Violet
Chapter 1 I couldn’t believe I’d finally found one. I’d been in these woods for weeks searching for one, all to prove my father wrong. He’d given me a look of disgust and disapproval and said: “I cannot believe you still believe in that old myth! Goodness! I TOLD your mother not to read those petty mythical stories when you were young, I knew you’d start using your “imagination” and believe.” I’d looked him in the eye and said, with all of the seriousness I could muster: “I will find a unicorn. And when I do, expect me to come back and rub it in your horrible, squinchy face!” I turned and slammed the door, as I thought to myself, “What does the word ‘squinchy’ even mean???!” And made a mental note to encyclopedia-Google it when I got home…. But did I even have a home? I knew that Father would let me in if I failed to find a real-life unicorn, but it would be a week of cold-shouldering and “I-told-you-so’s” all round. Oh dear, what have I actually done? The crazy things you do when you lose your temper, am I right? So walking down the muddy cobblestone paths weaving through our damp, dark city, I thought it over and at last made an appropriate decision. It was simple! I could hardly believe I hadn’t thought of it previously! I would go and find a unicorn! I sidled into the cornershop, rucksack in tow, and plucked out a small, green, embroidered purse. I fished through it and picked out the small amount of money I had. Four dollars?! I knew I had more than that. Or did I…? I’d bought that VERY adorable skirt the other day for fourteen dollars, and last week I’d bought some….. Oh. Maybe I did only have four dollars. I grabbed a bag of slightly old looking oranges off the creaky stand, a bucket and a few bananas, then realised it was too expensive and put the bucket back on the shelf. I’d be drinking from a stream this time around. With twelve cents left to spend (yippee, wow what a sum), slightly mouldy oranges and three bananas in my rucksack, I dusted off my tired jeans, stood up straight, and set off down the streets. I felt the late-afternoon sun on my back as I tread over tree-trunks, slide over slippery green leaves and jump over masses of tangled ivy. I heard the trickle of a stream nearby, and wander blindly through the trees until I see it. After a long and hard-earned drinking session from the stream, I curled up in a nest of leaves. Not exactly my ideal bedroom, but what can you do when you are looking for a unicorn. UNICORN
I wish I had a unicorn, Fearfully moving through a tangle of thistles, Each step enchanting anything in its wake. I wish I had a unicorn, Its mystical aura lighting up the bushes, Sparkling like dim moonlight. I wish I had a unicorn Grace radiating from its slender body, The picture of perfection. I wish I had a unicorn A companion Friend Pet I wish I had a unicorn For what a magical discovery It will be. *Side note* I do not know how to change it from caps lock, sorry
This is a story I wrote for Homework in Term 1, and I was looking at it and I thought, "This is actually a good piece of writing," So I decided to recraft it a bit and post it on here! Enjoy <3
I remember feeling the boat sway beneath my unsteady feet. I remember my heart, swelling and pounding beneath my best embroidered pinafore. We were on a boat, had been for about 5-and-three-quarters months. We had almost arrived in New Zealand, supposedly a country of new opportunities (or so the men onboard had said). They were quite fond of me, as I was young and apparently sweet, just eleven years old, the youngest on ship. We had travelled far and wide from England, a busy country. I had HATED it there, although it was sad saying dreary goodbyes to beloved friends. There were screams of joy and relief as the tiny island of New Zealand came into view. I felt a burst of cheer in my stomach, which spread all over my body until I felt as happy as the men aboard had been. They had gone positively BONKERS by then, dancing, cheering, drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. My mother hugged me hard as my father danced with his mates, clearly drunk already. I remember mum sighing and tutting, but laughing as she had been so excited of our arrival. Mum lumbered us with the luggage, my suitcase being the smallest of all. It was brown leather, with stamps and stickers pasted on carefully. These were from the day I went to uptown London to visit my Uncle Richard and Aunt Violet. They’d bought me thousands of stamps, all so I could start a collection. I decided to stick them on the