This is some of my work from a while ago. Constructive critsism would be nice.
I feel strange, the pale-faced orphan thought. It was true. She did feel strange. Strange, and cold. Though that came as no surprise. It was so frozen in the tiny orphan shelter that mist would creep from the floorboards themselves.
Ever since she was a little girl, ever since she could recall, Hera had lived in the shelter. The old caretaker, a crabby, rather senile woman- Mrs. Jameson, had given her the name. Mrs. Jameson was not a bad woman. She just would seem that way when you met her for the first time. In the wrinkled caretaker’s case, first impressions were, in fact, nothing.
“Hera: The Greek mother goddess. A queen.” Mrs. Jameson had told her, when she was seven years old. And she had asked if that made her a queen. Mrs. Jameson seemed to consider this for a fleeting moment. It had been a small, but very secure instant where Hera felt indeed royal. And the timid side of Mrs. Jameson submerged from the depths of her hardened emotion. The first time that Hera believed her storybooks was then.
“Yes. Yes, you are a doll queen.”
“A doll queen?”
“Yes, yes. A doll queen. Good God child, have you ever seen your reflection? I’d say you are as pretty as a china doll.” From that moment on, she fancied herself a fine-looking, elegant queen. She devoured every tragic bound tale that rested in her slender fingers. She savored each thing beautiful. She became a lovely girl.
But she had no knowledge of it. Hera believed herself ugly. A pitiful, scrawny piece of work, with colorless skin and ghostly eyes. Her eyes were insipid, a shade darker than white, but green. Almost like the moon reflecting glass in lifeless, sightless eyes of dolls. Her hair resembled the sinisterness of a panther’s coat. Thick and black, it was the most difficult task to tame it. All those ebony waves, sliding down her willowy back.
Her walk came a stride of a high lady’s, ages past. She took no note of this as the younger orphans did.
Hera felt herself the only sham of the shelter. She, indeed, was the lone, desolate orphaned child that had not been adopted before the age of thirteen. Now, seventeen, it did not feel a priority to become a significant piece of an amorous family. She bottled up all she felt inside her, even if it stung. No, nothing could cure her state. All that knew her wanted to be her, all the while despising her very existence. They did not ever truly take her in for what she was.
To all, she was a mystery. The shadowy, unsolved case- walking as if life existed nothing more than machinery; going on and on, only to burn out later. Her delicately carved face carried no expression. It was wholly indecipherable- blank and vaporous, subtle and calm, alone and vacant.
I have it all written, but this is the internet. And this is a small part of half-decent work.
I feel strange, the pale-faced orphan thought. It was true. She did feel strange. Strange, and cold. Though that came as no surprise. It was so frozen in the tiny orphan shelter that mist would creep from the floorboards themselves.
Ever since she was a little girl, ever since she could recall, Hera had lived in the shelter. The old caretaker, a crabby, rather senile woman- Mrs. Jameson, had given her the name. Mrs. Jameson was not a bad woman. She just would seem that way when you met her for the first time. In the wrinkled caretaker’s case, first impressions were, in fact, nothing.
“Hera: The Greek mother goddess. A queen.” Mrs. Jameson had told her, when she was seven years old. And she had asked if that made her a queen. Mrs. Jameson seemed to consider this for a fleeting moment. It had been a small, but very secure instant where Hera felt indeed royal. And the timid side of Mrs. Jameson submerged from the depths of her hardened emotion. The first time that Hera believed her storybooks was then.
“Yes. Yes, you are a doll queen.”
“A doll queen?”
“Yes, yes. A doll queen. Good God child, have you ever seen your reflection? I’d say you are as pretty as a china doll.” From that moment on, she fancied herself a fine-looking, elegant queen. She devoured every tragic bound tale that rested in her slender fingers. She savored each thing beautiful. She became a lovely girl.
But she had no knowledge of it. Hera believed herself ugly. A pitiful, scrawny piece of work, with colorless skin and ghostly eyes. Her eyes were insipid, a shade darker than white, but green. Almost like the moon reflecting glass in lifeless, sightless eyes of dolls. Her hair resembled the sinisterness of a panther’s coat. Thick and black, it was the most difficult task to tame it. All those ebony waves, sliding down her willowy back.
Her walk came a stride of a high lady’s, ages past. She took no note of this as the younger orphans did.
Hera felt herself the only sham of the shelter. She, indeed, was the lone, desolate orphaned child that had not been adopted before the age of thirteen. Now, seventeen, it did not feel a priority to become a significant piece of an amorous family. She bottled up all she felt inside her, even if it stung. No, nothing could cure her state. All that knew her wanted to be her, all the while despising her very existence. They did not ever truly take her in for what she was.
To all, she was a mystery. The shadowy, unsolved case- walking as if life existed nothing more than machinery; going on and on, only to burn out later. Her delicately carved face carried no expression. It was wholly indecipherable- blank and vaporous, subtle and calm, alone and vacant.
I have it all written, but this is the internet. And this is a small part of half-decent work.
