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Lady Hamilton Lane



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Tue Jan 17, 2012 9:53 am
AlextotheAndra says...



Windermere was one of the tiniest of towns, really more of a village. From the boundary limits, with a small hand painted sign nearly engulfed by the evergreen shrubbery to the few dainty settlement houses, none less than ninety years of age and all with residents with life spans to rival.
It was through the fog of a brisk winter’s morning, that the slight sputtering of a tired engine was heard driving along the central street of the settlement, with the inhabitants of the town yet to awake, the vehicle turned into a deserted street. There was just one house to occupy the vast distance of the road, its frontage only barely visible at the very end of the drive. The occupants of the car found themselves surrounded with what appeared to be the overgrown remains of a once impeccable English garden, and as they came closer to their destination, the pair for the first time laid eyes on Hamilton Manner.
The derelict building was secured by a rusting pair of entry gates, the once gold painted metal rusting and flaking with the strain of years left to the elements. A figure emerged from the car, fumbling with a set of estate agent keys, finding the slightly rusted key to open the padlock. Pushing open the gate, a slight wind blowing brown hair into disarray, the person now revealed to be female returned to the car.
Inside the vehicle, warmth took over the teenage girls fingers, as the rusty gates had frozen them stiff. The driver, her boyfriend generally nudged the acceleration bringing the car to a slow rolling climb up through the slight hill that lead to the front door. It was evident that in the time since it’s last occupant, the estate had lost its charm, the stately feel they had seen in black and white pictures and receded into the kind of property seen in a second rate horror film. Happily for the pair, the sun had risen through the clouds, and the fog had begun to drift away. Parking at the from of the building, the pair had an astonishing view of what was, and still could be one of the most astounding and beautiful houses they had ever laid their eyes on.
The driver turned “Are you ready Luce?” His voice was soft and warm; caringly he offered her his hand.
“I suppose I have to be”, she clasped his hand in her much smaller one and squeezing once to show that in some way she was ready ,she opened the door took a breath and exited the car.
The taller boy had come around to meet her and swept his arm over her shoulder. In front of them stood a stately door, paint peeling and wood cracking, its brass knocker covered in tarnish.
“Here, hand me the keys”, they jingled as they swapped hands.
Bringing them both up the steps to stand at the door, the young man placed the key and turned the old mechanical lock. Hearing a click and gently pushing, the hinges creaked in a sign of their age.
Entry boasted fading wall paper and fine hardwood floors were dented and covered in everything that may have made it through the occasionally shattered windows.
The girls eyes fixed upon the top of the weathered sideboard, where there sat a letter.
She hurried to it, leaving her partner to stand silently, his eye held a look of understanding, mixed with the possibility of pain to come.
“It is dated from the war,” she whispered and possibly to afraid to read the letter within, she turned it in her palm, reading the return address.
“Was it..?”
“Yes, this is the last letter he wrote, the one” She sniffed a little, holding back a sob. He knew exactly that the letter was the last tie that they would find to a family destroyed by the war, well that and the house. He walked over and swept her into a hug, she was weak and did not resist his comforting embrace.
She sobbed silently into his shoulder, occasionally whispering the names of people she would never meet.
“Everything you look at can become a fairy tale and you can get a story from everything you touch.” Hans Christian Andresen
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Fri Jan 20, 2012 3:38 pm
sargsauce says...



I appreciate the attempt--you took your time, acted confidently, and kept your wits about you--but the piece is ultimately long winded and fails to explain enough to the reader.

with the inhabitants of the town yet to awake,

Something like this, for example, is long winded. Not necessarily because of the number of words you used, but because of the way you chose to describe it and the words you used. It's somewhat tedious. Words such as "inhabitants" and "yet to awake" don't evoke anything in us and, so, are just words we need to slog through. You could have talked about the empty streets, the foggy chill of morning, the silence...but not how the inhabitants have yet to awake.

a once impeccable English garden

Another example. What does "a once impeccable...garden" actually mean to us? We know it used to be better than it is now. What else? How does it look now? Is there a statue of a woman wreathed in kudzu as if the vines were trying to pull her down? Do the flowers grow into the cracks of the pavement? Do the weeds choke out the colors? Give us something to work with. I know this particular example isn't all that important and you don't need to spend a paragraph talking about the garden. But even just a passing mention that is more visceral than "once impeccable" can do wonders.

Look for other examples where you've told us something in a vague manner or a way we can't touch/taste/see/hear/feel...then give us something to sense. It's easy for people to know things. You can tell us any number of things and that could be a story. "There was a courageous, loving, compassionate, knowledgeable hero. He saved the world from the bad guy. Everybody loved him." These are things we can know because we're told. But what's lacking is the visceral experience of the occurrences. Of the facts. For us to believe you and roll with you, we need to be immersed in your story and come out dripping wet, spraying water from our mouths.

receded into the kind of property seen in a second rate horror film

You lost the stateliness of your wording there for a bit with the mention of the "second rate horror film." It became more colloquial and you lost the reader momentarily.

turned the old mechanical lock.

As opposed to an electronic lock? I think I know what you mean, but you need to give us a better sense of it...but subtly.

And then she finds a letter on the table. Written by the occupant and never sent out? Received at the house and never read? Is it open? Where was it from? Who was it addressed to? All we have is...some family member sent a letter and that was his last correspondence. Maybe if I knew the characters better, I might be able to care more. But as your current framework stands, it would be easier to care more if we knew anything about the letter and its circumstances.
  








Be steadfast as a tower that doth not bend its stately summit to the tempest’s shock.
— Dante Alighieri