(Dec Chall) The Abbey (994 words)
Wind River
Alaric, I think you'll figure out the paintings. I hope so anyway. Fun challenge.
"The Abbey"
by Wind River
The scent of wheat hovered like a mist, clinging to the countryside in
the still air. Despite the protection of her stockings and long dress,
Louisa's legs itched from the bits of chaff and splintered grain. She
glanced up at the tall stack where her father was working, then leaned
against the ladder and closed her eyes until the ripples of nausea passed.
"Hold the ladder while I climb down," Papa called to her.
The vibrations from his steps rattled the ladder's sides, so she gripped
it until her hands ached, trying to hold it steady. When he reached the
ground, he pushed back her bonnet, brushed away the wheat dust, and
studied her face.
"You look pale," he said.
"I'm okay."
"Maybe you shouldn't be out here. That baby might come too soon."
She picked the straw from her apron. "I'd rather keep busy."
"You're thinking of him again. You must not."
She looked across the patchwork fields toward the mountains and the old
abbey ruins. "Claude _will_ be back for me."
Her father held her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Louisa, he'll
never return. He's deserted you."
The familiar sting of tears burned her eyes. "Papa, he married me."
"But he only stayed with you for how long? Four weeks? You should have
known a rich man like that would never be content with a country girl
like yourself."
"We were happy."
"Were. He hasn't answered any of your letters."
A dusty teardrop splattered the collar of her dress, as she relived her
last moments with him. They had been traveling and had spent the morning
frolicking in bed, kissing each other and declaring their love. While
she had remained in the room to bathe and dress, he had gone to a cafe
down the street to bring back some tea and biscuits. He never returned.
Papa pulled her close. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I'm a disgrace to you, aren't I?"
"No, but there is talk. People don't believe you were ever married."
The baby changed its position and pushed against her ribs. She rubbed
her side and took a deep breath.
Her father clasped her hand between his own. "I can finish. Go inside
and rest."
She nodded and walked toward the white house. The house where she had
lived as a child and now lived as a disgrace and a burden to her father.
A father who would be better off without her.
A horse harnessed to a cart stretched his neck to nuzzle her as she
squeezed between him and a small fence.
"Hello Grayling." She stroked his mane while he wiggled his lips over
her arm until he found a piece of wheat to nibble.
"I'll miss you, my old friend." She kissed him between his eyes.
When she reached the house, Louisa stood outside, twisting the ring on
her finger. After a moment, she continued down the path which led to the
old abbey. It was a long walk, and her legs were cramping from the added
weight of the baby, but she was drawn to the ruins. It was late
afternoon by the time she arrived, and the sun's light bathed the stark
walls in reds and oranges.
After climbing to the top of the tower, she walked to the edge of a
crumbling wall. She convinced herself that her father was right and that
Claude would never return. With prayers for courage to relieve her
father of his burden, she closed her eyes and prepared to jump.
"Think of the child. Your child. Claude's child." Although the voice was
soft like a breeze, it startled her.
She turned and beheld a woman wearing a transparent veil and holding a
baby in her arms. A golden glow surrounded them. Louisa glanced behind
herself, certain the sun's last effort had spread a fan of light across
the sky to highlight the strange woman's face, but there was only a dark
red band streaked with purple clouds. The gold light brightened as the
woman drew near and allowed the baby to reach out and brush Louisa's
cheek with his hand. Calmness settled upon her.
"Think of your child," the woman repeated.
"I will." Louisa felt tired and laid down upon the cold stone.
"Sleep now, for you will need your strength," the woman said as she
removed her velvet robe to cover Louisa.
The next morning, Louisa felt large hands shaking her, and a voice
calling to her.
"Thank God I have found you."
She opened her eyes and looked into her father's face. "I thought you'd
be glad to be relieved of me," she said.
"Don't say that. I searched everywhere for you." He held her close for a
moment, then said, "I was lucky to find you. A woman with a baby stopped
me on the road and mentioned there was a woman at the abbey who needed
help."
Louisa draped the robe across her shoulders and said, "This belongs to
that woman."
Papa ran his fingers across the velvet and the gold binding. "After you
left, I had a visitor."
"Claude!"
"No. He won't be coming back."
She took off her wedding ring and turned it toward the morning light,
watching little rainbows reflect from the stone. "Then you were right
about him."
"No, I was wrong. He would have come back if he had been able."
"What do you mean?"
"He's dead." He took her ring and slipped it back on her finger.
"Apparently, he was robbed and his body dumped far from the city. That's
why he never returned to you that morning."
"That can't be!"
"I'm sorry."
Unable to speak, she stared across the fields at the wheat stacks and
white houses.
