The Great Excape

A short and attention catching story of a girl based in the 1700s making an escape to fulfill her deepest desires

Delicately my fingertips trace down the page, my eyes frolicking gracefully, hypnotised by the compelling chronicle; Nearing the fate of this page I Leisurely read, unconditionally engrossed. I Rummage deep in my pocket revealing a petite golden pocket watch, My teeth grit, eyes rolling as I realise the time. In one swift movement I slam my book shut. It's past supper,  so my mother is going to be extronanearly unimpressed. Reluctantly leaving my world of fantasy, and I return to the nightmare that I call my life, dragging myself up and  trekking home. 

Upon my arrival home I'm greeted by Mother awaiting me in the foyer. An unimpressed, unfriendly scowl is painted on her face, She let out a disappointed sigh. Looking to the floor my heart raced, cheeks ruddy-red, “sorry mother,” I replied in a shaky timid voice. Rolling her eyes she walks away and snarls “go wash up”. Running upstairs away from the unfriendly riled beast I flop onto my bed exhausted  from my busy day.  My aching body cradled by the cloud like bedding, so inviting. Laying there for just that short time in an act of defiance made me feel like I had got the last say. My eyes flutter as I struggle to stay awake but I force myself to stand and go and wash up for supper, as I was instructed by Mother. 

I lay on my bed, my stomach content, indeed this life provided pleasantries, but is this really enough? I let my mind spiral. I looked longingly  to the  maps which had lovingly been hand drawn and then strewn on my walls. Somehow this relaxed and comforted me. I could feel  a cheeky smirk creep across my face. Hope! Freedom? The thought that these distant lands could perhaps be my escape from my monstrous parents and the grasp of their claws. Fantastical Images of far-away lands conjured in my mind was all that I needed at that moment to keep dark thoughts from taking hold of my soul.  I did not need to accept what was expected of me, good gracious...it's not the 1700s any more! I allowed my thoughts to  wander further, and 

took refuge and comfort in that wondrous place between consciousness and sleep.  

The harsh sun penetrated through my closed eyelids and caressed my light freckled skin. I was reluctantly roused from my dreamy slumber. I tried to stay in that sleepy state as long as possible. In my dreamy state I was happily exploring the world as an independent woman, untethered from any man, able to explore my many options, bearing children certainly was not a predetermined outcome by any means.  The need to start my day soon pulled me into the land of the living. The icey cold wooden floorboards beneath my feet are always an unwelcome surprise, and always finishes the wake-up process with haste.  The reality of this life was the expectation to conform, become the bearer of fruits of the loins of one of the village lads,  this thought left me as cold as those floor boards!

I hurriedly dressed myself in the same green velvet dress I wear everyday.  I am fortunate enough to have clean under-garments and stockings today.  A brief wry thought flickers through my mind - oh what a lucky girl you are Credence, you have clean undergarments. This can’t be as good as it gets, surely? 

I was hoping for a fast departure with no confrontations from Mother.  Deciding what books I needed was easy as I grabbed what I needed for the day. Admiring the withered, ruff leather cover and the gold embossed writing of my diary , puts a  smile on my face. A true art form.  Credence I mock in my mind...clean undergarments and beautiful books. You lucky girl. I chuckle. My father makes me my books, they are all beautiful masterpieces. I love every single one of them. The beauty you see on the outside is impressive, but the contents that lies within is nothing but pure magic.

I bounce down the old twisted, buckled stairs that creak with every dainty step I take. Over time, I have practiced balancing and avoiding the creaky boards if need be, Sauntering past the kitchen with my books stashed behind my back, so Mother doesn't see. I mutter “I'll be back soon Mother”, then skip out the door. Promenading my way through the old cobble streets and to the north side of town, the most quiet and peaceful part. Free of all the chaos, the mellow sound of birds singing high in the wise oaks. 

