~~ Fairy's writing exercises. Please come comment!

[THE_FAIRY_EMPRESS]

~~ So I recently found an old notebook filled with novels/short stories I wrote back in high school.

Since I've always been rubbish at editing and drafting I thought a good exercise would be to re-write/edit these stories and see if i could make them better and improve my editing skills.

These probably won't be much good. But since i'm taking the effort to do this it accord to me that you girls might be the best critics! So please come read if your bored and let me know if you like the style/structure and please critique my grammar and spelling as it has always ben awful! ~~

 

[THE_FAIRY_EMPRESS]

~~ 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.  

[THE_FAIRY_EMPRESS]

In the end her decision was impulsive, suddenly what she had dreamed of for years became the only real option in her mind. The day was really like any other; there was no variation at the manor. When she entered the main kitchens at six am Old Junko was there as usual, already hard at work and muttering under her breath about the laziness of the younger servants, whilst the “guard” dog Ginger sniffed happily around the floor.
“Maeve!! To work, to work.” The same greeting Old Junko had given all the years Maeve had worked.
“Relax Junko. The day is so beautiful; don’t you ever just want to enjoy the morning? The Count is not even awake yet. Why fret?” As ever when the idleness of the dreamer meets the experience of a beaten down elder the words sound feeble. But Maeve had only hope, though the day seemed like any other to her it had possibility, where as Old Junko knew the sad pain of reality.
“The Count has guests coming today. You must prepare the young lady Asha, dreaming away the day will not help in that regard. There is nothing outside of these windows for you, no matter the whether. To work, to work.” Junko turned away to her work; having spoken more than should would most days.

Despite not actually being the head of the household Old Junko issued instructions based on being the longest serving member of the staff. She spoke rarely of anything other then work, at odds with the dreamy Maeve. Still it was easier to take instructions from her at this peaceful hour then to wait for the rest of the manor to rise. Scoffing down a stale breakfast of her own before making a more gourmet version for the lady Asha, Maeve absent mindedly carried on her current daydream, she’d be abashed for you to know it involved a surprisingly handsome and intelligent member of the gentry whisking her away. Placing’s food on a tray and thinking of the food she’d eat after her imagined marriage she dodged past the dog Ginger who had yet to warm to her the way she had to Old Junko. She stepped out into the courtyard where the Duchess had once met her death; the weather was far different today, again dazzling sunshine, but this time the searing heat of summer instead of the fresh light of winter. She walked across the courtyard into the West Wing where the formal rooms could be found.

Inside these rooms she was a ghost. A series of hidden corridors ran parallel from the formal ones to keep the unseemly staff from being seen. When she had first come to the manor as a girl these ghost corridors had scared her. An intricate labyrinth, which could never be fully learned, when being late to your chores means a beating these corridors seemed daunting. Now, however, they where her favourite place. The mystery of them, each wall looked the same, but no corridor lead to the same place, and she new full well there where paths she had never taken. They were a dreamers paradise, possibilities where easily placed on those blank walls, and knowing how to accesses all the secret doors and tunnels gave her a sense of power.

Today she takes the hidden staircases to climb up to the third floor where Asha’s suite could be found. Stepping out in to the main corridor was always like stepping between two worlds, from the wooden walls covered in nothing but dust, to the world of satin damask, gilded coving and crystal lighting. Each world had its own beauty, and in Maeve’s imagination she belonged in both. The grand double doors to Asha’s suite. The two children given to the count by his wife had grown into very different people. The eldest, Edric, had been brought up by his father to believe that through reasons of genital and wealth he was superior. The daughter had been no less spoilt, with a collection of expensive possessions and fine education. However after her mother died when she was a babe she had known no affection. Whilst her brother swaggered with arrogance Asha had her mother’s melancholy mixed with a deep misunderstanding of others. At the age of 14 she was beginning to show signs of her mothers beauty, but years of snide comments from her father and bullying from her brother had left her deeply self-conscious. When she looked in the mirror she saw only her faults. She saw herself through the jaded and cruel eyes of the men in her life.

As they had both grown Maeve viewed Asha with both jealousy fuelled hatred and longing to impress. For a servant girl Asha’s life of beautiful objects, fine food and clothes seemed perfect. It is easy to be blinded to other peoples pain when they posses what you desire. Asha’s view of Maeve was no better in many ways. A life of privilege had taught her that people where their to serve, it was not that she was a bad person, it was simply all she new. So although she liked Maeve better then the other servants she could not see her objectively. As a child she had listened to Maeve’s made up stories with wonder, until she began to grow, and to be deaf to all but her families cruelty.