First Impressions, cont'd

I jumped. Hesitatingly, I placed my hand in his and stepped out of the carriage. Another man appeared to take my trunk. I followed them up the front walk where they opened both doors and ushered me inside.
I blinked. The foyer was huge. It was made from dark wood, mahogany I guessed it to be, Father had taught me to identify tree wood well enough. The black mouth of an empty fireplace gaped at me from the left wall. Up above it a dozen weapons were mounted to the wall. On the opposite wall a few swords decorated the wall and a large oil painting hung between them. Above the two doorways dangled the national flag.
"This way, miss," the butler said and I followed him all the way down the hall, taking a right turn at the end of it and down a flight of stairs. We entered into the main hustle and bustle of Fernfield Hall's life.
The butler called over the housekeeper, a Mrs. Maddock, and introduced me as the new housemaid. She quickly put me to work, telling me to follow "Jenny" as she was going to dust the drawing room.
"Jenny's" head popped up at the sound of her name. She was a small, young girl, her face pre-maturely aged with cares from serving. Being a housemaid had taken its toll on her already. Her hands were chapped and calloused, I noticed, as she handed me a dust rag. I blindly followed her up to first floor and we entered the drawing room.

First Impressions

Unfortunately, this isn't as clever as Pride and Prejudice. I don't think it's the greatest title, but it was the first thing I thought of and I hate posting something and not having a title accompany it. So it stays till I come up with a better one. This probably needs some work, but here are the beginnings and hopefully I'll find some time to continue it. Enjoy!

The wheels on the carriage rolled over the cobblestone drive with a clatter. I had been jolted around in the carriage for the past three hours and my destination lay just ahead. My limbs were cramped from being held in one position for so long and I longed for the chance to get out and stretch. The carriage slowed down and the main house loomed into view. The red bricks were stacked and cemented with absolute precision and the builders made perfect squares for the glass window panes to be placed. Both of the front doors stood wide open and a slight woman, dressed in what appeared to me to be servant's garb, came out balancing a large basket of laundry on her hip. The shrubbery circled around the house and flowers were planted along the walk and stood ready to greet one with a cheerful face.
I pressed my back against the carriage's seat, intimidated by the size and precision of everything. I had come expecting a small little plantation, much like the ones I'm accustomed to seeing at home. Instead I found a large estate--something I only dreamt about. Here was a home with more than one garden, multitudes of butlers and maids, it's own stable and wash house. What stood before me replaced paintings and stories with the real thing.
The carriage door opened and the butler's hand appeared, "Miss?"

Thoughts for Thursday

"It is a terrible thing that the worst of all the vices can smuggle itself into the very centre of our religious life...The devil laughs. He is perfectly content to see you becoming chaste and brave and self controlled provided, all the time, he is setting you up in the Dictatorship of Pride...For pride is spiritual cancer: it eats up the very possibility of love, or contentment, or even common sense."


~CS Lewis, Mere Christianity

Thoughts for Thursday

"The hero does not set out to be one. He is probably more surprised than others by such recognition. He was there when the crisis occurred...and he responded as he always had in any situation. He was simply doing what had to be done! Faithful where he was in his duty there...he was ready when the crisis arose. Being where he was supposed to be...doing what the was supposed to do...responding as was his custom...to circumstances as they developed...devoted to duty--he did the heroic!"

~Richard C. Halverson

The Lamplighter

His weather beaten face bent down to his chest, avoiding the biting wind that blew through the air.
The flickering orange flame encased in the iron cylinder dangling in his hand provided hardly any warmth as he trudged down the streets he traveled for as long as he could remember.
A few villagers not yet in their homes bustled down the street, their dark cloaks billowing out behind them.
He lit the end of the long iron pole he held in his right hand and lifted it to the lamp secured on a black pole above his head. He waited patiently till the wick caught the flame and burned brightly. He lowered the pole and leaned his face close to it, catching a flicker of warmth before blowing it out again.
That face had seen it all: life and death, riches and poverty, war and peace, love and hatred. Each care and sorrow drew another line across the man's face.
Each night as darkness sealed the town he came out and walked down the streets, job in hand.
That lantern and pole lit the way for many men and boys hurrying home, closing shops, finishing another day's work as an apprentice.
The aged man was a known sight, most people hardly gave him a glance, but without him the streets would be dark and the way would be lost.
The pole was lifted to the sky again, brightening a portion of it before the insides of the lantern burst with light and the small flame was lowered and snuffed out.
He moved slowly down the cobblestone street, wet with a light drizzle that was falling from the sky, lessening the sting of the sharp November wind. He stopped under one of corner lanterns and raised the pole in time for the sting of the wind to blow it out. Patiently, he re-lit it and sent the corner flooding with light.
His frame bent from eighty years of life un-locked the door to his empty house. He tucked away the pole and set the lantern on the table where they would rest till the sun peeked over the roof tops and it was time to turn the lamps out.