"There are papers for you to sign. He left everything to you." He
gathered her in his arms. "Are you okay?"
She nodded and pulled the robe closer. "I must think of his child."
END
Wind River
"The Abbey"
by Wind River
The scent of wheat hovered like a mist, clinging to the countryside in
the still air. Despite the protection of her stockings and long dress,
Your grammar is good, and the piece flows well. Louisa's legs itched
"I'm okay."
"We were happy."
me on the road and mentioned there was a lady at the abbey who needed
help."
Louisa draped the robe across her shoulders and said, "This belongs to
that woman."
Papa ran his fingers across the velvet and the gold binding. "After you
left, I had a visitor."
"Claude!"
"No. He won't be coming back."
She took off her wedding ring and turned it toward the morning light,
watching little rainbows reflect from the stone. "Then you were right
about him."
"No, I was wrong. He would have come back if he had been able."
"What do you mean?"
"He's dead." He took her ring and slipped it back on her finger.
"Apparently, he was robbed and his body dumped far from the city. That's
why he never returned to you that morning."
"That can't be!"
"I'm sorry."
She stared across the fields at the wheat stacks and white houses,
thinking of the child.
END
Wind River
>
> I posted the wrong version earlier. My apologies. It should've been this one.
>
> "The Abbey"
> by Wind River
>
> The scent of wheat hovered like a mist, clinging to the countryside in
> the still air. Despite the protection of her stockings and long dress,
> Your grammar is good, and the piece flows well. Louisa's legs itched
> from the bits of chaff and splintered grain. She glanced up at the tall
> stack where her father was working, then leaned against the ladder and
> closed her eyes until the ripples of nausea passed.
Argh! I give up. Somehow, part of a critique wiggled its way into my
story. I should know not to post when I catching a cold! You all are a
patient bunch to put up with the likes of me. Would you, could you,
please ignore the grammar comment in my first paragraph? I promise to do
better next time -- that is if I don't just give up.
-Sue
Wind River
>
> Your grammar is good, and the piece flows well. I don't know why I want to
> say that, but I felt a compulsion to repeat it in my head over and over
> again as I read this. Did you put a subliminal message in this? <g>
lol. No, I put right near the top for everyone to see.
> I'll take your word for it that wheat has a scent, but I've never been in a
> wheat field.
>
> > known a rich man like that would never be content with a country girl
> > like yourself."
>
> This is dialogue, so I should have read over it. The "like yourself" isn't
> needed, though. This is set in the past, and the father does seem like the
> type of person who would use extra words. Just thought I'd mention it.
I'm not sure how 1880s country people in Europe speak. It's something I
need to research for a revision. I tried to make it a little more formal
than present day, but not as formal or flowery as some of the Victorian writers.
> > The baby changed its position and pushed against her ribs. She rubbed
>
> I'd replace "changed its position" with something else.
rotated?
> > She nodded and walked toward the white house. The house where she had
>
> This conjured an image of The White House. It may be better to use words
> that describe the specific style of house. Not a full-on real estate
> listing, but with some of the terms you might find in one.
I could add more detail, but I need the color of the houses as a clue to
the painting which Alaric assigned me.
> Would replace "were cramping" with "cramped," and "from the added weight of
> the baby" with something new about the character or her condition.
Thank you. I have to watch myself. I slip into passive storytelling all
the time.
> Also, the "old abbey" is a little cliched. When I read that, I almost
> snapped out of the story; hoping that it morphs into a fairy tale. The
> description of the abbey needs to be really vivid for it to work.
Ancient abbey or just abbey? The one in the painting is from the 10th
century, I believe.
> All comments that follow have "fairy tale" in mind. Before, I'd been
> reading it as a historical romance story.
I think the second painting pushed me into the fairy tale direction.
You're right, and I'll choose one or the other when I revise it.
<snipped some good suggestions>
> ...but it's still a little rough, and it doesn't have a fairy tale quality
> to it. It's like the writing in historical romance, but that doesn't fit
> with the rest of the story. It seems to alternate between the two genres,
> never really gelling as something that can stand on its own.
I think I may go with a more historical/supernatural when I revise. It's
short enough, though, that I might try it several ways.
> I had about a girl last night, and it wasn't any real ex-girlfriend,
> celebrity, or "girl from the GAP" -- it was a completely imaginary woman.
> Those dreams are always hard for me to shake off; maybe because I know with
> 100% certainty that she really was perfect, and she really is gone. With
> real people, you can always lie to yourself.
>
> I wouldn't go so far as to say anyone in this story really is imaginary --
> that would be kind of a silly writing fallacy -- but there was enough of
> that impression here to have an impact on me. Does that make sense?
