Sorry for my recent break, I have been on holiday and very busy lately. I also have a piano exam coming up in a couple of weeks. Foolishly, I decided to take part in NaNoWriMo, which is ridiculous for three main reasons:
- I can't write novels.
- I don't have the time to write a novel.
- I don't have the inspiration to write a novel.
Chapter 1
Rosanna watched the waves wash over the sandy shores of the
beach. Seawater buried the dunes in swirls of foam, then ran away again,
returning to the safety of the deep blue depths. She wriggled her toes in the
sand one last time before putting her shoes back on, leaning against a lamppost
so she didn’t fall over. It was late evening, and the last rays of sunlight and
pink tinted clouds were being lost to the darkness.
She trudged up the steps, out into the clamouring, cobbled
street once again. Market stalls selling vibrantly coloured fruits and
vegetables, aromatic herbs, spices, and fine cloths were scattered around the
statue in the centre of the square. It was a depiction of some wartime military
officer, standing tall and proud with a rifle slung over his shoulder and
striped medals hanging from his lapel. A few stray cats ambled around,
searching for food dropped by restaurant patrons. Rosanna carried on across the
square and through the archway at the other side. Her bag was heavy, and she
wanted to get home before it got dark. Hauling her load down the streets of
Lisbon she finally stopped in front of a house and dropped her bag down on the
front step. My goodness that weighed a tonne! The house was white with a red
tiled roof and green clapboard shutters, the colour of spring leaves. The
window panes were painted navy blue, with lilac and deep purple flowers
artfully painted creeping up the walls. She knocked on the door. A gruff voice
shouted from inside “I’m coming!” Eventually there was the sound of the bolt
being pulled back and creaking hinges as the door opened. An old man stood
before her, with fine silvery hair and a stubbly beard. He had striking blue
eyes, that were crisp like ice water and wrinkled with age. On his person was a
white shirt tucked into some jeans that looked as if they have seen better
days. “I must remember to oil that door!” Mateus exclaimed.
“How are you Papa?” asked Rosanna.
“I’m doing fine Rosa, come in before the cold kills me,”
said Mateus kindly.
Rosanna stepped into the house, dropping her bag with a jerk
of her arm onto the floor. “I got what you wanted Papa,” she said, turning to
face him.
“Thank you dear, come into the kitchen, Isabel has almost
finished dinner,” he replied. Indeed the scent of lemon and thyme wafted down
the hallway, enticing Rosanna’s empty stomach, which grumbled hungrily. Taking
care to push the bag into a cabinet cupboard so that Isabel wouldn’t see it,
she made her way down the hall to the kitchen at the end. It was homely, with
yellow walls and wooden counters along one wall. A table and four chairs sat in
the centre of the room, scattered with papers, mail and things that were
casually left there and never tidied away. Pots and pans, boxes of herbs,
spices and kitchen utensils covered the work surfaces. In the middle of it all
was Isabel, the housekeeper. She was a middle-aged woman with a kindly face and
big bosom. Her mousy coloured hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and she
wore a striped apron over her sky blue tunic and trousers. “Hello Isabel,” said
Rosanna.
“How are you doing dear?” asked Isabel sweetly.
“I’m good thank you,” Rosanna replied.
“Sit down darling, dinner’s almost ready,” Isabel said.
Rosanna sat in her regular seat on the side of the table. Mateus
shoved all the papers to one side, then joined her, sitting at the head of the
table. They ate quietly, occasionally making polite conversations. Everyone was
hungry, and they never spoke very much at dinner anyway. When they were
finished, Mateus excused himself, wished everyone goodnight and retired to his
bedroom. Rosanna helped Isabel clear the table, washed the dishes and then
retired herself. She noticed as she walked along the hallway that the bag she
had put in the cabinet was gone.
End of Chapter
It's not exactly a masterpiece but writing isn't one of my skills. As I mentioned earlier. Good luck to all of you doing NaNoWriMo this year. I hope you are doing better than I am.
Au revoir,
Emile x
No comments:
Post a Comment