Mesmerised by the magical sight, I'm oblivious to my surroundings. I get jolted back into reality when a pair of hands grasp my shoulders giving me a fright. I look back to see a familiar friendly face. Emerald green eyes, blond curly locks that i'm ever so jealous of, and a wide cheeky smile. A grin grows on my face as she sits next to me, her name is Elizabeth. We have been friends ever since we were born, our parents were friends in school. We’re much like family now. Similar to every girl in town, Elizabeth wants to find the husband of her dreams and live the dreadful life of being a mother.  I will never understand why…

“So Credence, what's the plan of the day” she said in an enthused tone. Rolling my eyes at the sound of my name, her grin growing knowing that I hate it. Credence is the truly dreadful name my mother chose for me meaning ‘to be truthful.’ I giggle and exclaim “today I need to figure out how to creep past the monsters in my house to be able to make my mission successful”. She frowns thinking. I can tell the closer to this mission being put into action, the more she is getting more and more unsure. I look around at all the books and papers around me scanning over the plan, as I do for hours everyday. The messly drawn maps, and the step by step plans. Looking for possible problems, or things that might upset my plans.

I can't help but smile in excitement knowing that soon I will be free of this horrific life that I'm being forced to live. Elizabeth looks saddened. Placing my hand delicately on top of hers, I softly whisper “you can write letters to me, and even come visit if you'd like”. My efforts are to no avail, she still looks disappointed. This is the hardest part about leaving, although she is clumsy, loud and extraordinarily messy, she is my best friend. She's become my family too. Her eyes pits of worry. “You could just bring me with you” she said in a soft and timid voice. 

Avoiding eye contact, I focus on the waving trees in the distance. Looking back at her and seeing tears welling in her eyes, breaking my heart. Tilting my head to the side in a caring manner, I say in a soft and caring voice “I must do this alone. I'm sorry. I work alone, it's better this way, you know that. I've been planning for this ever since I was little.”  Wiping the tears from under her eyes Elizabeth picks up her skirt and runs away. I've never seen her act this way before. The gravity is,  that my life as I know it, is ending and sad thoughts start creeping in. I had been excited for so long about my escape   I had  given little thought painful goodbyes.  I lean back and curl in a ball, my head on my knees. The ruff bark of the log I'm perched on digging into my tailbone. My throat starts to tighten as the anger and tears swell like an unfriendly storm inside me. I didn't mean to hurt her. That is  the last thing I wanted to do, she knew the plan from the beginning and she was never a part of it. 

Picking myself up and remembering my plan, I stroppily gather my books and cradle them in my arms. Wandering home I admire the local sights that I'll miss dearly. I will miss this place, but leaving it behind means that I get to live a victorious, rich full life of happiness and joy. I find myself at the doorstep. I must have zoned out on the way home getting lost in the particular beauty. I place my hand on the rusted door handle and step inside, wiping my dirty shoes on the mat.

As I walk towards the bottom of the stairwell I hear a familiar voice, being interrupted by small sniffles. I creep towards the kitchen, prancing on the floor boards they don't squeal under my weight. peering around the corner looking to the kitchen, father is standing his head in his hands. A girl is there too. She's faced away, then I recognise those curly locks. ITS ELIZABETH. I cup my hand to my mouth, scrunching my eyes closed, restraining myself from screaming.  My mind ticks like an old clock, the cogs turning slowly trying to put together all the clues. My mind feels blank. I listen closely, focusing on every word.  What could she be doing? 

“She's planning to leave in 17 days” a shaky voice replies. Father slams his fist on the table in frustration, making me jump. Once again raging anger grows inside me like a burning fire that is rampaging through a surrendering forest. Out of everyone that could betray me I never expected it of her. Why could she be doing this? I think to myself. 

I hastily run back to the stairs frantically running on my toes to not make any noise, like a scurrying mouse. I enter my room and close my door, leaning up against the back of the door, head in my hands as I gather my thoughts. My eyes whip around the room. I run to my wardrobe and dive in deep and pull out an old distressed green duffel bag. Tossing it on my bed and running for the next thing. I grab my books, my prized possessions. Reach my hand under my mattress and pull a wad of money out. My life savings and the most vital part of my plan. I shove it down the top of my corset for safekeeping. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. After gathering all my items I gently close the frail zip on the bag. Smirking at the fact this is happening after so long. Hurriedly looking around my room to see if I have forgotten anything, I hear thud, thud, thud. father he's coming up the stairs, he is searching for me. My mind fuzzes and I slide my window open. I pick up my skirt and jump out. Sharp pains shoot up my legs from the ground shock followed by intense tingling making me run funny at first. I look back up to my window where father is hanging out, one arm out the window, his fist shaking in the air. “COME BACK RIGHT THIS INSTANT, YOUNG LADY” I glance back for a second with a wide cheeky grin, I wave my hand in a mocking manner. There was no going back now!  

