Tag: creative writing

642 things to write about – A woman thinks she might be living next to her grandson

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From 642 things to write about – A woman thinks she is living next door to her grandson.

He was playing outside again. His features were so familiar, she almost expected that he had jumped out of a family photo. The bright blue eyes and fair, curly hair. Family traits that had been passed onto all three of her children. The one he was most like was her youngest. The daughter she hadn’t seen for so long it was an effort of mathematics to remember the number of years. She watched him through her net curtain. He was so full of energy; darting here and there, never completely still. She’d been like that too, such a live wire. 

It was impossible. That was what she had to keep running through her mind. She knew the couple next door and there was no possible link. They’d moved in with the boy when he’d been six months old. It hadn’t been so obvious then. Just another baby. But now, it was heartbreaking. He turned and was momentarily facing her. He grinned, holding up something in his hand so his mother could see it. He was so much the image of her daughter that she almost ran out and snatched him up. Then he turned away and she made herself repeat again the impossibility of it all.

Perhaps it was just a product of her own longing. She saw her other children and the ones they had produced but the one she really wanted to see would never be coming back. And she knew whose fault that was. She watched as the boy trotted into his house, trying to keep a hold on herself. Why was she so intent on this form of torture? Everyday she came to the window to remind herself how impossible it all was. She couldn’t rest until she had seen the boy and reminded herself that he was nothing to do with her. Her mind would not let go until she was utterly destroyed.

642 things to write about – Write an alphabetical story.

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Writing Prompt – Write a story in which each sentence will start with a different letter of the alphabet e.g. start with A, move on to B and so on.

This was quite good fun. And I know I didn’t get all the way through but I couldn’t think of an X word. If you can come up with a sentence starting with X, please let me know.

At this time in the morning, the sky was still dark. Bryan got up anyway. Carefully, he slid out of the covers. Downstairs others were starting to stir. Excitement started to touch him. Fairly soon, he’d be getting his fill. Grabbing a towel and tying it around his waist, he headed for the communal showers.

Hot water stabbed at his shoulders. In no time at all, he was clean and properly awake. Just as quickly, he toweled himself down. Knocking his knee on the sink, he cursed his haste. Likelihood of bruising, high. Muttering to himself, he hurried back to his bedroom.

Now, he was fully dressed. Opening his door, he saw others heading in the same direction. Perhaps he should have hurried even more. Quickly, he tried to get ahead, to be one of the first. Rationally, he knew that there would be enough for all but his growling belly pushed him on.

Still he couldn’t get to the front of the queue. Too many to push out of the way. Unless someone fainted, he’d be stuck where he was. Very soon, he thought, it’ll be me who faints. What would happen then?

642 things to write about – Write two very different love letters

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You are a thirteen year old. Write a love letter to your boyfriend.

OMG, you are so beautiful. Your blond hair is all gold like the sun. Your eyes are blue like the sky. When you smile, my heart flutters round like a butterfly. The other day, when you waited for me outside chemistry for you and I saw you there, all handsome and tall, I thought I was having a heart attack, it was pounding so hard. I was tempted to faint. Jen. Lisa and Caro were so jealous. LOL. If I had died right there, it would have been perfect. 

Yesterday, when you held my hand for the first time, I was in heaven. All I can think about, all the time, is when you kiss me for the first time. I am literally dying for that to happen. I hope it will be tomorrow when we go to the pictures but it doesn’t matter how long it takes because I love you forever. 

You are twenty one years old. Write a letter to your girlfriend.

I’m not sure I should write this down. Is this stupid? Perhaps it will scare you away. Don’t get me wrong, I do like you. I like you a lot. But words on a page are very definite, aren’t they? They can’t be unwritten. Does it seem a bit full on?

I would like to have a future with you. I can see it sometimes, like in the morning when I wake up and you are still sleeping. I know then that I wouldn’t be sorry if this was forever. You look so content and peaceful. There is a calmness in my life now and I know that I like that very much. That’s not too scary, is it? You feel it too, don’t you? God, I hope so.  

An Excellent Gift for a Writer – 642 things to write about.

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My favourite gift this year was a book called 642 Things to Write About which is full of writing prompts. I could barely wait for guests to leave before I started to write in it.

As I am always looking for things to write in this blog, I shall share what I write. I’m not going to promise to do it everyday as once I am back at work, that will be impossible but I will try to do it regularly.

Here is the first one:

Write a scene that begins “It was the first time I killed a man.”

