A 2 part story about a diary. Of a girl who hears voices. Th front is slightly flowery, but don't let it put you off, because the rest of it (sadly!) isn't. I wish it were. Starts off normal, but it isn't towards the ending. Enjoy.
The wind ripples the plastic bag, half-covering the pile of old books. Heaps of papers, plastic flowers, and some other old junk strew across the table. The dust blown by the breeze hovers protectively over them, like a ghost defending its treasure. Sweet scents are stirred from the dead flowers – a sympathetic linger, a reminder of the long-gone. And then it stops; the gust of air is stilled, the light sheds upon the stray objects. It catches the inch of exposed glass beneath the debris, that winks back in reply. And the plastic bag falls from the books it is concealing.
A wind starts again, no longer a soft waft of wind, but a furious gale, taking out her displeasure on the table once more. The papers rides on the waves of her wrath, the flowers drop to the floor, and the books begin to turn their pages.
And one book, a book without a name, a book so worn its cover is all but blank and its pages are brown with age, begins its silent speech.
*
11 May -Sunday
As I write this, Edith is playing the piano. It is her obsession now, and Erin swears to me that her every painful, wrong note makes her howl in agony. I said to her, I have not heard you howl, let alone in agony. Erin says she howls inside, and when it gets too much, she takes in out in writing. Thank Providence, her methods of amusement are silent, and even false notes cannot make her detract from it.
But see now, I am rambling. Edith has that effect on me sometimes. What I mean to say, my goodly diary, is that I am getting engaged! Just putting it to paper makes me shiver in delight of the word. It seems too amazing, too utterly wonderful to even imagine it happening to someone like myself! But then, is that not what all people, when newly engaged (there again!), say? I have become pathetically cliché, I know – but I really cannot help it. And you might be thinking – if you could think, and I have no doubt but that you can – that this man must be George. I know I have ranted to you, over and over, about George, but guess again. ‘Tisn’t!
But I shall NOT confide in you. Even one as good a confidant, as sweet a listener as you, dearest, is quite capable of turning on a too trusting girl. Now, no long faces! The blame rests not on you, because it is entirely beyond your control.
I will tell you this much: Twelve, tomorrow, we leave.
Divine as much as you can from that, you sulking book!
I heard the knocks again today, louder than usual, if possible.
Elena.
*
12 May -Monday
Don’t you dare say “I told you so!”! I am absolutely broken-hearted. Sam (it’s safe to say his name now) left a note, though. He told me that it “went against his conscience”. Apparently, he was already married!
If I could get a hold of that scumbag! He certainly is, in Shakespeare’s own words, a “vile jelly”!
I was such an idiot! But I will not cry, I will not despair! My turn will come, sometime. It is rather embarrassing for Mother to have a daughter unwedded, and even as she hides it, I know she must feel it inside. I suppose I am too fickle. The moment George disappears, I fall for Sam! He is irresistibly charming, so I cannot honestly say I was in my right mind. Thank goodness I did not leave with him. I would not have been happy; and quite frankly, Mother wouldn’t be either.
Anyway, Horace (what a boring, uninteresting name!) is come, and my mother is calling me down. He is absolutely revolting and smarmy, though rich, so perhaps he warrants the name. Every day he comes to woo Eleanor, who is my younger sister! Shame on I! Eleanor has so many men at her beck and call, all after her hand, but she cannot marry till I do. She tells me she does not resent me, but I wonder sometimes.
I suppose nobody wants to be paired with a partially insane girl. One who hears odd noises nobody else hears, one who sees things nobody else sees. And picky, at that! Come to think of it, perhaps that was the true cause of Sam’s change of heart. Or of George’s disdain. And the girl, the mute, pretty girl, tortures me continuously with her apparitions. I tried to speak to her again today, but she just smiled and disappeared, as usual, just like a storybook spirit. She does tend to tease. Father, thankfully, did not hear me talking. Imagine how he would ridicule me if he did! And the knocks sounded rather worn out today. I hope whoever this knocker is, he or she will give up soon.
Elena.
*
1 June -Sunday
This is crazy. And I’m not referring to the noises. None of which I heard today.
