath from Susanna and out of my peripheral vision I can see the twirling of the clover has suddenly paused. Also, there are gasps from nearby girls, indicating that perhaps I should have lowered my voice a little more. One girl, Ann, in particular, crawls closer and rests on her stomach, looking directly at Susanna and me. I glance her way and its obvious Ann wants to be a member of the conversation. Susanna nods slightly, obviously trusting Ann to listen. It’s in Susanna’s character to include most everyone. I let out a clearly exasperated sigh, but I continue. “I’m tired of the convent and I’m honestly not dedicated enough. I’ve lived here my entire life, or, at least, since I can remember.”
“Those are reasons,” Ann pipes up, her high voice piercing my ears.
“Simply reasons?” I ask, unsure if she deems them viable ones.
“They are neither good nor bad. If you leave the convent, though, I doubt you will be allowed to return,” Ann said, emotionless. And then she said, as an afterthought, “But I’m not entirely sure. You might have to enquire with the Mother or the Sisters.” Susanna nods. Is it in agreement? Or in confirmation of Ann’s statements? I don’t bother asking because one of the Sisters, Sister Harriet, lumbers over. Being quite large, her obese shadow looms over us.
“Girls, you seem to be having a rather fascinating conversation,” Sister Harriet says. It’s a seemingly innocent declaration, except for the fact that there are palpable undertones of reprimand. “I’d like to inform you three that the sitting outdoors is meant for the educated viewing of all that He has graciously given us.” She is speaking to us like we are little ignorant children. It is unguardedly condescending and it sends me into an inward emotional frenzy.
Susanna must have noticed my gradually reddening face because she says, in a tone a tad sweeter and silkier than usual, “We were merely discussing how the formation of the hills are so lovely that they simply eke His presence.” It’s a well-structured sentence, dripping in charm that would be even too irresistible for the harshest of nuns. Sister Harriet immediately latches on to Susanna’s manipulating words and nods, finally walking away as if in a daze.
But our conversation has been cut short by the interruption and it is now time to return back inside, to prepare for supper.

I think this peice needs a bit of work, you do alot of telling instead of showing. I liked the idea of the story, just give Elisabeth more emotion and charcter. Keep Writing!!!

I'll be on the look-out for the rest of this!! Good work!