It does. I think sometimes characters are imaginary in a dream-like way,
but there are some real qualities too. This story turned out like it
takes place in the painting. It's a glimpse into an imaginary world
which can seem real while you're in it, but when you step back, the
paint and brushstrokes aren't realistic. At the same time, words are a
different medium than paint and bring a different response. It was an
interesting challenge in that way, and I'm looking forward to what
others do with it.
Thank you, Jake. I appreciate the feedback -- a lot of helpful comments.
-Sue
Anopheles
"Wind River" wrote:
> I posted the wrong version earlier. My apologies. It should've been this
one.
Oh dear. I'll have a look if your certain you got it right this time.
I'll concentrate on the story not what painting it's supposed to be.
> "The Abbey"
> by Wind River
>
> The scent of wheat hovered like a mist, clinging to the countryside in
> the still air.
Like a mist? IMHO, not a great analogy. A mist is visible. A mist is dank,
cold air. Yet here you're trying to convey a warm end of summer environment
that sucks the aromatics out of the harvested wheat field and leaves it
hanging in the still air.
>Despite the protection of her stockings and long dress,
>Louisa's legs itched from the bits of chaff and splintered grain.
This seems too wordy to elicite atmosphere.
>She glanced up at the tall
> stack where her father was working, then leaned against the ladder and
> closed her eyes until the ripples of nausea passed.
Good
> "Hold the ladder while I climb down," Papa called to her.
You could probably cut "to her".
> The vibrations from his steps rattled the ladder's sides, so she gripped
> it until her hands ached, trying to hold it steady. When he reached the
> ground, he pushed back her bonnet, brushed away the wheat dust, and
> studied her face.
Good. Could be tightened a little.
>
> "You look pale," he said.
>
> "I'm okay."
>
> "Maybe you shouldn't be out here. That baby might come too soon."
>
> She picked the straw from her apron. "I'd rather keep busy."
Drop "the".
> "You're thinking of him again. You must not."
Perhaps, "you're thinking of him again." is enough?
> She looked across the patchwork fields toward the mountains and the old
> abbey ruins. "Claude _will_ be back for me."
> Her father held her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Louisa, he'll
> never return. He's deserted you."
I'm in a harping mood today. Try shortening to... He turned her back to him.
"Louisa,...
> The familiar sting of tears burned her eyes. "Papa, he married me."
>
> "But he only stayed with you for how long? Four weeks? You should have
> known a rich man like that would never be content with a country girl
> like yourself."
>
> "We were happy."
>
> "Were. He hasn't answered any of your letters."
>
> A dusty teardrop splattered the collar of her dress, as she relived her
> last moments with him.
Can a tear be dusty? A springfield can, but a teardrop?
>They had been traveling and had spent the morning
> frolicking in bed, kissing each other and declaring their love.
So, they didn't actually have sex then.
>While
> she had remained in the room to bathe and dress, he had gone to a cafe
> down the street to bring back some tea and biscuits. He never returned.
>
> Papa pulled her close. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
>
> "I'm a disgrace to you, aren't I?"
>
> "No, but there is talk. People don't believe you were ever married."
>
> The baby changed its position and pushed against her ribs. She rubbed
> her side and took a deep breath. Her father clasped her hand between his
> own. "I can finish. Go inside and rest."
>
> She nodded and walked toward the white house.
It's set in Washington then?
You did it well, Sue, as usual. Alaric's a sucker for this sort of thing.
Anopheles
Patrick Null
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:bqjmb8$23kfrh$1...@ID-34438.news.uni-berlin.de...
> > A dusty teardrop splattered the collar of her dress, as she relived her
> > last moments with him.
>
> Can a tear be dusty? A springfield can, but a >teardrop?
In Sue's defense, I like this image. It's fresh, original, and if her face
is dusty to begin with, the teardrop certainly will, right?
I will get to this crit later, Sue, I promise. :-) I'm not ignoring it.
Wind River
>
> "Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
> news:bqjmb8$23kfrh$1...@ID-34438.news.uni-berlin.de...
> > > A dusty teardrop splattered the collar of her dress, as she relived her
> > > last moments with him.
> >
> > Can a tear be dusty? A springfield can, but a >teardrop?
>
> In Sue's defense, I like this image. It's fresh, original, and if her face
> is dusty to begin with, the teardrop certainly will, right?
I was thinking of how dust (or flour -- any dry powder) sits on the
surface of water droplets.
> I will get to this crit later, Sue, I promise. :-) I'm not ignoring it.
Thanks, Patrick. I know you must be busy with the little ones in your
family, so if you can't get to it, I understand completely. That said,
I'll also add that your comments are always appreciated and welcomed.