Darling, I think I’m in love with Frederick.
Fred is Horace’s brother. Obviously, he inherited all the good looks that Horace missed out on. Alright, he’s not particularly handsome, but he is charming. Witty, if you please. He calls me Elle. Elle! You cannot disagree that the name is simply delicious, simply elegant. And he does not think I am crazy, which is commendable in a man, I think!
I am officially nuts. Even if I never heard noises, or saw pretty girls. She didn’t visit today, which sort of makes my day perfect, nice as she is. I can easily fool myself into thinking that I dreamt her up.
And I don’t think even “perfect” can describe today. Every word I write of it never does it justice. [s]It was[/s] [s]Honestly[/s] [s]Each[/s] Argh! I give up. Words hate me so.
Elle!
*
20 June -Friday
Dearest Fred visits me every day now. “To court,” he told my parents, but he probably knows that I am completely courted. The knocks have stopped for so long that I have almost forgotten about them. But today they sounded, more urgent than ever! And the girl, she too appeared today. Her face was ashen-white, her eyes frantic, her lips paler than death. She did not talk, as expected. I walked to her, but, for the first time, she screamed!
Then, for the millionth time, she vanished, with a whirl of that long raven hair of hers.
I heard the piano again. Ode to Joy, this time. Joy, indeed. I can afford to appreciate it now that I know that nobody of importance will like me less for it. Which makes me feel so carefree.
Sometimes, I wonder – is this all a dream?
Elena “Elle”.
*
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Yay! A critique!
Ok, I edited it. The beginning is pretty much necessary, because it ends the same way. I was looking at the glass table behind me when I wrote this.
I have a bizzare form of attachment towards the word "aforesaid", so sorry if I use it too much. I took it out. And yes, there are dead flowers there as well as plastic ones.
Urgh, please remind me about the "to-be"s. I always forget.
Thanks a million for the review. Have a cookie!
Cheers,
Lily.
You have not reviews yet?
First off, refine it to: "The wind ripples the plastic bag, half-covering the pile of old books." But even now, there's some excess bulk to it. Is it relevant that it's half-covering the pile? Could you not just say "atop"? Again, is it noteworthy that they are old?
I'd get rid of that "to-be" verb, since we need something more powerful here. You don't have to tell us that the table "is" anything, just show us it. Get a nice verb in. I would use something interesting, like "In complete disarray, books, documents, plastic flowers and some other junk spread across the table." Try also to shift that instance of "pile of books", since a similar phrase was just used, yes?
I always hate seeing "aforesaid" in any piece of writing, besides, is this breeze opposed to something completely different? You get the idea--the reader gets no other picture from you putting that in.
The same avail, i.e. nil, is coming through this. Although it made me laugh. Was there, in fact, more than one mother of this girl?
That changes a fragment into a simile.
I thought they were plastic, not dead? Or are these some others? You can also get rid of "are", by changing "are stirred from" to "spring from".
"Bittersweet", aside from being an annoying cliché, offers little to the piece in showing us what's going on. Why is it bittersweet? What defines the nice from the bad side?
In reflection: having read the first paragraph, I can't really see the point of it. It's just a nice little description of a bag floating from the table. Does it matter whether the book's covered or not? Remember to keep within necessity. Also see that the pacing is particularly slow for the start of a story, at which point style is of little relevance. A five-page description about some flowers on a hill-side, no matter how beautiful, will eventually begin to niff-off your reader. In other words, try to incoroprate these ideas in with the rest of the piece, as opposed to a block of description followed by a block of narrative.
This is a much better alternative to starting the piece off. It's quicker, shorter, more interesting, but still, it's like reading an essay that starts with "this is an essay". I'd recommend just throwing us into the story, and referencing the book later on because it's a diary, yes?
As we progress, it becomes more interesting and you're writing style's great. Just don't get carried away by using fancy words when others suffice--and my last piece of advice is that you cut down on your usages of "to-be", since it weakens the writing quite a bit. More active verbs help us get an insight into characters and portray emotions. Example? Well, when you say "it was horrible", you mean "I found it horrible", since it's told from a viewpoint of a character, no?
Best,
Mark