Young Writers Society

Disclaimer:

This is something I've gotten an idea for. It's something I've never really wrote before, back in the 1880's in third person. It's good-ish so far, but I need opinions. It's not completed, just so you know. I just wanted to be critiqued about the first half. Just remember the chapter isn't fully complete. Let me know about what's given please!

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Charity stood at the top of the lighthouse staring down at the water that was a deep blue with white waves that crashed along with it. This place is amazing, she thought. The truth was she had never been to a place this majestic in all her nine years. Her mother and father thought minor things like these were useless, nothing more than space collected on the Earth. Of course she didn’t believe them; she thought everything majestic as this was happened to be magic. Something she’s known for all her life, minuscule happenings that were thought of to be of the norm weren’t in her eyes. She looked about the sea and its deep color once more and decided it was time for her to leave. How she came to this place was beyond what her parents would think reasonable. She caught the bus on her own and came down to the ocean’s lighthouse unannounced with no one to accompany her. Lonely it must feel, with no one to share what she called majestic. She winds around the entire tower and walks slowly down its circular stairwell. She starts for the bus stop and waits an hour for the bus to come. When it arrives, she steps upon it and sits down at the window seat. She watches as the beach, the city, and the people pass in a steady blur. In a moments time she arrived back at the familiar white house with green shudders and a wraparound porch. Her mother was swinging on the white swing back and forth humming to herself. She expects to get a full blown scolding, but when her mother appears calm and collected she senses something must be wrong.

“Charity, where in God’s creation have you been?” She takes in her mother’s green eyes that look like candy mints on a cold day and the blond hair that waves in a pattern Charity has never seen in her entire life.

“Mother, I’ve been at the lighthouse. You should see how majestic it was!” There’s excitement building up inside her and she can’t very well contain it.

“At that nonsensical monument?” Her mother stated. She would never fully understand her daughter and how she sees things in a different matter from the rest of her family.

“It’s not nonsensical. It’s majestic. Now if you excuse me, I’d like to go and have a snack.” She leans closer to her mother and gives her a slight peck on the cheek.

She walks into the foyer to find her smaller brother, Thomas, tending to his shoes with so such succeeding happening. His shoelaces lay limp around the leather shoe. Thomas was Charity’s younger brother who strived at the age of four and a half.

“Oh, Thomas, do you need help?” She sits down on the bench nearly four feet from her brother and waits as he fumbles with his laces once more then giving up.

“Please do.” She leans down toward his shoe and motions for him to set it upon her knee. She remembers when she was his age just learning how to tie her own shoes. Thomas was growing more inpatient while she thought of distant memories; she hastily finished.

“There you go, little one. Remember to tell mother where you are going.” She gets up and walks over to the dining area to find her father working on theories of law and medicine. Charity and Thomas’s father was a professor at the local college that was opened just on August 1880.

“Good afternoon, Papa.” She greets him steadily yet he doesn’t stir. She decides upon giving him a kiss on the head and continuing on towards the kitchen. She finds Marla, the child caretaker, preparing just what she was hungering for; apple pie. Charity’s mood brightened profusely.

“Marla!” The young girl ran to the woman with flour covered hands and gave her a comforting tighten and let go quickly after.

“Well, good afternoon Miss Charity.” Marla continues to rolling out dough for the crust of the pastry, and Charity sought after to help.

“May I peel the apples, Mar-mar?” Mar-mar was the name given to Marla by the Thomas when he was only two and could scarcely pronounce the genuine name, so he had stuck with Mar-mar; and ever since then, Marla had become worn to the nickname.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Marla pulls up a stepping stool not one foot from where she stood and motioned to the apples that lay in a bowl sparsely sitting alone near the stove.

“I know what to do!” and with that, Charity walks upon the stepping stool and took the fruit peeler that lay directly in front of her. Grabbing an apple, she dutiful made spirals of peel that fell silently upon the cutting board.

“Very good,” Marla watched smugly as the child she took care of most of the occasion cultured a bit from her.

“Thank you,” Moments passed and she completed the task of peeling the apples, and Charity had to now work upon her studies for an hour with the instructor.

Giving Marla a peck on the cheek, she turned to go wait in the study, messing with her dress that billowed in a light green colour. A few moments later, a man in his late fifties with wavy brown hair coupled back in a hair tie and wrinkles that counted for his age walked in and sat across from her.

“Afternoon Miss Charity,” Mr. Jameson started pulling papers of different shades with script and numbers scrawled on them. Looks like arithmetic this time around, Charity thought. If it weren’t for Mr. Jameson constructing her daily instruction to be pleasurable, she would extreme dislike arithmetic.

“Afternoon, Sir.”

“Today, we are going to work with arithmetic,” Charity winced knowing she was accurate about the whole ordeal. She didn’t think arithmetic had any magic united in. She gave a quick harrumph.

“Now, now, Charity.” She calmed her stature.