It was the first time I had killed a man. But not the last.

It didn’t feel as bad as I might have supposed. The distance was the thing. It was the bullet rather than the knife so I didn’t have to witness it eye to eye, as it were. There was no hot blood oozing over my hands. I saw his body drop though, all heavy like lead. Straight for the floor. Like a giant hand had cut all his strings. The wound was to the head so death was probably instant. If not, it would surely have been quick.

Of course, he was one of the bad guys. That was what the Government said. So his death didn’t really trouble me. No more than shooting a rat might have. Vermin. Better off dead. And of more use. 

Now that the Fuel Wars are over and the Government has retained supreme control, it is hard for the young ones to imagine what it was like. The fear we had then was all-consuming. And then there was the cold. That sneaks up sometimes. I’ll wake in the morning and the toes are outside the quilt and they are like ice and I get transported back there. To huddling together with all the people in your building. To having nothing to sit on, nothing to read, nothing at all because it had all been burned. And the thought, what would happen when everything had been burned. 

That had been my reason for going to fight for the Government rather than the rebels. The Government gave you a thermal uniform. You got gloves, socks and regular meals. All the rebels could give you was a sense of moral superiority and that does not really keep you warm. 

I admit I don’t think often of those who died, whether by my hand or one of my fellow soldiers. I think, instead, of how warm it is now. 

 

Day 7 – What is your favorite season? Use vivid details and even include memories you have of that season.

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Day 7 of Chrys Fey’s 30 Day Writing Challenge –  What is your favourite season? Use vivid details and even include memories you have of that season.

The colours of autumn are the last gasp of the trees before the death of winter. The reds, browns and yellows are beautiful in a way that the greens of spring just aren’t. The green’s beauty is understandable. It represents birth, renewal, the continuance of life. It shows off the life of the tree. By contrast, the reds and browns are representative of the nearing of the end. There is no need for such beauty. Looking at the glory of colours, the riot for the eyes, you would not necessarily believe that the next step for the leaf will be to crunch under someone’s foot.

The best autumn weather is the low sun, the blue sky and the cool dry day. The blue is not the deep blue of a summer sky. It isn’t brazen and it doesn’t suggest heat. It’s a subtle, gentle blue. You know it will be cold but also crisp, also dry. A time for pulling on the layers. Gloved and scarved, you can keep your warmth while walking in the beautiful sunshine.

The definitive noise of autumn is the leaves under the feet. The last thing the leaves give us, after the glorious fire of their colours, is the wondrous crunch and crack when you run through them.

As my birthday is in November, Autumn is associated with a sense of heightened excitement. As a child, the excitement would start in October and not really lessen until Christmas. I still feel a sense of anticipation at the start of the season which gives the weather and the colours a sense of optimism that they wouldn’t otherwise. It is the start of the season of celebration. 

Chrys Fey’s Writing Challenge Day 5 – Write about a dream or nightmare that you’ve had.

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Write about a dream or nightmare that you’ve had. Turn it into a short-short story – Day 5 of Chrys Fey’s 30 Day writing challenge.

I have a recurring dream / nightmare when I’m at a new school (which as I am a supply teacher, happens quite often) and I can’t find the classroom I am supposed to be in. This story is based on that.

How did I end up here? Outside? I don’t remember a door. I’m sure I didn’t go through a door. Ahead of me is only green field. I don’t recognise the view. In my head, I have a vision of the room where I should be, paper flying, noise levels rising as the kids realise there is no teacher. 

As I turn around in panic, I see the school buildings. Running towards them, my heart is pounding. They don’t seem to get any closer. And I am going as fast as I can. My legs are starting to hurt. My breath is coming short and fast. Why won’t the buildings get any closer. 

Suddenly I am inside. Now where is the map they gave me? I begin to pat my pockets. Calmly at first then when it does not appear, frantically, going through pockets again and again. The corridors peel off in different directions. Pick a corridor, any corridor. I shoot off to the left. 

Science. Turn left again. Maths. Right this time. Art. Running again. I pass classrooms for every subject. Food Technology. Drama. R.S. Does this school even have an English department.

And then suddenly, I see it. At the end of this corridor. In large golden letters. The word I have been searching for. English. My classroom must be along here. I look at the doors, 12, 13, 14, yes, 15. This is the one. 

Inside and the class quieten down expectantly. I stare at them in silent alarm. It is then I realise that I have left the work for them to do in the staff room. 

