Another story...I'm bad, I know. But this story is not bad, for it is going so well. I have not been stuck on it at all, and I am 3/4 of the way done. Here is the summary, and that's all I'm going to say for the moment until it is done...although I will say that it needs a title, which is always my shortcoming.
Nottingham, England, 1173
Fourteen-year-old Adele is lonely. Her widowed mother died two years ago, and she lives with an old carpenter, Master Grey, and his loathsome apprentice, Basil. When she meets the at-first-unsociable Gawain, Adele has found a friend. And what’s more, a refuge. When Basil kicks Adele out, she has a place to run to - Sherwood Forest. For Gawain is part of Robin Hood’s band of outlaws, who all welcome Adele. But then Gawain notices a strange similarity between Adele and one of the men in the band, and Adele learns a unexpected secret about her mother…and her life will never be the same again.
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Divided Dilemmas
Well, I've decided on the last Divided story's theme. The main character of the third in the trilogy will be Kate Something, whose older brother Henry marries Susanna, sister of Emma and George. It will take place in 1648-49, as 1649 was the year King Charles I was executed, and I thought that would create an interesting conflict for the story.
The problem is, it would make sense to have all three stories be written in the same tense and perspective, even if it's different people. I had started writing the first one, from Emma's viewpoint, in present tense, but I don't really think I want to write the second one, which I'm planning to be from the perspective of the Parliamentary girl, (Judith, I'm thinking,) who falls in love with George, Emma's brother, in present tense. I am getting a little tired of present tense, but I do want to finish Emma's story in present tense. I think. I don't want to go back and change it all to past tense, yet I don't want to have Judith's story be in present tense! Dear me, this is vexing.
Another vexation is, I truly cannot find any information that is helpful in the least about ways of speaking in the mid-1600s. At all. If only I knew a language professor! I know that little children were considered little adults, for the most part, in that time, especially high-class ones, and the poorer children who had lots of responsibility, and even though Emma is what I'd consider middle-class, I do think she should be precocious, (I love that word! and guess what? it dates from the mid 17th century! from a Latin word meaning literally "cooked ahead",) yet I do want her to have the voice of a little child. My, what a run-on sentence!
Presently the story doesn't sound too 1600s in the narration, in my efforts to make Emma sound like she is truly eight years old, but if one thinks about it, she is really almost half way to becoming engaged, in that time period's mindset.
Oh. Dear. I. Am. Vexed. And. Undecided. But I am so very inspired for these, if only I could decide upon a tense, and find out about 17th century language!!
The problem is, it would make sense to have all three stories be written in the same tense and perspective, even if it's different people. I had started writing the first one, from Emma's viewpoint, in present tense, but I don't really think I want to write the second one, which I'm planning to be from the perspective of the Parliamentary girl, (Judith, I'm thinking,) who falls in love with George, Emma's brother, in present tense. I am getting a little tired of present tense, but I do want to finish Emma's story in present tense. I think. I don't want to go back and change it all to past tense, yet I don't want to have Judith's story be in present tense! Dear me, this is vexing.
Another vexation is, I truly cannot find any information that is helpful in the least about ways of speaking in the mid-1600s. At all. If only I knew a language professor! I know that little children were considered little adults, for the most part, in that time, especially high-class ones, and the poorer children who had lots of responsibility, and even though Emma is what I'd consider middle-class, I do think she should be precocious, (I love that word! and guess what? it dates from the mid 17th century! from a Latin word meaning literally "cooked ahead",) yet I do want her to have the voice of a little child. My, what a run-on sentence!
Presently the story doesn't sound too 1600s in the narration, in my efforts to make Emma sound like she is truly eight years old, but if one thinks about it, she is really almost half way to becoming engaged, in that time period's mindset.
Oh. Dear. I. Am. Vexed. And. Undecided. But I am so very inspired for these, if only I could decide upon a tense, and find out about 17th century language!!
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
English Civil War Stories
I have just started, (yes, I know, I have lots of stuff going at once,) a short story, (or maybe not so short,) about a little eight-year-old girl during the English Civil War whose family supports the King, but her elder brother does not.
For a little historical background here before I go on, the English Civil War was during the 1640s, (a civil war is in fact a war within a country with people of the same nationality fighting one another,) with the King and his men fighting the Parliament and their supporters. I'm actually not quite sure the whole reason for it, but my basic impression is that King Charles I and his wife and family were Catholic, and the King wished to make the country more so, but the Parliament opposed, so Charles tried to do without the Parliament by abolishing it. This did not work. The Parliament and the King quarelled a great deal until finally it became a war. Not the awfulest of wars, but still a war. Sometimes it is called several different wars, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd English Civil Wars, yet they are all linked.
So. History covered. The story takes place in 1643, towards the beginning of the actual war. I'm thinking of calling it "Divided", as the family of little Emma, the narrator, is divided, as the parents support the King, older brother George supports the Parliament, and the younger sisters, Susanna and Emma, are torn.
