I guess I never got back to posting snippets of my story. If you want to sample my writing and read my novel Once Again, you will need to join storywrite. That way you can read and make comments on each chapter. Just type in storywrite.com sign up and then search for the author MeKaBa. Please do so, I would like comments on my story!!!
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Monday, June 14, 2010
School's OUT!
Well the kids will be home very soon from their half day of school. I have wasted my morning doing nothing. I do have a full list of things to do such as pay bills exercise and go shopping for carpet and curtains. Some of those sound fun others not so much.
So here is a sample story I wrote, tell me what you think of it.- The poem is not mine it is an old folksong which inspired the story. (See song above)
BLACK IS THE COLOR
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She’s the sweetest face and the gentlest hands.
I love the ground whereon she stands
Aislinn had never been aware of her beauty, being too poor to own a mirror. Yet judging by her mum’s looks she assumed that she was plain, yet lovely. Her mother had bright red hair and a smattering of freckles- looking like half the women in the village. Her father had dark black hair which curled on the ends. Aislinn got her looks from him; including pale skin and rich brown eyes.
Brand had been the village prankster, ever getting into others’ things. He was great at taunts and coming up with little ditties. He was now seventeen, one year older than Aislinn. He stopped being a nuisance at sixteen, when he chanced upon Aislinn at the creek, that summer when she turned fifteen.
“Oh look Aislinn,” Muriel called mockingly, “Brand has come to get a soaking!”
Muriel went to splash him and slipped, with a scream she fell in. After all of the commotion it was determined she had broken her ankle. Together Brand and Aislinn helped her to Doctor Boyd’s home.
Aislinn knew that all the boys eyed, Muriel with her golden hair, all sleek and shining like the sun. She nearly wished it had been she who had slipped. Then it would be her he was holding onto so tight.
He had ever been a friend and now he looked at Aislinn seriously.
“This doesn’t look good. Sorry, it had to happen. I came down to let you both know, I will be leaving at the end of the week.”
Aislinn's and Brand's eyes locked but for a brief moment, yet it seemed an eternity of emotion passed between them.
***
Muriel was nearly as heart broken as the rest of the girls in town. But Aislinn knew; none came close to her pain. Life without Brand was unfathomable. His crooked smile and straight white teeth filled her thoughts as she prepared for bed that night.
“Yer a bit mousy tonight, Lass.” Da said by way of a question.
She made a moue. Shrugging her shoulders she replied, “Brand says he is going off to Glasgow to help his Uncles in a battle they are expecting soon.” The tears slipped down her fair cheek, unbidden.
Her bear of a father gathered her in a hug, “There, there me sweetling. Tis not the time fer cryin’. Since when did ye have a care for Brand at all?”
She hushed herself and smiled her own crooked smile, “Since I heard he was leaving?”
Da chuckled, sounding his deep infectious laugh and boomed, “Well ne’er mind it now. Off to bed with ye!”
Only she did mind. She found occasion to run into him daily. On the Friday before he left, they met once again at the creek, none else were there. The water rushed coolly on, unaware of the passion they felt.
Shyly she blushed, she felt her face heating as he asked, “Aislinn, may I write to you?”
Meekly she nodded, before allowing more tears to escape. Brand felt like crying as well, though she never saw, sweetly he held her until her sobs subsided. His lips caressed her brow. She lifted her face to his and stroked his face with her hands. Their kiss awakened a desire that of necessity was put on hold.
A year and a day later this poem arrived in a letter:
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands
I love my love and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes
I wish the day it soon will come
That she and I can be as one
I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep
But satisfied I ne'er can be
I'll write her a letter, just a few short lines
And suffer death a thousand times
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands
So here is a sample story I wrote, tell me what you think of it.- The poem is not mine it is an old folksong which inspired the story. (See song above)
BLACK IS THE COLOR
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She’s the sweetest face and the gentlest hands.
I love the ground whereon she stands
Aislinn had never been aware of her beauty, being too poor to own a mirror. Yet judging by her mum’s looks she assumed that she was plain, yet lovely. Her mother had bright red hair and a smattering of freckles- looking like half the women in the village. Her father had dark black hair which curled on the ends. Aislinn got her looks from him; including pale skin and rich brown eyes.
Brand had been the village prankster, ever getting into others’ things. He was great at taunts and coming up with little ditties. He was now seventeen, one year older than Aislinn. He stopped being a nuisance at sixteen, when he chanced upon Aislinn at the creek, that summer when she turned fifteen.
“Oh look Aislinn,” Muriel called mockingly, “Brand has come to get a soaking!”
Muriel went to splash him and slipped, with a scream she fell in. After all of the commotion it was determined she had broken her ankle. Together Brand and Aislinn helped her to Doctor Boyd’s home.
Aislinn knew that all the boys eyed, Muriel with her golden hair, all sleek and shining like the sun. She nearly wished it had been she who had slipped. Then it would be her he was holding onto so tight.
He had ever been a friend and now he looked at Aislinn seriously.
“This doesn’t look good. Sorry, it had to happen. I came down to let you both know, I will be leaving at the end of the week.”
Aislinn's and Brand's eyes locked but for a brief moment, yet it seemed an eternity of emotion passed between them.
***
Muriel was nearly as heart broken as the rest of the girls in town. But Aislinn knew; none came close to her pain. Life without Brand was unfathomable. His crooked smile and straight white teeth filled her thoughts as she prepared for bed that night.
“Yer a bit mousy tonight, Lass.” Da said by way of a question.
She made a moue. Shrugging her shoulders she replied, “Brand says he is going off to Glasgow to help his Uncles in a battle they are expecting soon.” The tears slipped down her fair cheek, unbidden.
Her bear of a father gathered her in a hug, “There, there me sweetling. Tis not the time fer cryin’. Since when did ye have a care for Brand at all?”
She hushed herself and smiled her own crooked smile, “Since I heard he was leaving?”
Da chuckled, sounding his deep infectious laugh and boomed, “Well ne’er mind it now. Off to bed with ye!”
Only she did mind. She found occasion to run into him daily. On the Friday before he left, they met once again at the creek, none else were there. The water rushed coolly on, unaware of the passion they felt.
Shyly she blushed, she felt her face heating as he asked, “Aislinn, may I write to you?”
Meekly she nodded, before allowing more tears to escape. Brand felt like crying as well, though she never saw, sweetly he held her until her sobs subsided. His lips caressed her brow. She lifted her face to his and stroked his face with her hands. Their kiss awakened a desire that of necessity was put on hold.
A year and a day later this poem arrived in a letter:
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands
I love my love and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes
I wish the day it soon will come
That she and I can be as one
I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep
But satisfied I ne'er can be
I'll write her a letter, just a few short lines
And suffer death a thousand times
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands
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