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 |  Enter your story of 300 words or less. |
| Up high above the world on the crest of the hill, i can feel the warm breeze gently flitting through, whipping up strands of strawberry blonde hair and making the wild flowers dance. It blows up my petticoats, the lace sleeves of my dress itchy against my delicate, pale skin, but i resist the urge to scratch them. Overhead a bird cries from a tree, a lonely and mournful sound before it takes flight, green, blue and black streaking through the greying sky. A storms a-coming, it's the weather for it my mother used to say. I can see her now in her blue and white patterned apron which stretched across her buldging stomach, as she stirred a pot of something foul-smelling over the hob that would inevitably end up on our plates for dinner, flicking ash from her cigarettes onto the kitchen floor and moaning about this, that and the other. But now is not the time to dwell on such things. In fact, as i sit here staring down at the serene town below, it's hard to imagine that things have ever been anything but peaceful. But amongst the grey stone buildings, behind worn wooden doors, life for many here has never been good. Sickness plagues the people, and death was never far from anyones doorstep. It was the work of the devil, superstitous old women said, strangers from out of town wondering through and bringing with them curses of misery and misfortune. My dad was one of those, but we don't talk about him. I feel safe up here on the hill. Their madness can't touch me. I often think about building myself a little wooden hut and living with the wilderness, surviving off game and berries. But such things are unbecoming of a young lady. (300 words) |
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