Bridget's Fame, March week three entry
this is an eleventh-hour idea; I haven't had time to fully develop it, or, well, even run a spell check. Horrifying errors of grammer may be contained herin ;-D
( The Night Horses )
( The Night Horses )
this is an eleventh-hour idea; I haven't had time to fully develop it, or, well, even run a spell check. Horrifying errors of grammer may be contained herin ;-D
[Have you ever heard the phrase “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission?” Apply it to author’s notes if nothing else. If you’re going to speak to us before you tell us you story, make sure you’re saying something that makes us eager rather than at best sympathetic at worst apathetic. That said, I’m going to focus more on style and content than grammar.]
It was a bright night; the moon lit her room with its [I’d suggest ‘a’ rather than ‘its’ because ‘its’ implies that ‘bluish’ is its standard color when its color typically varies depending on which moonie you ask.] bluish light.
She listened, but there was no sound of anyone else awake. The house was as silent as, well as a house would be with everyone inside it sleeping. Her lungs felt clear, as clear as they ever were these days, and her breathing was easy. By all accounts, she should be fast asleep, yet here she lay, awake. [This kind of tone is something that would have to be interjected regularly throughout the piece to work.]
The moon hung like a great [cold lantern=nice] above the treeline, and the stars spread across the sky like sugar spilled on a [what kind of?] table; the town was awash in the same bright light as her room.
Her cough chose this moment to return[,] with compounded fierceness. Tess was doubled over[ ]her drawn-up knees with the force of it[;]->[.] when it was finally over, she wiped her mouth and was not surprised to see that she had brought up blood.
Morning brought another coughing fit[,] and more blood. Tess lay in her bed, watching the lace curtains blowing in the breeze and thinking about the herd of horses she had seen last night. Morning also brought Hattie, Tess’s maid[,] and nurse. Tess hid her handkerchief under the pillow; she was to[o] tired to face the uproar it would cause.
“Good morning, Miss,” Hattie was the only servant in the house with only one duty: to look after Tess, and keep her comfortable and presentable.[Not a bad technique to intertwine the description of the character with a description of their tone.]
“Good morning, Hattie.” Speaking was such an effort these days, but then everything had become effortful[=awkward]. “Did you hear the horses last night?”
Tess stayed awake that night[,] to see if the horses would return. She sat by the window, looking at the stars, and the moon, wondering at how different the ugly arid landscape looked at night[nice reflection to consider].
There was nothing he could do,[;] the Laudanum was necessary to keep Tess comfortable, and the hallucinations were harmless.
There were only about five of them left, but they still shook the house with their passing.[Btw, at this point, I’m fairly interested to see where this is going.]
Maybe it did; maybe her illness was holding everyone in its grip, and they would not be able to move on with their lives until hers was over. [Simple, but very real insight. Nice.]
She was making her [laborious-too wordy] way to the gate when the night horse thundered up. It was a great white beast, ghostly in the darkness of the new moon. It stopped and regarded Tess over the gate, its flanks steaming, its nostrils flaring, its eyes [like] liquid fire.
The next morning, Dr. Hannigan was summoned a final time. There truly wasn’t anything he could do this time. The mourning wreath went up on the door shortly after he left, and the windows were draped in black. Inside the house, rather than the typical hush and static of tragedy, were the sounds of waking. [Nice ending. This is rough, but worth some more blood.]
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