Hallowed Ground – Creative Writing

One damp fair weatherrise in the spring of 1951, an antiquated woman sit imbibe in her drawing room, and stared out of the Edwardian malarkeyow, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. The velvet green curtains fluttered slightly against a draft. This is her place of rest, were she chose to star the rest of her life peacefully. She gazed into her garden. Her drawing room was vacant when compared with the beauty of nature. The w totallys were lined with great masterpieces, her tables decorated with sightly and rare Ming vases. She sit upright against the silk tapestry cushions of the c sensory hair. She loved the outdoors, and constantly felt uncomfortable with the four walls enclosing her, no matter how beautifully they were decorated. She always adored her garden, the white and pink roses in her numerous and perfectly arranged, symmetrical beds.The garden had limestone stairs, and she peered out of the window, down the grey-white steps, to a garden that stretched to the horizon. The grass was a pure deep green. And in the centre, a pond, stretching horizontally from one end of the garden to the other, the only sum of crossing was an old bridge of pale wood with small engravings of dragons lining its railings. She watched the golden red carp glitter in the soft morning sun under the waters surface. Her garden shone with pink and white blossoms. The flowers, at this epoch of year were mainly spring pansies, daffodils and bluebells, dripping with morning dew.The rose bushes stretched all the way across the left side of the brick wall, ruining its foundations. She remembered old age, bed cover through her bole wish well the flower, ruining her strength. Her once able body was frail. Time was running out the hourglass had tipped.She leant forward to the man across the table, sipping his tea leaf and waiting patiently for a reply. She felt his harsh gaze in her eyeball.So, Miss Amanda Daley, he began, are you considering ever so using our servic es again, perchance writing another defy or novel? I bank you know, and of course you do, being a lady of worth, that our services are at the best of prices and of the highest quality. His words remained unanswered, and she carried on staring out of the window. His pinstripe suit and unmarked suede shoes were intimidating, and clearly he was a wealthy man, illiterate to suffering.She was uncomfortable in his comp any, and like a small child, carriageed at the floor. And yet, she despised silence, the social void, representing her lack of communal knowledge, and gossip could spread roughly her past. She sat with her back erect, causing her pain. And yet, she felt that etiquette overcame physical pain, as her father had always taught her. Her back throbbed. She was indifferent to her publication anyhow, since she grew increasingly ill, relief succumbed to etiquette. Her back relaxed. And, as she suspected, she felt a kind of paternal betrayal. Finally, she brought herself to m utter a hardly a(prenominal) words, Yes, thank you, I know. I shall send a telegram when necessary. My book will be finished in about three weeks. make it to collect the papers when I call.She led him to the front door, where he stepped into his automobile. world a lady of worth- these words irritated her, span around in her head, but she kept comfort and showed no discontent. His car vanished through the drive, and she proverb no point in waving him off. She had work to do.She was to begin her story. She sat in the drawing room, asked the maid to fetch her a blanket and fervid tea, and sat at the oak table near another window. She stared at her aged hands and wrinkled face in the reflection of her facile teapot, each line representing a time in her life, and she also spy her hollow eyes. The blue veins emerged on her fingers, as if her condition had just appeared overnight. alone alas, this was not so. They did not just emerge, but the veins remained no medicine could may be cure it. She had simply not cared before. There were more important things to continue previously age was a meagre aspect amongst her losses. She sat back, and allowed the execrable memories to enter her mind.(2)Her induce, whom she adored with all her heart, would tell her stories when she sat up in bed, and listened with the same intent, even though the stories were often alike. Once her mother had left, and she had verbalize her prayer, she looked out of her window to the star-studded sky, against the black sheet of infinity, and rested against it, was the chalky moon. She keep out her eyes. At sunrise, she saw her father leaving the home base, as usual. He close up the door with the same pessimism. His job was tedious, though he was too arrogant with false masculinity to ever admit it. He was substantially educated, well dressed, well pay and an owner of a leading company. He paid for servants to look after her family, even though her mother saw it as an intrusion o f privacy.The house was situated on the edge of the sea cliffs, and the route following down to the ocean was lined with jagged rocks, sharp equal to cut. An hour later she tore her shoe on the steep mode when walking down to the bay. As she stared deep into the horizon, she wondered what was beyond it. The sea lapped at her bare feet and she felt a slight spiritual familiarity with her surroundings, an eternal adhere of the vast and treacherous sea with her small, trusting heart. The sea sang into her ears, the wind caressed her skin and the sea appeared to be studded with thousands of diamonds against a turquoise backdrop. The sun blazed and her skin shone pink.She returned to a silent house.Mother, she called, looking uncertain, bracing herself. A splutter came from upstairs, and the servants were nowhere to be seen. She saw her mother coming down the stairs.The reply was not as dire as she had weared or it was and she simply did not understand.Annabella, her mother said. She spoke in a fluent tone, one that would have been soothing if it were not for the overwhelming fear that she could hotshot in her mothers eyes and expression. Your father has been injured at his factory. Now, I dont expect you to understand this but we are treading on thin ice. We may be in slight financial trouble, but there is no debate to worry. But there was. Annabella could sense it.What was a pretty Victorian house was now wrought with depression. Annabella stopped walking down the beach, and fell sleepy-eyed in tears. The month later, she was roused by Victoria, her maid, and was told to dress. She met her mother at the breakfast table. Her beautiful green eyes were now veiled with tears, her curled blonde hair was now matted and greasy. She managed to force out the words, but Annabella knew exactly what she was about to hear. The house was silent again, no coughing, no cries and no shouts. She whimpered and tensed herself. wholly she heard was, Hes gone. No sounds from her father, no reminders of the infected wound. She did not cry. She was grieving ever since he was hurt, and she knew it.Her father had died after a wild fever and her family suffered in horrible grief, his death believed to have been caused by the infected wound. Once she dumb the cruel consequences of her fathers death a growing anger came over her, like a flame on oil. Why has he left us? she asked herself. He had not taken any care no currency was ever left except for the pittance that remained after debts and taxes. There was no long-life any financial help. He left my mother in neurotic tears, a sorry and disconcerting spectacle to their children.(3)Even though it was many geezerhood since her fathers funeral, she remembered the light oak coffin in which her fathers body rested advantageously against a white silk tapestry. She remembered the echoing aisle sounds of shoes against the limestone floor, her silent mother and wailing brother, still young and too small to und erstand.During the final stages of his life, he had grown incredibly weak and thin. Two dark pits surrounded his eyes and the red and brown liquid seeping from his mouth. Her mother was always kneeling at his bedside with a damp cloth in order to calm the fever. The injury in his chest had become infected, and his whole chest was swollen, and his temperature soared. He often vomited. He cried during the night and woke up the house. Her mother never allowed servants to look after him, and she stayed by him, feeling that it was her responsibility. The memories of her father stayed with Annabella for the rest of her life, traumatising her, and yet provided her with an inner(a) strength and understanding of the temporality of life.Unable to hold her pen any longer Annabella sat back, shut her eyes and waited till she had the enthusiasm to scoop the next chapter. The book, rather than being a release of the emotional torments, became a burden of pain.