 

30 day writing challenge – Day 4 Create a character off the top of your head and write a short history about him/her.

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Day 4 of http://writewithfey.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/chrys-feys-30-day-writing-challenge.html –  Create a character off the top of your head and write a short history about him/her. Looking at this, it is more like the opening scene including the character rather than a biography but here it is anyway.

Matt Murphy was assessing himself in the mirror. He was in a suit which was becoming less unusual but still seemed a little strange. He tugged briefly at his tie. it was his first proper day at Hilltop High  – yesterday had been teachers only – and he was trying to decide exactly which thing it was that the kids would find the most hilarious. He was tall – 6ft 1 – and extremely skinny so it could be that. Or his unruly hair. Or his tendency towards camp exaggeration. Or his broad scouse accent in the middle of South Yorkshire. Or…

He made himself stop. Probably it would be some, as yet, unrealised fault. He thought of the text that had just come and which had prompted the self-assessment. It was from Steph, a teacher already for some ten years. She had tried to talk him out of it. Do something better, she had said. He hadn’t listened. The text had said Good Luck in the lion’s den. Very fucking funny. 

He was thirty three years old. Too old to be starting a career. Not even a new career. The first one. Unless working in a pub counted as a career which he doubted. Maybe that would work in his favour. The fact that he looked older, was starting to go a little grey.

It had been a long road to here. If he failed at this, there was little chance of starting all over again. He wasn’t going to fail though, was he? He realised it would be difficult at first but he imagined that by the end of the term he’d be winning. If he could imagine it, it could happen. That was how it went, wasn’t it?

He didn’t particularly want to remember his own teenage years. He had left home before he was sixteen due to issues with his stepfather. School hadn’t been the easiest of places either. He had just stopped going. GCSEs seemed a minor thing to sacrifice when you were fighting for your life every day. The rest of that year had been spent on whichever floor would have him. He’d got a job at a bar and worked every shift he could. Eventually he had saved enough to get a flat. Then it had been night-school: GCSEs, A-Levels. Working every single second. He hadn’t imagined being a teacher. Just that he wouldn’t always be working in a bar, pulling pints for idiots. No way. 

That was when he had come to Sheffield. University had to be part-time so he could also work. English Literature. Not useful but enjoyable.Then an MA. Then teacher training. All the way up to this present moment.

He wanted it to be over. The first moment. It was like being at the bottom of a steep hill. he couldn’t see what the summit was like from this angle. He needed to be starting to climb. He picked up his briefcase and made for the door. He promptly fell over the corner of the bed. Silently he cursed his clumsiness. That was another possible source of amusement. 

“You look fine. You’ll be fine.” Matt turned towards the bed, towards the voice. He smiled. Mikey had never suffered a moment of nerves in his life. Matt supposed if he looked like that, he wouldn’t be nervous either. He was full of confidence on Matt’s behalf. He had no doubt that Matt would be fine. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” In fact, it had been his intention to sneak out quietly. He didn’t want to give Mikey the chance to make a fuss. He was nervous enough already. He didn’t think he could take any of Mikey’s pep-talks at this time in the morning. “I have to go.” He added, hurriedly giving Mikey a kiss on the cheek and then darting out of the door. Miraculously he didn’t collide with any more of the furniture.  

Chris Fey’s 30 day writing challenge Day 3 – if you could go on vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go.

On By kepagewriterIn 30 Day Writing Challenge, My Writing2 Comments

Day three of Chrys Fey’s 30 day writing challenge. This wasn’t an easy challenge for me. My writing tends to be quite internal- relating to thoughts and feelings – rather than description of external things. Even when I write third person, it tends to be from a character’s viewpoint so I don’t often write straight description but here goes….
I picked somewhere cold because the heat doesn’t really attract me. Even though the description isn’t particularly pleasant, I would really like to visit somewhere really cold.

