Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her fingernail drumming on the side of the earthen wall sounded like the rain that fell outside the window.
The barred window.
The heavy chains of iron that encased her wrists, now swollen and irritated by the constant rubbing of the metal against her sensitive skin, served as a reminder. A reminder that life would never be the same. A reminder that she had lost everything. Her children were the hardest to lose. To know that she would never lay eyes on their precious faces again felt like a knife through her heart.
When the flames leaped up around her tomorrow morning, consuming her flesh until her spirit could no longer reside within it, she knew it would hurt less than losing her babies had wounded her.
She tried to imagine what death might be like. She had heard her entire life that death was punishment for sin. So certainly it could not be pleasant. Even if she had not committed the crimes she was dying for, she had sinned in other ways. As hard as she had always tried to be good, there were those illusive thoughts and actions that were constantly besting her in her struggle to be perfect.
She could not fathom how she had ended up in this dank cell spending her final night awake and alone. One minute she had resisted the advances of a man not her husband, and the next moment she was being dragged before the council and accused of witchcraft. The townspeople, already out of their minds, controlled by the obsession with eradicating the evil, had been easily convinced of her guilt.
No matter that there was no proof. No matter that her husband had piteously pleaded for her life. No matter that she had three small children she was responsible to care for.
She would die. For an offense she would not have thought of committing on her worst day.
And she did not know where the moment after her death might find her.
oooo. historical flash fiction. me likey.
ReplyDeleteHave you attended any writer's workshops recently?
ReplyDeleteI read the whole thing, just didn't skim the writing. I am thankful I might have thought it was real. - you know me lol
ReplyDeleteHee hee! I know you! Just a bit of fiction.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, historical flash fiction. There isn't generally any kind of fiction unless it's historical. For me.
And no, not in the most recent months I haven't, it's been about a year and a half since I went to a conference. Why? Are you saying it's bad writing?
Sorry.
Haha. Yes mandy, because everyone who attends a writing conference becomes awesome writers... not sure if they meant it positively or negatively, but it doesn't matter. Keep writing.
ReplyDeleteAnd I'll keep reading! :)
Thank you, Amy! :) I'm not too worried about my flash fiction being astounding. It's 300 words.
ReplyDeleteOops, sorry. I meant it positively. And I understand it is all flash fiction. But some advice from an actual editor, some intense one-on-one, would also be beneficial, for everyone who has interests in calling themselves a "writer". Does calling oneself "a writer", make one so? What level of involvement and discipline and published-ness is required, if at all? To what extent are other people writers who don't claim to be, but are as published, or more published, as some who claim to be "writers"? Are they "writers"? How many of you have a novel in your bottom desk drawer that you desire to give to someone who you know will rip it to shreds?
ReplyDelete-D.
Actually, some of what you're saying goes against everything I've learned from other writers and editors in my journey to become a writer. I used to have the mindset that when I was a famous author then I'd call myself a writer, until I learned that you are writer when you write.
ReplyDeleteIt is true that it is a long and arduous process to refine that art, but writing is the result of a passion and a need within a person, not so much a craft or a skill. That develops as a result of the drive within the author.
And writers become writers on a deeper level when they develop a thicker skin and a willingness to alter their own work to suit other's needs.
But yes, I know what you mean, and thank you for your comments. And I have 5 novels, 2 of which I am fully prepared to turn over to an editor when the time is right. (And I have enough time to start sending out those queries and tricky proposals.)
What determines when the time is right, if they're ready?
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