In Which the Author Returns
And let me tell you, I return whole-heartedly.
I mentioned this in my profile, but I used to be under the name "lochlomond." Unfortunately, I have totally forgotten my password and tried everything I could think of to remember it. Buh. It doesn't matter, though…I think I need a fresh start.
I began writing this story at the age…eh…maybe fourteen to fifteen and then disappeared for the longest time—mainly do to my crashed computer and my own heartbrokenness at the loss of my unfinished story.
At eighteen, I am now back to revise and continue writing. My format hasn't changed much…perhaps a slightly larger vocabulary and wotnot.
First, I will post the first seven chapters I had already written…but a revised edition. As I have not yet revised them, I don't know if this means a significant change…but I doubt it does. Maybe just a bit of re-working sentences. However, in the mode of tradition…I will keep my original Author's notes and disclaimers on the seven chapters that have been saved thanks to They make me smile. Although, now that I think about it, I may add extra notes in between them…They'll be in italics…look out for my old self speaking up!
The most unfortunate event of my crashed computer however, is my loss of my end goal…I'm no good at outlining…I just put down the end… And I can't remember it. I'm racking my brain for what ever I was thinking of…but meh.
I think I may have it though…I'm getting there… I think it's slowly coming to me.
Oh…and I'm including the preface with this so…here goes.
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". . . I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.
Mankind will surely not deny to Harold
Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies."
--Charles Dickens, Bleak House
Preface: In Which the Girl Appears
Disclaimer: Most of this belongs to whoever owns Dickens' stuff now, so don't sue me for anything… Please.
Author's Note: All books are special in their own individual way, but classics are especially special because they are immortal. Even so, classics have every right to also be mutilated or at least changed by a variety of fans. This story is my attempt to do so. If you dislike the "present tense" stuff, do not worry. This is just my preface. The real stuff is all past tense. Well… Here goes.
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The girl stands by the marker, looking at it curiously.
Her black hair is pulled back by a purple band that matches the wide and thick array of her layered skirts. Large brown eyes mix-match a narrow nose and pixie-like face framed with straying hairs. Looking at her, one might be confused. It is not as though she is ugly. Her features, individually, can be described as lovely by some…but forced together they create a rogue look that can only be described as tricky.
She lays a dark, thin hand on the stone marker and traces the harsh, thick writing.
London. 3 miles.
The rattling of a cart can be heard approaching the road. Its heavy wheels bouncing on stones and rolling through ditches are loud, but nothing compared to the sound of the driver who is yelling curses at the "hideously slow" horse.
The cart, horse, and driver suddenly appear over the hill, driving straight for the wild-eyed girl. In a flurry of skirts and a flick of long black hair, the girl disappears; her brown eyes the last to fade away.
Sir Cart Driver, intent on controlling his horse while beating it, does not notice his potato sacks moving to allow more room for his newest and largest passenger.
The last three are the longest and hardest.