suitcase because that way I couldn’t lose them, and I thought the suitcase the perfect place to glue stamps onto, because that way I could show off all of the places I’d been. I keep the suitcase to this day, shut in a wardrobe, with everything I took on my journey tucked away inside. Maori greeted us, and although they couldn’t understand us, and we couldn’t understand them, they seemed calm that we’d arrived, almost as if they’d expected our arrival. Traders already had approached us, offering cloth, woods, and things mandatory for survival such as water and food. Some offers are politely declined, others taken straight into action, the contents of their suitcases thrown tactlessly on the dusty ground as they look for things worth offering. My Mother, Father, Dad’s mate Kevin, Kevin’s son, daughter and wife and I branched away from our shipmates who took no care ensuring shelter before the darkness dawned. Kevin, Dad and Kevin’s son David go to chop wood with an axe that Kevin traded when we had arrived. Kevin’s daughter, Charlotte, and Kevin’s wife, Victoria were chatty as anything, Mother and I could not get a word in edgeways. When the males arrived back at ‘The Stump’(a tree stump just a few metres away from civilization), they had planks, corrugated metal (courtesy of David) and had nipped out to trade some cotton, a knife, some needles, cloth in every colour of the rainbow, and food and water to last a few weeks. Mum and Victoria began sewing blankets, towels, pillows (with a stuffing of soft leaves) and socks for bitter winter nights (though by then we were guaranteed a real house as it was Spring in New Zealand). After we had eaten a meal of raw Kumara (a strange maori potato) and small rations of bread, the men set up a weird little tent, shelter type thing posts around in a circle, corrugated metal set on top. We were a bit squashed like sardines, I can remember Charlotte’s elbow digging into my hip, Mum’s head on my thigh, and David’s feet on my stomach. That was our first day in New Zealand, where I live now, in Dunedin, New Zealand. It’s amazing to see how much it’s evolved, from full of trees to barren land to a thriving city, full of people, full of places to go. I wouldn’t have it any other way. 18 May 1907
I cannot believe it. I have been accepted as a maid at the most palace-like manor in all of England! I knock briskly on the polished-oak door, my heart pounding. ‘I must greet them formally.’ I remind myself. I let out a loud internal squeal of excitement. A young lady of about fifteen answers the door. I curtsey politely, but to my horror the bun I thought I had secured firmly at the back of my head falls out, and the band I used to tie it with springs right onto the lady’s nose. She looks at me in utter disgust, primly picks the band off her nose and drops it at my feet, then says in an irritable tone: “Who are you?” “The new maid, Miss. Pleasure.” I reply, extending my hand. She frowns at me, then drawls: “Wrong door. The back door is around the corner and to your left.” ‘By gosh she sounds plummy’ is all I can think as I turn scarlet with deep embarrassment. “Oh.” Is all I manage to say. As she turns away and semi-slams the door, I hear her shout: “FA-ATHER, WHO IS THIS IMPOSTOR WHO THINKS SHE CA-” And that’s all I hear before the door clicks completely shut. I’m in awe of the grounds, they are stunningly groomed, not a leaf out of place on a single hedge, each flower standing straight like little soldiers, the breeze sweeping the air not rustling them at all. Even the shrubs are perfectly tamed, their lush green leaves glinting as the light hits them. I pull on the knotted rope by the back door and hear a bell ring inside. I am greeted by a rather large maid holding a goose-feather duster, looking quite flustered and panicked. As soon as she sees me the look on her face disappears and she smiles at me warmly. “Hello, love. You must be Louise. Let me tour you ‘round.” She is the most polite person I’ve met in my ten minutes of being here. They are all quite snobby to be honest, but then I suppose they are close to being like royalty. The tubby maid guides me through the Great hall, the Dining Room, Kitchen Pantry…. I even met the Butler! Last of all are the maid’s quarters. The maid- Who I’ve learned is called Sylvia- leads me up the stairs, then opens the door. I don’t expect anything too extravagant, we are maids after all, but I get a shock when I enter. All there is is a bed each, a sewing machine and a bucket, soap and rack for the laundry we are