My hair flowing through the wind like lively snakes. I'm finally free of the spell of the monsters at home. A wide cheesy grin on my face as I weave through the town's people. I can hear the muttering about me. The sun is like a warm hug embracing me. Feeling more alive than ever. My breaths are heavy and I am panting like a dog.  As the cobbled streets turn to dirt, as I leave this hellish town. A thought flickers through my mind making me giggle, Oh Credence, nice young ladies don’t go clambering out of windows,  it was fortunate you had your clean undergarments on wasn’t it!   My thoughts focus on getting to the next town. 

Reviews

[JayG]

• Delicately my fingertips trace down the page,

You’re trying WAY too hard to be literary—so hard that you’re not seeing it as your reader does. Remember, while you begin reading already knowing where we are, who we are, and what's going on. the reader has no idea of what’s going on.So while you have both context and intent guiding your understanding, the reader is trying to make sense of it as-they-read. And without context, that's impossible.

What you’re doing is providing endless detail that’s irrelevant to the reader, and the story. Why do we care that this unknown person touches the page of an unknown book as they read, if we don’t even know their age and gender? Why should we care if we don’t even know the book’s title? Who cares that she doesn’t like her mother, if we don’t know why? Remember as we read this we don’t know age, gender, and situation, or where this person is in time and space. So how can any of this have meaning for anyone but you?

You’re providing detail, not story. Story isn’t what happens. That history. It’s a chronicle of events, of the form, “This happened…then that happens…and after that… EVEN if it uses pretty wording it’s boring because you’ve not-made-the-reader-care. You, the author, are explaining and reporting. But that informs without entertaining.

Here’s the deal. Fiction isn't at all like the report-writing and essay-writing skills we’re taught in school. It's not even close. Your teachers are giving you skills to make you useful to future employers, who will need you to write reports, essays, and letters, not stories. But fiction-Writing is a profession, and professional skills are acquired IN ADDITION to our school-day skills. So when you graduate you will be exactly as trained to write fiction as to remove an appendix. The difference is that you’ll know you’re not ready to work in an operating room. But like everyone else, you’ll assume that the word “writing” that’s part of the profession we call, Fiction-Writing points to the nonfiction skills we were trained in.

But…the tricks the fiction-writing pros use are not at all like our school-day writing skills because fiction’s goal is to give the reader an emotional, not an informational experience. And to do that they use a set of skills you weren’t told exist, in school. And unfortunately, they’re not optional. As E. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” All our school-day skills can create is the weather report.

So if you like writing, and want to write stories—and I hope you do—before anything else, you need to dig into those skills. After all, the universities offer degree programs in commercial fiction-writing (avoid the traditional creative writing courses). And you have to assume that at least some of what they teach there is necessary. Right?

The library’s fiction-writing section is a really great resource. But if you can handle a college level book on writing, the best book I’ve found in the basics since I began writing, many years ago, is free at the address below. It won’t make a pro of you. That’s your job. But it will give you the tools you need to do that. So give it a try.Just copy/paste the address unto the URL window at the top of any Internet page and hit return,

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

If that book's too tough for you, and you have a personal Santa you can talk into it, Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict is a good second choice, though that’s not free (which is why having a personal Santa is necessary).

For an overview of the issues involved—to see why you must pick up those skills—most of the articles in my WordPress writing blog are based on that book.

So dig in. I think you’ll find the learning like going backstage at the theater. And the practice is writing better and better stories. So what’s not to love?

And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[_dayna]

thank you so much! Im nearly 15 and this kinda feed back is so helpful, im slowly starting to better my writing skills so Ill make sure to check out the website! have a great day (: thanks,
Dayna