Thoughts for Thursday

"Think how boring life would be if everything always went the way we planned it. Believe me, I've learned that sometimes the best answers to prayer are the ones God doesn't answer...Think about how often we change our minds. If God gave us everything we asked for, we'd be in chaos."

~Robin Jones Gunn, Surprise Endings

His Workmanship

For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.

Ephesians 2:10

His workmanship, a new creation, peculiar treasures; the Bible is full of different terms to describe God's people. My personal favorite is "his workmanship" because it is yet another reminder that we are made just the right way, even if we don't think so.

Just like a piece of artwork hanging in a museum, not every person who looks at it will see the same thing, some may not like it at all, some might like parts of it, others say that they would do somethings differently, and still others say it's not art. All but the artist that is, to him it's perfect and finished.

We were created by God, He made us the way we are on purpose. The things we wish we didn't have or didn't have to worry about may be irritating now, but later we'll realize why they're there. My favorite example of this is Amy Carmichael. When she was little she wanted to have blue eyes like her mother's instead of her brown ones. Each night she prayed to have blue eyes but on waking up every morning they were still brown. Then when she became a missionary to India and stained her skin with coffee to blend in with the nativities, her brown eyes came in handy.

God knew and made all the situations we are in and the insecurities that we feel a gazillion years ago. If He knew thousand years ago what would happen to us and the results of that situation shouldn't we be willing to let Him take care of everything?

We are like that painting I mentioned earlier: hanging in God's museum, the World, surrounded with more of His masterpiece, all bearing the signature "God."

Thoughts for Thursday

"Ever and always the teacher, Jesus used even this struggle with the enemy in the garden the night before the cross to teach the disciples and every future believer another lesson in godliness, a lesson about facing temptation and severe trial. The Lord not only was preparing Himself for the cross but also, by His example, preparing His followers for the crosses He calls them to bear in His name."

~John MacArthur, The MacArthur New Testament Commentary

Thoughts for Thursday

"If I had my own way, this war would never have been commenced. If I had been allowed my way, this war would have ended before this. But we find it still continues; and we must believe that He permits it for some wise purpose of His own, mysterious and unknown to us; and though with our limited understandings we may not be able to comprehend it, yet we cannot but believe, that He who made the world still governs it."

~Abraham Lincoln, October 1862

Abandoned

Wooden structures lie along the dusty street. Houses lie on one side and stores and work buildings line the other. One house still has furniture in it, set up just as if the family still lived there. The saloon doors swing on their hinges in the breeze. The horses of the mounted officers prance uncomfortably as their riders stare. The storage tower looms in front of them. One of the officers opens the creaking door of a building with a sign that says, "Peltier General Store" on top and peaks inside only to see empty selves and dust collecting on the locked cash box; his foot marks imprinted on the dusty floor. He closes the door and turns to face his companions. There's no doubt about it; this town has one word stamped across it. Abandoned.

What He's Taught Me

So this is just a--I don't know what you'd call it, story I guess--about what God has taught me lately while I was waiting for important information. I wrote it really quickly so there's probably some grammar errors and the ending does need some work. It's not 100% relevant to my situation, but I tried to make it kind of general. And if you have any title ideas that would be great, I'm kind of empty.

I stared into the empty box in disbelief, then looked up at my husband.
"That's all? That's all that's left?" I said, hoping against hope that it was untrue.
"That's all," he repeated.
The town clock began to chime and Lewis looked up to listen.
Five. Six. Seven.
Lewis grabbed his coat from off the chair, "Time for work."
He kissed me on the cheek and went out into the street.
I stood rigid by the table, staring blankly into the box.
One sovereign. That was all we had left--and he had taken it with him.
"Time for work," his words echoed in my ears. I scoffed. Time to look for work was more like it.
Ever since the duke had cancelled the construction project Lewis went out into the city to look for work. Some of the time he would pick up an odd job that lasted a few hours. I knew when that happened because he wouldn't come home for lunch.
We were one step away from the workhouse.