The air was sharp, lethal almost. It managed to hurt, as if it were solid somehow. The effect on the body was instant. Eyes streaming and nostrils twitching, trying to retract. Ribs ached. If there were any fingers foolish enough not to ensconced in gloves, they were quickly attacked with vigour by the wind until they were red and numb, not to mention completely useless to their owner.
From the cliffs to the sea, there was a thick blanket of snow as yet untrodden. White so pure and clear that it hurt to look at it. Even with sunglasses, the glare was still painful. The light bounced back from the snow with a determination to blind. It was difficult to spot where the sea began from a distance.
The crunch of the snow under the first feet was the real start of winter. The innocence of the snow broken again by human feet. The foot slid through the deep snow so that it was more a foot hole than a foot print. The foot needed to be pulled out before the next one could be attempted. Progress to the water’s edge was slow. The trail of footprints stands out in the unblemished scene like a scar across the landscape. As if the snow was wounded.
At the water’s edge, the silence suddenly becomes apparent. If this was a summer’s day, there would be the waves lapping and the gulls shrieking but today, it is quiet. There is the occasional howl of wind and the odd creak as the ice stretches itself. Inhuman noises that suggested emptiness, cold, death even.

Day 2 – 30 day writing challenge – Pick a book at random and use the opening line

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Day 2 - from Chrys Fey's 30 day writing challenge. 
Open a book at random and pick a line. Use that line as the
beginning of your piece and continue writing from where it 
leaves off. Pen the first thoughts that come to mind and don’t
revise it.

(The opening line is from Life Before Man by Margaret Atwood.)

Her parents thought she was becoming too wrapped up in these 
things and tried to give her dancing lessons to make her more
sociable. 
More sociable? In what way would being in a room full of sweaty
girls make her more likely to speak to any of them. Probably some
sort of leotard would be required. She had no desire to have flesh
on display. The more flesh on display, the more tongue tied. That
was an obvious correlation.
She didn't really understand why they were so concerned. She would
speak to them if she thought it was worth it but it clearly wasn't.
None of them were as interesting as the people in the books she read. 
None of them came close to the people she could imagine. They must
exist somewhere other than in her head. Well, even if they didn't 
she liked creating a world where they did.

Chrys Fey’s 30 day Writing Challenge – Start a story with Once Upon a Time

On By kepagewriterIn 30 Day Writing Challenge, My Writing1 Comment

First off, before the story, an apology. As ever, life is hectic and when I posted that I was starting this challenge I really thought I’d be able to do it the next day. Due to circumstances beyond my control, it has taken over a week to get this to you. This is the first challenge of Chrys Fey’s 30 day writing challenge. Hopefully the next one will be quicker but on her website it does say that you don’t have to do one every day which, given my busy life, is just as well.

Start a story with Once Upon A Time. 

Once upon a time….

There was a princess called Lucinda that lived in a big castle. I know, that’s not unusual for princesses but she really didn’t like living there. It was dull and cold and too big. Sometimes she thought her entire family could leave and she wouldn’t even know. The worst thing about that was the fact that it wouldn’t surprise her if they did go. And it was likely they would leave her behind.

The castle had big towers that filled the princess with foreboding although she wasn’t sure why. She just knew that when she was on her way to princess school and she looked back; she shuddered involuntarily when she saw them. There was one at each corner, tall and proud with only the one window at the very top. She didn’t like them any better when she drove back from school and they seemed to stare down at her, one cold dark eye each. It made her skin cold all over.

The school wasn’t much better. It was grey and imposing with the same stark towers on the corners. Perhaps, she mused, they would be frightened into behaving as they were supposed to. It was true that no one seemed to step out of line so maybe it worked. They all trooped into the classroom and sat at their desks and learned the many things that princesses needed to now. Like how to be radiant. Or how to talk down to your subjects. The princess wanted to ask about the towers. Questions like why are they so tall. Questions like what happened at the top with the one eyelike window. Once you got in, she reasoned, you would not get out. But she didn’t ask. It was unspoken that the towers suggested punishment. And they were all good girls really. Even Princess Lucinda.

It was hard enough for Lucinda. She knew she didn’t really fit in. The other princesses were pink. They were flouncy. Lacy. Well, so was she. That was the uniform. But she didn’t like it. The dresses got in her way and when she sat down; they could always see her underclothes no matter how careful she was. She had failed that this year. Ladylike posture. It just didn’t come naturally. She looked on with envy as the others stuck their little fingers out when they picked up their cups and when they moved slowly and elegantly across the room in their sharp healed pointy shoes.  

Their hair was bouncy. Her hair refused to do that. She had asked to have it cut short but they would not let her. Instead, it tangled itself into knots or unravelled from however it was supposed to be. And she couldn’t stay clean. The other princesses sat and waited for things to be brought to them, for things to happen. She wanted to go and find things. Although most of the time, the only things that she found were dirt and the corners of tables that were intent on ripping skirts and tearing lace.

