How to start? What write? Characters I would use this time? How would I tell the story? What would be the appropriate plot to draw the reader’s attention?
She dropped on the table and began to beat the parchment white-tipped of pen leaving small blackheads on one of the corners. She took air and released her with force by some papers to fall to the ground.
She wanted to write something completely different but her head was blocked, couldn’t she nothing new to tell, or that seem interesting to the readers. She had happened by head numerous stories, but none liked it enough to even think to write a few lines. Pitch as it was on the table, she closed her eyes with force, hoping that as well inspiration came to she and her hand moved alone to write a good story.
After several minutes as well, she understood still there sitting would not achieve anything, rose slowly without push the mottled leaf and after take a last look, went out to the street.
The wheels of the carts pulled by mules raised a thin cloud of dust sticking to the skin and hair, leaving a thin brown layer. People came and went from one side to another carrying the fruits that had given that month their gardens, others cleaned vegetables that were not sold that day, in ramshackle wooden boxes; cobblers went out at the door of their small business to clear butchers and bakers were beginning to close their positions after the long day’s work; the sound of the blacksmith anvil resounded far insistently, probably giving the finishing touches to some last minute custom. Perhaps go out and be surrounded by so much life and both life wake up herr creative side that remained asleep somewhere in her brain. Resonate horseshoes of a horse distracted her for a moment, being preoccupied in the chunky animal that passed by her side, at the neighing and flick of the whip on her sweaty skin instigating it to go faster.
When the horse went through its rough rider, a barefoot boy, dressed in a gray skirt and a piece of bread under the arm appeared between the dust that had raised the four-legged and had to do juggling to not collide with he. She followed he with the look and a slight bitter smile drew on her face remembering times past while she got to keep the balance. When she turned around to continue her way to the river, she collided with someone; boost view her heart shuddered. An impressive soldier with helmet and chainmail, with the coat of arms of the drawn King in the chest, sword in his belt, fastened her arm and threw her aside with bluntness and followed by another soldier came running as fast as those costumes allowed them after the thief.
To feel that cold hand on her bare skin could not prevent a chill traveled her the backbone of top down. That simple contact was enough to her memory back dark memories that thought forgotten: that cold cell, shackled skinned her wrists and ankles bare, the young priest who having heard her last history had spoken with everyone who was able to get that not send she into the fire and she died there. Return to relive all that dark, surround cold, the cries of those who were tortured relentlessly, her own sobs, put goose bumps. After all what had to happen in her childhood thought there could be nothing more, but then it happened: was raped by those soldiers, the trigger of all, beside the river which at that moment was walking.
For ten years she was free. At the beginning the soldiers guarding her closely, suspicious, but she managed to lead a normal life. Everyone looked at her passing and mumbled behind, but after getting job in the laundry room where the women accepted she as a more, her terrible history was forgetting little by little. She bought a small land and a humble house and started her new life, but at times, she noticed how some scrutiny and other curious was nailed in her neck. In addition to working in the laundry, eked out a few coins extras by writing novels, which were having considerable success among the population to her surprise. She didn’t even think what would happen if they discovered that it had become again, who had returned to hide her gender and identity under a pseudonym to get her livelihood. She had been lucky once, but two was no longer so sure.
And if the priest would have thought like everyone else, that she had been all through witchcraft? And if not he would have felt compassion for her and he sent she to the stake as all breed? Do and if her history, her life, would have finished ten years ago, at that moment, in that cell?
Her history… otherwise… It might work. By changing some things there and others there so no one realized that it was her own history and not created a new stir among the population. She should try it.
She became hectic house of emotion, with a slight smile drawn in her face. She picked up the parchments that had fallen to the ground, sat at the table and after dipping in thick ink pen, began to write her own story.
She opened her eyes at once with that dream beating even in her mind. Without thinking, she took the small notepad that left on the bedside table for such occasions and began writing at high speed using that sleep was still fresh in her memory.