So I have been lacking in ideas or insightful thoughts recently, or at least those that I can put up within sight of people. Instead I am going to give you a short story about a girl called Jane. When I say short, I mean it stops abruptly and past me wrote nothing else (well done past me). I hope you enjoy, and see you around soon.
S
Growing up Jane had been a rather plain young girl of average weight, average height – even the average grey hair of the children in her village. However, today was the day that all changed. And she knew that. Today was her name day; together with the eight other girls in the village they would walk to the capital to appear before the King and have their future decided.
Alone the nine girls set off each carrying a small sack resting across their average shoulders. Inside were various objects – it depended very much on the care your elder brother held you in, for it was they that provided the items to go in the sacks. Fortunately for Jane her brother was a diligent young man who adored his little sister, so much so, that in with the rope, tinderbox and small blade he had put in a loaf of freshly baked bread and some sliced apple. Food was prohibited by the village merchants so her brother had risked everything to hide the bread and apple for her.
Journeying on she felt no trepidation to what lay ahead, nor excitement, simply a numbing sense of nothing, for here she was, free at lat from her father’s dreamland to be cruelly flung into the jaws of the world’s fantasies. The other girls hummed a tune, seemingly for comfort as the sun rose higher in the sky. Jane however hitched her sack higher, lowered her head and ploughed on in silence.
Many miles later and the girls decided to stop in a cave for the night as they did not know if they would find any further shelter by carrying on. Each girl found a spot to lay her cloak down before beginning their own tasks; making a fire, preparing dinner and clearing the pests potentially in the cave. Opening her bag, Jane scowled as she noticed a small wooden figure of a duck hiding in the coils of rope. It was painted a horrific buttercup yellow with a turquoise beak and magenta feet – all colours their dear father had attempted to paint the castle. How her dear brother appreciated a joke. Still scowling she picked it up and stared at it until one of the other average girls appeared causing Jane to throw it back in the sack to forget about it for a time.
Toast for the Fallen 