There was a lot at stake of course. If they didn’t pass all levels of princessing, then they’d never get a prince and go on to have lots of other little princes and princesses. The thought of marrying a prince filled Lucinda with nearly as much horror as the thought of the tower. What a choice! She supposed it would be different with real babies but when they had to practise with the dolls, well, she genuinely couldn’t see the point. All the others cooing and exclaiming and dressing the dolls up. She wasn’t sure what it was but there had to be something better than this.

So that is what they were doing, they were still waiting. For their prince to come. Lucinda sniggered but they were far too delicate to think such vulgar thoughts. They knew that you had to be to snag a prince and sniggering didn’t really figure. Probably, Lucinda reflected, it gave you wrinkles and that was tragedy beyond measure. They spent long hours shaping their nails and curling or straightening their hair depending on what the fashionistas said. Then there was the rubbing on of creams. She looked at them and thought how they all looked the same.

They all had that careful voice, as well, not too loud, not too quiet. The exact right tone. She couldn’t manage that either. Too loud. When she laughed, not only did it come out in guffaws but also her whole body joined in. They tittered carefully behind their hands when that happened although she had no doubt that nasty little thoughts existed behind those careful eyes. She almost hoped they did. At least that would make them interesting.

The princes were equally boring. All vying for position. All carefully styled, of course. Perfectly clothed. That was the problem. Nothing wrong with them. She was fed up with feeling less than perfect. They talked about themselves constantly. The whine of them contrasted horribly with the giggling from the princesses. They were all handsome and that struck Lucinda as odd. Surely they couldn’t all be. What happened if a less than perfect baby was born? Were they sent to some lesser family where it mattered less if you were beautiful? Another question she would never ask.

It was not like Lucinda to be early. Things eluded her. The things needed for school that day, for example. So often, they’d have to turn back and get a servant to run and find some book or other or some homework she had forgotten. Sometimes she’d realise that she had odd shoes on. This morning had run smoothly. She was the first one into their classroom. Or so she thought

She was trying to decide what to do with this small piece of freedom when she heard a noise from the cupboard at the back of the classroom. She knew what she was supposed to do. Scream and then run. Alert the nearest male. Lucinda had no intention of behaving in such a princessy way. How very tedious. She wasn’t frightened, she was intrigued. With a delicacy that usually eluded her, she moved quietly towards the cupboard. The noises – rustles and swishes – made her think of a small animal. No threat.

She paused briefly to make sure she was ready and then she yanked the door open. She couldn’t believe her eyes. One of the princes. In there, among their clothes. Lucinda tried to recall his name. She knew she had seen him before. With the others but they came as one mass. They were the princes. She didn’t try to pick them apart. Then she tried to recall what it was that was different about him. He was slim, slight. Probably the smallest of the princes. But it wasn’t that. It was something that she couldn’t quite place. A delicacy perhaps. It was hard to see him rescuing or duelling or any of those things the princes learned about. Lucinda realised that she quite liked that about him. That and the fact he looked more frightened of her than she felt of him.

“What are you doing in there?” She asked with as much authority as she could muster. There was a pause and Lucinda thought the prince might cry. That wasn’t allowed. Boys don’t cry. She was ready to put her arms around him though, if she should need to. But instead, he spoke. The same thing that Lucinda couldn’t quite grasp about his body was wrong with his voice. It was smooth and had none of the depth that the other princes aimed for. It was soft like silk. Lucinda felt it rub over her skin.

“I picked up my sister’s bag by mistake. I was just leaving it for her.” That sounded fair. Lucinda wished she had a brother that would be so helpful but they were all hateful.

“You probably should go.” He nodded his head. After all, the princes were not allowed in here and perhaps, he knew that the towers were for punishment as well. She couldn’t imagine that he found being a prince very straightforward.

As she watched him leave – his steps were small and dainty – she thought he moved more like one of them. More like a girl. She felt sorry for him. He was as out of place as she was. He turned just before he left. Smiled.

“My name is Sam.” He said. Samuel, thought Lucinda. She would not forget.

“Lucinda.” She hadn’t realised until that moment, how much she had hated her name. It was clunky and awkward. Well, it suited her; you had to agree with that.

Lucinda thought about Sam a lot. She called him the prince of the cupboard. In her head, anyway. For once, that lunchtime, she sat with the others while they giggled over their possible future husbands. Some of them had been promised to princes already. Providing they got the right grades at princessing, of course. Quietly, she asked if any of them knew anything about Sam. They seemed surprised to see her and hear her but they soon recovered.