-Sue
Wind River
>
> "Wind River" wrote:
>
> > I posted the wrong version earlier. My apologies. It should've been this
> one.
>
> Oh dear. I'll have a look if your certain you got it right this time.
> I'll concentrate on the story not what painting it's supposed to be.
But the painting is much more interesting.
> > The scent of wheat hovered like a mist, clinging to the countryside in
> > the still air.
>
> Like a mist? IMHO, not a great analogy. A mist is visible. A mist is dank,
> cold air. Yet here you're trying to convey a warm end of summer environment
> that sucks the aromatics out of the harvested wheat field and leaves it
> hanging in the still air.
Yeah, I wasn't thinking of the damp quality of mist. The scent of mold
and mildew would be hanging in the air. Maybe, "The scent of wheat
hovered in the still air, clinging to the countryside." In the painting,
there is a faint brown in the sky. Of course, that might just be a
result of a poor reproduction. :)
> >Despite the protection of her stockings and long dress,
> >Louisa's legs itched from the bits of chaff and splintered grain.
>
> This seems too wordy to elicite atmosphere.
It needs some work. I don't like it either. I'll find a better way to
show it takes place in an earlier century.
> >She glanced up at the tall
> > stack where her father was working, then leaned against the ladder and
> > closed her eyes until the ripples of nausea passed.
>
> Good
Thank you.
> > "Hold the ladder while I climb down," Papa called to her.
>
> You could probably cut "to her".
Yes sir.
> > The vibrations from his steps rattled the ladder's sides, so she gripped
> > it until her hands ached, trying to hold it steady. When he reached the
> > ground, he pushed back her bonnet, brushed away the wheat dust, and
> > studied her face.
>
> Good. Could be tightened a little.
The whole story could use some tightening.
> > "You're thinking of him again. You must not."
>
> Perhaps, "you're thinking of him again." is enough?
I like that better.
> I'm in a harping mood today. Try shortening to... He turned her back to him.
> "Louisa,...
You never told me you played the harp, but then, I don't think of you as
an angel either. :)
> Can a tear be dusty? A springfield can, but a teardrop?
My thought was when a droplet of water has a coating of dry dust
floating on its surface. It would be on the rounded part of the tear
after it runs through the dust on her face. There are always the muddy
sweat and tears, but somehow that doesn't fit.
> >They had been traveling and had spent the morning
> > frolicking in bed, kissing each other and declaring their love.
>
> So, they didn't actually have sex then.
Hey, this is the 1800s. People somehow had babies without it.
> > She nodded and walked toward the white house.
>
> It's set in Washington then?
Arghhhh! There are other houses that are white; in fact, everyone in the
painting was white. Sigh, I'll change it.
> You did it well, Sue, as usual. Alaric's a sucker for this sort of thing.
He's the one I have to please this time, so we'll have to wait and see.
There are some things he won't like about it.
Thanks, Nophie. I appreciate the feedback.
-Sue
Alaric McDermott
not to be kept warm. <g>
I recognise both pictures, and you've done a superb job in describing
the scenes, which is a part of the challenge. It's a good even
traditional piece (beginning middle end - yay) with a nineteenth
century feel. Yes, it could be mawkish - but I honestly think it
skirts just the right side of that.
I guessed the fate of Claude - I suppose because if there was going to
be a twist it was the only one I could think of, short of his coming
back after months of unconsciousness or kidnap. But in a piece as
self-contained as this, that really isn't a problem.
A good story, Sue. It'll take some beating. And thank you for
entering.
Wind River <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message news:<3FCCC897...@voyager.net>...
Wind River
>
> Grammar's allus better with stockings and a long dress. She's too old
> not to be kept warm. <g>
>
> I recognise both pictures, and you've done a superb job in describing
> the scenes, which is a part of the challenge. It's a good even
> traditional piece (beginning middle end - yay) with a nineteenth
> century feel. Yes, it could be mawkish - but I honestly think it
> skirts just the right side of that.
>
> I guessed the fate of Claude - I suppose because if there was going to
> be a twist it was the only one I could think of, short of his coming
> back after months of unconsciousness or kidnap. But in a piece as
> self-contained as this, that really isn't a problem.
I guess he really could have dumped her, but that wouldn't have been a
satisfying ending, imo. In a story this short, there's not enough room
to add too many twists.
> A good story, Sue. It'll take some beating. And thank you for
> entering.
Thank you, Alaric, and thank you for setting such a fun challenge. I
hope I can find the time to write another one. It's more difficult than
it seems melding two different paintings into one story without it being
too obvious.
As always, I appreciate your feedback. (I will turn you into a lover of
very short stories some day! I'm working on it.)
-Sue