~~ I'm starting with a long piece, it started as a novel, so i'm posting little bits at a time. Please feel free to post anytime. ~~
Exercise one! Originally written 2005.
Maeve lived in the small, desolate town of Icer. She had lived there for as long as she could recall. To her the town was synonymous with dull rigidity in life, her monotonous existence there lead her to see every inch of the town in a dismal grey-scale. Her imagination had convinced her that any other town in the world would have more life and activity than here. Like anyone who feels trapped in life she dreamt of escape and adventure, by her 19th year no event could have convinced her to stay in that secluded spot of the world.
The longing in Maeve’s imagination was increased by her lack of understanding in her origins. Abandoned as a child her daydreams wandered to fantastical, hypothetical parents who might somehow rescue her from such a mundane existence. Like all dreamers her mind wandered far from reality, always longing for more. The more years she spent hopelessly dreaming the more disappointed she would become with reality. To be fair to Maeve her life was worth escaping, her imaginations lead her astray but it also saved her. The rays of make-believe lifted the darkness of life; she was given strength in the worst of situations.
Since a young age Maeve had been in the employ of a wealthy man of industry. Duke Cheyenne had been born rather humbly, his origins had been hushed up since his entrance into society, but those who worked in his household couldn’t avoid the rumours of his slum town birth. He had made his wealth during economic boom, his rising salary and rising fame convinced an elderly and rather economically challenged Duke to consent to marrying his only daughter to the former slum child. His respectability now cemented by title Cheyenne had lived lavishly, his money protecting him from the scorn of high society. He would frequently leave the Duchess Cheyenne sobbing as he went away on lengthy trips, unabashedly partying and whoring around the country. Why he chose to keep his homestead in the sleepy town of Icer was often a point of wonder for the local community, surely he would have been happier in the capital where bars, brothels and worse abounded? Prying questions where largely kept at bay by the economic reinforcement of his many factories, and other less mentioned businesses. After her marriage the Duchess was rarely seen by those outside the house, she had arrived in Icer believing herself to be marrying a man of importance and standing who would show her wonder and surround her with beauty, like most who place the hopes of happiness in men, she was disappointed. After five years of marriage she had the promised beautiful home, sixty silk dresses, fifty servants, five diamond bracelets, two live children, and not a friend in the world. Not to mention she had suffered one hundred and ten bruises, ten split lips, three broken ribs, one broken wrist, and a searing un-ending depression.
Her death was both beauty and terror. One morning Old Junko, the un-ageable housemaid, awoke, as per usual, before anyone else in the manor. The night before had seen a great blizzard, Icer lived up to its name and seemed to have frozen over, crystalized ice hung of every roof, the lakes were sold, and everywhere thick snow covered everything. At this early hour it was untouched and pure, the world was reduced to one colour palate, to take one step outside was to destroy something beautiful. But the pragmatic and institutionalised Old Junko cared for none of this; a rain of fire could not stop her from continuing her chores. The stillness of the air, and the crunch of the snow beneath her gave no warning that today was to be any different then any of the thousands of others she had seen. Leaving the kitchens and stepping out into the manors internal courtyard she paid no heed to the way the sunlight sparkled against the fresh snow, she did not even look up once to marvel at its beauty. Which is why she didn’t see the horror until she stepped in it. Across the courtyard and about to enter the West Wing for the first time in many years Old Junko stood still instead of continuing her chores. Where once the snow was white and glistening, it was now red and dull.
No one could say that the Duchess Cheyenne lost her beauty in death. Her ice blue dressing gown and white muslin nightdress fitted the palette of the snow-capped world she had fallen to perfectly; her skin was almost as pale as the snow. Her hair for once flowed free; it lay scattered perfectly across the snow as if arranged for a lover. For several minutes time froze, the Duchess lay in a perfect tableau that would only ever be seen by Old Junko, even she who had been blinded by servitude and oppression could appreciate the beauty in the way the snow continued to glitter around the corpse, with no awareness of the horror it was illuminating. The Duchesses face would have appeared peaceful, pale eyes gazing up into the sky, immobile rosy lips ready to be kissed, and skin as smooth as marble. The effect was cracked; a trickle of blood ran across that resplendent face, giving it the look of a doll that has been dropped, cracked into the Duchess was laid bare. Underneath that silken blue robe limbs lay in the wrong place, beneath that muslin wrapped breast organs where destroyed, beneath that freed hair blood pooled and melted into the glistening snow. An unhappy life brought to an abrupt end. There would always be discussion in Icer as to whether the Duchess had fallen from the top of the West Wing, or been pushed. The ultimate truth was that it did not mater, with no family left other then her philandering husband and spoiled children, she was buried with the least amount of ceremony deemed appropriate by society and all but forgotten. Her name is now only raised on occasion, when someone in the local pubs needs a good story to tell over their beer you will here her name. But you will never know her.
It was at the point of the Duchesses death that Maeve came to work for the Duke Cheyenne. Finding himself now in charge of the running of his manor and the upbringing of his children the duke chose to employ more staff to bear his responsibility. He had learned long ago that the orphanage had vast supplies of penniless, and family less staff. Barely more then a child herself Maeve found her self in an endless cycle of caring for his over indulged offspring and polishing marble floorings. Despite his humble beginnings the count was not generous to his household. They slept in the cold and the damp, they ate what was left over, they wire what was given, and they took the beatings that were given to. So you see why Maeve can be forgiven for overindulging her imagination. Brought as a child to a dangerous place, full of mysterious rumours, arduous chores and no sign of light. It would be debated for years whether she was foolish or heroic to escape.