Seem interesting? Click here to read the whole story.

Thoughts for Thursday

"A plan of life?...I never heard of such a thing."
"Yet you would smile at an architect who, having a noble structure to build, should begin to work on it in a haphazard way, putting in a brick here and a stone there, weaving in straws and sticks if they come to hand, and when asked on what work he was engaged and what manner of building he intended to erect, should reply he had no plan but thought something would come of it."

~Elizabeth Prentiss, Stepping Heavenward

A Smile on Her Face

This story I wrote for my writing class last year. Some of you may have already read it, but it's one of my best. I actually won the Book Arts Bash's Short Story category with it. Enjoy!

“Annie, are your eyes bothering you?” I asked.
“I don’t know, a little. They sting a bit.”
“Put a cold cloth on them when we get home.”
As soon as we got home, that’s what she did, for as long as she could stand it. Annie can never sit idle for very long. She threw the cloth on the table and snatched up the music I was trying to play. “Playing that way would give anyone an headache. Slide over and I’ll show you how to play it.”
She sat down and played the first few measures, then paused and started over.
“Annie, you’re playing in the wrong key. Are you sure you can read it?” I asked.
“It is a bit fuzzy,” she admitted.
“You’re starting to scare me, Annie.”
She smiled, “I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
But she wasn’t. I told Father my concerns on the third day and he and Mother took Annie to see Dr. Moss the day after.
Annie was going blind.

Seem interesting? Click here for the whole story.

Thoughts for Thursday

"I hope I'll have a history," cried Emily. "I want a thrilling career."
"We all do, foolish one. Do you know what makes history? Pain--and shame--and rebellion--and bloodshed and heartache. [Emily], ask yourself how many hearts ached--and broke--to make those crimson and purple pages in history that you find so enthralling. I told you the story of Leonidas and his Spartans the other day. They had mothers, sisters, and sweethearts. If they could have fought a bloodless battle at the polls wouldn't it have been better if not so dramatic...And, like all female creatures, you form your opinions by your feelings. Well, hope for your thrilling career--but remember that if there is to be a drama in your life somebody must pay the piper in the coin of suffering. If not you--them someone else."

~LM Montgomery, Emily of New Moon

The Noon Hour

Children's shouts echo as a dozen or so run down the street, some with hoops and sticks, two girls with a game of Graces split between them in their hands. Women bustle in and out of shops, passing each other with bits of gossip. An apprentice steps out of the mercantile with a broom in his hand and waves as the children race by. Heavy thuds sound as a young man throws bundles of paper into a waiting wagon and then waves it on. A shout arises from the wagon's driver as the children scamper in front of it, crossing over to the town greene. Horses shod hoofs clop down the cobbled street, the red coated riders looking regal as they pass by. Men and a few women cry out their wares, "Fish! Fresh produce!" The bell in Independence Hall rings out the noon hour and the delegates come streaming out, leaving their heated argument behind. The game of Graces begins, lunch long forgotten.

Thoughts for Thursday

“Imagine yourself a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace.”

~CS Lewis, Mere Christianity

Remembrance

This is a descriptive narrative I wrote in January. It is one of my favorites and it is a tear jerker. I came up with the idea from the title word actually. I like the word and by pondering on it this idea kind of evolved. Enjoy!

