I have been working on a short story, and I’m going to put the first little bit on here. Which is terrifying for me. *braces self* Here we go:
The prospect of city life has long enthralled Eileen Lynch. Now, the other side of twenty-five, she felt irrefutable pride on opening her letters; NW1.
By the time she reached her mid teens, Lynch was restless in Cumbria. The hills, divided unevenly by ancient walls no longer exuded that sweet homeliness that engulfed her in her youth. Once, childishly, the hills had been hers. She had rambled daily, lemon yellow wellingtons visible through the densest fog, through a yard, over a style, perhaps through a field of livestock to a miniature wilderness or raging streamlet. She had once vowed never to leave, and, taking her mother’s bread knife, carved her oath meticulously into a birch.
At thirteen, she began to notice the view; how primitive, how unchanging, how tiresome. The dry stone walls had ceased to age years before, and would outlive her. They had endured, and would continue to endure, hundreds of the harshest winters. Each morning brought her that greeting, (two syllables, the first higher in pitch than the second) from people who professed to know her purely because from a short distance they had watched her grow. She began to wake up already weary.
That’s all for now. I suppose you should tell me what you think. Argh.