“Trust you,” said Marianna, “To notice a fellow freak.” Lucinda realised that it was true. That was what was so similar about them. They were all wrong for the role. The others all laughed and she moved back to her lone seat. The prince of the cupboard was wrong in all the ways that made him right for her.

Weeks passed and Lucinda made an effort to make it into school early but she never saw the prince of the cupboard in their room again. It disappointed her every time. She began to think that she would never be able to speak to him again. Not that it would matter anyway. Not when she was going to fail her princessing exams. What happened then? No one wanted to say but she felt the presence of the tower whenever they spoke about it. A lot of good it would do her. Sam didn’t look like the rescuing type. She pictured herself looking out of that one window. That small square her only view.

It was soon to be the end of term ball. Lucinda always hated it. They didn’t pick her to dance. Or if they did, they didn’t do so again after she had trodden on them or elbowed them of in some way or other injured them. These days her reputation went before her so she stood on the sidelines and watched them glide effortlessly around the dance floor. She wished she had the grace to do so herself. It was a strange feeling, to want something she so thoroughly hated but it would be easier, fitting in. Easier than standing watching everyone else enjoying their life. Okay so they were thoughtless but maybe that was better.

This time she tried really hard to stay clean and tidy by sitting in one place before they had to leave and even her mother was impressed that she hadn’t managed to mess up her hair. She was wearing her best dress. (The most expensive one not the one she liked the best. She liked none of them but trousers were not allowed.) She wanted Sam to think she was beautiful. She assumed that he would like this perfect version. It was what all the princes wanted. That was the whole point.

So she giggled not sniggered. She wiggled not stomped. She hid her face behind her hand. She was that shy, sweet girl. A couple of the princesses asked if she was feeling okay. She said she was although it was a lie. She had never felt worse. She was pretending to be what they wanted her to be. What he wanted her to be. Not even that. What she thought he wanted her to be. It was difficult but he was the prize. It had to be worth it.

It was the opinion of the princes that the ball was really for the girls. They had to be there and they had to dance but it was not their thing. Jousting and archery and sports that was their thing. But they had to be impressive and to be impressive, you had to be there. So mostly, they came and stood and watched and decided who was the prettiest. They fought to be the one who danced with the prettiest. They looked at Lucinda and sniggered at the way she giggled, at the way she wiggled. She might be trying but she lacked grace. She lacked feminine charm. She was still a little scary. The princes were taught what the princesses would do and that was fine. None of them was really bright enough to work out someone who did not follow the pattern.

Sam watched her carefully. He patted down his own clothes. They would probably suit Lucinda as well. Maybe he should share with her the secret of his success. He supposed it was probably too late. Watching her, trying so hard, it was heart breaking and Sam knew his heart was already soft with feeling for her. He wasn’t sure what he should do.

She was more like him than she realised. He had to find some way of letting her know that. He thought he’d seen recognition in her eyes, that day she had caught him changing his clothes but she had easily bought the lie he told so maybe she was clueless. Maybe she thought him just like all the rest, hence the terrible trying to fit the role

He couldn’t remember the first time now. Just that it was a long time ago. Long enough that he had abandoned all thoughts of femininity. Even in his own head. Every time though, he felt that small thrill of it being right and proper even though everyone else thought it wrong. He had to be at school early to ensure no one saw him arrive, stay late so he could change again before home. Now, at home, in girl clothes, that was when it was odd and opposite.

“May I have this dance?” Sam looked up and there was Lucinda. His heart pounded unsteadily. She must have grown bored with waiting. Sam had decided that there would be no dancing for him tonight. He was too small and too nervous and he feared whoever he chose would just laugh. He grinned at the way everyone was staring. He hadn’t been concentrating or he would have seen the entire hall come to a stop.

“Of course.” He said, taking her hand. She let her hand sit on Sam’s waist, gently ran her hand over the hip. She noted the curve and nodded.

“You’re just like me.” She said. “Just like me.” She emphasized each word and Sam was glad she had figured it out.

“Do you think we’ll be able to live happily ever after?” She asked. Nobody else seemed to have figured it out and as far as she could tell, no one else wanted either of them. Her own mother would be pleased just to see her married.

“Oh, I think so.” Sam said grinning. They were floating across the dance floor now and much to everyone’s amazement, they moved well. They fitted together. Lucinda grinned as well. She was thinking about the lack of towers in the future and how it pleased her immensely.