I'm going to take a risk here and put my story up. No copying because that'll only make you less worthy of the material being presented here. Plus, I'm having it copyrighted. I would like feedback though. At least three comments would be nice so I can edit and improve. This is the first couple of pages of my story.
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(Title Pending)
I know I have not been consistent in my entries, but times have been hard these past few weeks. Father has been gravely ill and I can’t bear to leave his side, not even for a moment. Mother was kind enough to fetch this journal for me.
Brenna drew a great breath and exhaled slowly. Dipping her quill into the inkwell, she continued to write.
The doctor’s are saying that he won’t live out the week, so I’m making every minute count with him before he leaves this world. The Crimson Rash is spreading all over him, and every imaginable method of slowing it has failed thus far. Mother is distressed but she hides it very well. She’s spent the last fifteen years with him as his wife and friend, and now he’ll no longer be by her side every night. I know she must be more deeply affected than me in our suffering.
She hesitated again and tears slowly filled her deep golden eyes.
Curse the Crimson Rash! Why does the Creator allow these illnesses to plague our world? I wish that Father had never come down with it. How are we to manage without his skillful hand? Well, a little time left with him is better than no time at all. He’s so fragile and his body is sensitive to the smallest changes in temperature.
Brenna laid the book down on her lap and gazed at the sick man in the bed next to her. She barely recognized him as the man she knew to be so clever and full of life just a month before. He appeared as a man deprived of food; his skin was pale and cold. The disease was spreading up his neck like little vines grasping to a wall. When she couldn’t bear to watch it any longer, Brenna closed her eyes and reminisced about their lives before the Rash.
Father was a sculptor, so he would spend most of his time in his workshop, carving and molding his next masterpiece; but when he had finished for the day, she and mother would join him with dinner. After they finished, they read from a large book about the Creator and His handiwork; but Brenna would usually skip to the parts about the ancient dragons and their service to the Creator. She would read it over and over again until her eyes became heavy and beset with sleep. Her father would carry her up to her room, where he would lie her down and let her dream of the old tales. Now Brenna would have to accept the inevitable; her father would no longer ask her what she had dreamt about, or read her stories, or be there to comfort her when she was afraid.
All these thoughts flooded Brenna’s mind, so she wept silently but intensely upon the foot of the bed. She gripped the blankets in fists of anger and sorrow, meaning to squeeze what life they had out of them. The room was dark because it was deep in the night. A little candle burned low on the nightstand and seemed to flicker every time the girl would breathe. A harvest moon shone brightly in the dark sky, sending soft beams of light through a lone window. The air was mild and rank with medicines and herbal salves. The only other sounds besides Brenna’s muffled cries were crickets singing and the wind moaning in an especially mournful way.
Creaking floorboards and a knock at the door announced the doctor’s entrance into the room. Brenna turned away from him and wiped her tears on a handkerchief that was already soaked. The portly doctor waddled his way over to the bed-ridden patient and put his experienced hand on the man’s forehead. He jotted down some observances then sighed deeply. Brenna noticed the change in his demeanor and looked at him with hopeful eyes.
“Go fetch your mother for me, lass,” he said sadly.
Brenna did as she was told, but she knew that the outcome of their conference would not be favorable.
“Mother,” she said as she found her in the workshop, “the doctor wishes to see you.” Her mother was sitting at the work table poring over a medicine book under the light of a single tall candlestick. She closed it slowly and almost angrily, and faced her daughter.
“My dear,” she sighed, “it’s probably best that you don’t go with me. Stay here, please.” Her mother rose from the table and walked out of the room. Brenna remained obediently, though still wondering what the two would discuss. In a way, she didn’t want to know. Time slowed until it finally seemed to stop, and she began to look for something to occupy herself with. Lighting a small candle from the flame of the one on the table, Brenna searched the room. There were many shelves lining the walls, each of them bearing something different. Some bore books on sculpting technique, and others held tiny clay miniatures of fantastic creatures. Still others held supplies and souvenirs from far off places, when her father would deliver his work to a client. Among these were extravagant cloths and clay which held special properties. Brenna continued to look around. There were carving knives hanging next to the window, and many sketches were strewn across the small drawing table underneath of it. A large wardrobe rested next to it. Brenna recalled that her father stored his aprons and most important belongings within it, so she went and opened it to see if there was anything inside that would keep her mind off of the sadness that crept though the house.
The creaky doors opened more smoothly than their appearance let on. Brenna set the candle onto a nearby chair and kneeled down to open the drawers. They, too, slid open with ease, and by the dim light she began to shuffle though the random trinkets she found. There were four drawers, and three of them were full of her father’s odds and ends. There were socks, tools, clothes, and trinkets made of valuable metal, but none of them interested Brenna. She closed the third drawer and moved on to open the fourth. She was about to pull the handle, but then she noticed that it was the only drawer with a lock. When she tugged on it, it wouldn’t budge.
Why would this one be locked? thought Brenna. Curiosity began to nibble at her mind. Where would Father put the key? She stood up and scanned the room from top to bottom. She looked behind sculptures. She got down on her hands and knees and searched for loose floorboards. She went up against the walls with a hammer, tapping certain places to find a hollow place, but there was none. She looked in every imaginable spot where she thought her father may have hidden it, but to no avail. Frustrated, she sat on the floor and pensively tried to recall if she had ever seen her father use that drawer. A shocking thought suddenly sprung up in her mind. She had never seen that drawer being opened. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy from her lack of sleep so she gave them repose.
In her search for the key, Brenna hadn’t noticed how much time had passed. Her little candle melted, spreading solid wax onto the oaken chair she had placed it on earlier. She had fallen asleep at the drawing table after her failed quest. The dawn was approaching silently, and though it dared not wake the girl, it warmed her with the sun’s fresh morning rays. Several little squeaks awoke her slowly, her eyelids refusing to rise. When she tried to go back to sleep though, the squeaks became louder until she became so vexed that she forced herself to wake up. She wearily looked around the room, searching for the source of her unwelcome wake up call, but the moment she was awake, the squeaking had stopped. Everything appeared the same, and she didn’t see any mice scurrying about. Her eyes came to rest on the wardrobe again, but she was too tired to try looking for the key a second time. As she started to look away from the cause of her weariness, an old book resting on top of it caught her eye.
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