The young lady knelt before the locked trunk in the dusty, old attic of the white house with blue shutters that she had played in so long ago.
She slipped the key out of her pocket and unlocked the trunk. She opened the lid and let it fall back with a thud. She stared into it and lifted out the top item—a pair of baby boots. The lady smiled and put them on her fingers.
She laid the boots aside and turned back to the trunk. There were two matching christening gowns and a bunch of child's drawings tied with a piece of string. The lady stared fondly at the top drawing, remembering the proud look on the face that received it many years ago.
She laid them down to her left, intending to come back to them.
There was an old primer, with the binding falling off and an old composition book that the young lady snatched up.
Inside were pages of handwriting practice, spelling lists, and towards the end a few verses adorned with drawn leaves, and little illustrations in the margins.
She laid it aside and picked up a packet of letters tied with a green ribbon. “Love letters” the lady whispered, with a touch of amazement in her voice.
Not wishing to pry but still curious she put the letters on top of the drawings.
There were news clippings, but only one held her interest.
“Mr. Joseph Byrd engaged to Miss Ada DuPont, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William DuPont. Wedding to be held in the Spring.”
She shook her head. What was the significance of a wedding announcement? It was the wedding that holds the significance. But as she began to slip it into her pocket, her fingers caught in between the small pages. There was her wedding picture attached to the back.
There was a small doll and the young lady gasped. “That's where that went to,” she whispered.
She held it in her hand and smoothed out the worn dress. The doll was wearing one of her Christmas dresses, the one the lady had never put on her, on account of it being too “old fashioned.” Now she regretted her words. The dress had been given to her out of love and the hope of striking her fancy.
She remembered the day she finished the doll. Her mother had been right, she had enjoyed sewing a “real thing” instead of a sampler. She detested sitting and embroidering fire screens as her in-laws expected her to do. Dolls, dresses, and upholstery were much more fun.
The young lady laid the doll on top of the letters and drawings, and turned back to the items in the trunk.
There was a tattered hymnal with her grandmother's name on the front . She lifted the cover and it fell open to the hymn that she had heard sung almost every day she spent in the rambling white house. The one her mother sang to her every night, till she was begged to stop. “I'm too old for that now, Mama,” she had said.
The young lady unconsciously began to hum the tune as she closed the hymnal and set it down. She looked back into the trunk and saw a knotted and twisted piece of blue crocheting and the lady stopped humming in surprise. It was her first attempt at crocheting and which she had proudly presented. Later on, she thought it was ugly—compared to her newest piece and had wanted to throw it out but couldn't find it. Seeing it lying there brought on a new meaning and she wrapped it around the doll.
Then she caught sight of a red photograph album with “1893” engraved on the cover in gold thread.
The young lady picked it up. “1893?” she whispered questioningly and opened the album. Then she remembered. “Our last family vacation—before I went on my way.”
She looked through the pages, smiling at the people and faces in the photographs. Even though it took a few seconds to take the pictures the people had as pleasant a face as they could get. Except for herself; though it wasn't stern, it smiling like those standing beside her.
Tears glistened in her eyes. Deep down she had enjoyed the time spent with all her relatives, though she wouldn't admit it till now. But there was no one to admit it too that would truly understand.
She finished looking through the album and picked up the next volume in the trunk, assuming it was another of the same. It was her childhood Bible. The book with the illustrations she had poured over as a girl and avoided whenever possible when she was older.
The young lady's tears began to flow down her cheeks as she opened the book. As she read some lines she heard the voice that had read them to her ring in her ears. The voice that was now silenced forever; the one that read, “David went to the stream and picked out five flat, shiny stones” and the one that called after her when she ran out of the room “Ada, dear, come back!” The one she had helped silence.
The young lady couldn't hold it back anymore and she moved away from the trunk and stood in front of the window to compose herself.
She looked out on to the lawn where she ran about as a girl, munching cookies, drawing pictures, and picnicking with the servants.
The item she had originally come up for lay exposed at the bottom of the trunk, but held seldom interest for her now.
She turned back to the trunk and stared at the wedding dress laying at the bottom. How she remembered being a little girl examining every inch of the dress with her eyes, for she was not allowed to touch it. How many times had she said she would wear it at her wedding and when the time came, she hadn't even thought of her mother's dress tucked away in the trunk. Oh, how much fancy things had held her attention when she was little and how now surrounded by them she found little joy in them.
Her mother had saved everything, down to her first sketches. How much pride her mother had taken in her work, as much as if her mother had made it her self. How much pain she must have caused her when she went her own way and was glad to do it.
The young lady picked up the photograph album and the hymnal and placed them back in the trunk.
A little girl the image of the young lady came up the steps and walked over to her.
The young lady looked up. “I'm almost done,” she said, not wishing to break the spell of the tender memories lovingly placed inside the old steamer trunk.
She put the last few things in the trunk, closed and locked it.
She gathered the Bible, the drawings, the letters, the piece of crocheting, and the doll into her arms and took her daughter's hand.
Determined not to forget the moments if front of her mother's remembrance trunk, she walked down the attic steps.

Welcome!

Welcome everyone,

Thanks for taking time to read. I am planning to post short stories and other little things I write, mainly to get them out there and to get more feedback on them.

I hope you enjoy them and please let me know what you honestly think of them, and any improvements you can think of or anything that was unclear.
Hope you enjoy them!
~Ruth