The Ramblings of my Disorganised Mind

NaNoWriMo post

I thought I might post the first few paras of the new first draft, just for fun. Why? I don't know. I'm a writer. I like to share. :-) Please, please remember that this is a first draft and frist drafts tend to suck chunky chicken chips. Especially mine. I still don't have a handle on my main char. I get the feeling she'll come to me as I go.

Imbolc

Chapter One

Seasons come and go, as seasons do.

This was a season of new beginnings. The Crone withers and dies and begets in her end a new Maiden. The Maiden, in her guise as the goddess Brighid, disperses her light across the soil, using her willow wand to regenerate the lifeless land. The faerie folk step from their winter hiding places, spreading ethereal white spirits wherever they tread, heralding the emergence of Spring.

This was Imbolc.

#

Erica closed the door gently and didn't look back.

Why should she? She had no regrets, no desire to look upon what she had just cast off, no reason to wish things were otherwise. It was just another day, just another trip out her front door.

Except that today, it was no longer her front door. And if she was to be honest with herself, Erica knew that the reason she was now walking along the path to her front gate with her head bent so far she could only just see where she was going was that she didn't want to look at the lavender bushes she had grown herself from tiny cuttings, or the violets that were just now starting to form bud, or the rose bushes she had lovingly tended for ten years.

Her grandfather was the first to hand her a small packet of seeds. Sweet Peas. One day, when she was about eleven or so, Erica had mentioned how much she loved them. The next year, her grandfather had grown double what he usually did, just so he could make sure there were bunches and bunches of those unassuming little flowers with the honey scent in the house, for as long as they flowered. And under his hand, they flowered long, and late.

The thought of that smell usually brought a smile to her face, but not today. Today, Erica was leaving the house her grandfather had left her in his will, along with the garden he had created, nurtured, and entrusted to her.

"Erica Jane," he used to say, "a garden is a part of you, of your soul. In your garden ye will find all manner of things, and they're not just the wee plants."

"I don't understand," Erica had said.

"Give it time, little one. One day, you'll understand. In the meantime, just grow. Live your life and tend to your garden. Look after it, child. It will tell you its secrets in due time."

Erica swallowed hard as she placed her free hand on her front gate. She couldn't bring herself to open it, though. It was too hard. This was more than a house and a garden she was leaving. It was her life: her memories. Her grandfather's trust.

"Ricky? Are you coming?"

Erica looked up, startled out of her reverie. She'd forgotten Brad was there. "Uh, sure, hang on," she said, juggling suitcase, shoulder bag and purse while fumbling with the latch on the gate.

"Try putting the suitcase down," Brad said, leaning against his car. "Might help."

Erica did as he suggested. "You could help."

"You're an independent woman, aren't you? Why would you want my help?"

Erica bit her tongue and let it pass.

He did take the suitcase from her, though, as she approached the car, and swung it lightly into the trunk. "Hop in. We have a forty minute drive to my apartment--sorry, our apartment--and I'd like to get to the motorway before dark."

"Just a moment," Erica said.

"What's the problem?"

"I don't know, I just--" Erica couldn't put how she felt into words. She was absolutely sure Brad wouldn't understand, anyway.

"Well, come on, then."

Erica shook her head to prevent tears from forming. Brad hated it when she cried, especially for a stupid reason like leaving a house. A house was only a thing, after all. She got into his car.

"Right then, Ricky-love," Brad said, looking over at her and smiling brightly. "Off we go."

Erica hesitated for a moment, then stole a look over her shoulder as Brad started to pull away from the curb. One last look at her home. Then she saw...what could she see? What was that?

"Wait! Stop!" she said.

She was thrown forward slightly as Brad stood on the brakes. "What? What is it?"

"I thought I saw..." Erica's voice trailed off. She wasn't completely sure what she'd seen, so how could she explain it to Brad?

"What? What did you see?"

Erica looked into Brad's eyes and saw his impatience. No, she wasn't going to risk ridicule. "Nothing," she said, sitting back into the leather seat. "Nothing. i was mistaken."

Brad grunted, then took off faster than was necessary.

Erica closed her eyes and pretended to doze, trying to prevent the sudden influx of emotion that poured in, hurting her chest. She pressed her lips together. She had seen something, but she doubted herself too much to give it voice. It was impossible.

For she thought she had seen a figure, in amongst the roses, spreading her hand gently over the clambering rose Erica had planted the year her grandfather died, the one that grew more strongly strongly and produced more grey-pink blooms every year than any other rose in the neighbourhood.

It was a woman, tiny, no more than four feet tall, evanescent, sentient, ghostly. She'd smiled at Erica.

And then she disappeared.

(end)

posted by Heather @ 2:03 pm