forced to do. “That’s all?” I ask Sylvia expectantly. “Oh, dear no, there is also a bathroom through there.” She smiles, pointing to the door. I sigh dramatically and flop on the bed. “How can you live like this?” I exclaim, standing up and straightening the thin white covers I just crinkled. Sylvia shifts and smiles uneasily. She leans in and and mumbles in a hushed tone: “ I don’t.” I look at her. “What do you mean you don’t?” “Promise you won’t tell the Master or Mistress?” She says, her watery blue eyes staring straight into mine. I place my hand over my heart, and feel it thumping through the dull grey uniform. “Maid’s honour.” I promise. She leans in and whispers; “I’ve been sneaking out to attend to another job down the dress shop. I have a little house down the road from there. I live there, then use the Servant’s door to come back here in the morning so that old Davie doesn’t suspect anything.” I reel backwards in shock. “You have another job? Another house??” I exclaim. Sylvia holds her hand to my mouth to stop me talking. She bends forward to reach under her bed, finding a cigar and lighting it. She poises it between her teeth, but doesn’t inhale. “If you EVER tell a single soul, I’ll be sure to get you out of your job here.” She practically spits the words like they are poisonous to her tongue, and I swear I see those blue eyes glow a devilish red. Oh, dear Lord, what do I do? How can I keep such a big secret? How can I be trusted? How can I keep my job…. January 25, 1916
The frozen, muddy trench walls feel as if they are closing in on me. The roar of guns masks the muffled screams of men dropping to the cold, hard ground. Every so often a stray bullet flies over the top of the sandbags and an unlucky soldier that dares to stand up will join the already dead ones on the trench floor. I’ve tried to dig out a small cave on the side of the walls to act as a bunk, but it’s turned out as more of a groove in the wall that just looks like a small explosion went off where I’d spent most of the day digging. A shiver runs down my spine. I think that John Parker, the soldier sleeping next to me, may have died from his bullet wound. Already most of of our men have died, yet it’s only our first day at war. I wonder how much longer I have to live. I know that every moment is a moment closer to getting out of this trench. But it’s also a moment closer to my potential death. I’d better make it last, but how can you make the most of living in a trench? She doesn't appear to be looking at anything in particular, she's just staring into the distance, occasionally closing her eyes like she's having a flashback or daydreaming deeply. Her grey hair is always tumbling out of the bun she loosely ties at the back of her head. Her purple coat looks like crisply folded, each line defined with a sharp crease. Her scent is like a row of petunias growing in Spring, and you can smell it within a ten-metre radius of her. Her gnarled hands remind me of a dying pine tree, and they are forever wrapped around the blue porcelain she carries in her wrinkled leather purse. She'll stay until closing time, like she always does. She barely moves, except for when she goes to see Chris the coffee barista for her caramel-walnut latte. "Do you think she's waiting for something?" I ask Chris. "Dunno, but tell her that it's ten minutes to closing time." He replies, drying one of our teacups.
The next day, it's 12 pm and and the old woman hasn't shown up yet. But her cup is there, with a piece of paper sticking out from under the saucer. Suddenly, a man of about 30 in a military uniform enters, his arms open. "Ma, I'm home!" He exclaims. He looks around, confused, and then his eyes focus on the pastel blue cup. He runs to it, reads the paper sticking out and then falls to his knees in a breakdown of tears. Rose, the waitress, glides over to him. "Er...... Excuse me sir, may I help?" She asks. At this point, everyone in the cafe is staring, when the military man turns to Rose and whispers: " She's dead." Chris sighs as he notices my confused face and tosses me the morning paper. The headline reads: "Local woman's spontaneous death" . I gasp and then wake up breathing heavily.... Hi I am Elizabeth and my writing goals are...
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AuthorAloha! My name is Elizabeth and I enjoy writing, youtube, reading, and um well yes that's about it. I hope you enjoy my writing on here and think it is spiffing. <3 Archives
September 2015
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