I am also thinking of writing a companion story about a young woman in London who supports Parliament along with her family, (London was Parliament's headquarters, so to speak,) who falls in love with George.
It would be a nice idea to write a trilogy of these 10-some page stories; "The 'Divided' Trilogy" has a nice ring to it, but I have no idea who the third would focus on.
In any case, the first one, narrated by Emma, is in the works and shall be posted when it is finished.
For a little historical background here before I go on, the English Civil War was during the 1640s, (a civil war is in fact a war within a country with people of the same nationality fighting one another,) with the King and his men fighting the Parliament and their supporters. I'm actually not quite sure the whole reason for it, but my basic impression is that King Charles I and his wife and family were Catholic, and the King wished to make the country more so, but the Parliament opposed, so Charles tried to do without the Parliament by abolishing it. This did not work. The Parliament and the King quarelled a great deal until finally it became a war. Not the awfulest of wars, but still a war. Sometimes it is called several different wars, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd English Civil Wars, yet they are all linked.
So. History covered. The story takes place in 1643, towards the beginning of the actual war. I'm thinking of calling it "Divided", as the family of little Emma, the narrator, is divided, as the parents support the King, older brother George supports the Parliament, and the younger sisters, Susanna and Emma, are torn.
I am also thinking of writing a companion story about a young woman in London who supports Parliament along with her family, (London was Parliament's headquarters, so to speak,) who falls in love with George.
It would be a nice idea to write a trilogy of these 10-some page stories; "The 'Divided' Trilogy" has a nice ring to it, but I have no idea who the third would focus on.
In any case, the first one, narrated by Emma, is in the works and shall be posted when it is finished.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The First Dance, Part Three
Part three, the last part.
As Xenia, Nicholas and their family bade their farewells, Xenia hugged me a bit too exuberantly and exclaimed,
“You must come sledding with us tomorrow!”
“Goodness, don’t crush her, Xenia!” Nicholas smiled at me. “But you truly must come sledding. There is a simply grand hill in the park, the soldiers have poured water on it so that it is so slick one fairly flies!”
“If Ella and Sergei do not have any plans…” I began hesitantly.
“I assure you, we will be there,” said Ella, who stood nearby. “We had planned upon it from the very start.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” said Nicholas, kissing my gloved hand once more.
“Until tomorrow.”
As I walked down the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom, it was as if my dance slippers had little wings, made of silk and pearls, perhaps, or spun snow that glittered as if with a thousand shards of diamonds, and never melted.
Dreamily I hummed a lively polka from the ball as I removed the hairpins from my coiffure and watched my dark blond tresses fall from their intricate style down past my waist. How well it had all turned out, beyond anything my nervous mind had concocted. The fluttering caged bird I had felt in my stomach from earlier in the evening returned, except not fluttering in nervousness, but in utter delighted anticipation.
There was so much ahead of me here, so many possibilities.
“Oh, thank you God!” I cried, rushing to the window and peering out into the night. A few stars glimmered in the darkness, but each and every one of them, visible and not visible, stood for all that I was grateful for, and all that I knew I would be.
Maybe it's cheesy, maybe it's sappy, it is probably very over-sentimental-romantic, but I really like the way this story turned out. Maybe because I never was stuck on it.
I have no idea what Alix truly felt, or anything about a ball held at Ella and Sergei's, but I was inspired for this, oddly enough, riding home from my grandparent's on New Year's Eve. I started writing it right then and there, because I had my laptop with me in the car.
There is one definite inaccuracy, as Alix and Nicholas first saw each other after four years at the train station when Alix arrived, but... Dramatic license!
Alix and Nicholas eventually married in 1894, and had five children: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, who famously "survived" (DIDN'T!) the family's eventual 1918 massacre, and Alexei, whose hemophilia caused Alix (Alexandra by then, having changed her name upon conversion to Russian Orthodoxy,) great stress and pain. Alexandra would be very misunderstood, (she was criticized for not caring for Russia and being proud and cold because of her excessive shyness,) and disliked eventually during WWI, (she was called the "German Woman" as she was half German,) but her and Nicholas's happy marriage has been called one of the greatest royal romances of all time.
It is hard for me to think of the princess in my story, if indeed she really was like I portrayed her, and even if she was not, being shot down by Bolshevik/Soviet soldiers with hearts of stone, along with her true love and beloved children, in a cellar in the Ural Mountains thirty years after she and Nicholas truly began to fall in love other than a childish infatuation. It was a true tradgedy, and Rest in Peace.
“You must come sledding with us tomorrow!”
“Goodness, don’t crush her, Xenia!” Nicholas smiled at me. “But you truly must come sledding. There is a simply grand hill in the park, the soldiers have poured water on it so that it is so slick one fairly flies!”
“If Ella and Sergei do not have any plans…” I began hesitantly.
“I assure you, we will be there,” said Ella, who stood nearby. “We had planned upon it from the very start.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” said Nicholas, kissing my gloved hand once more.
“Until tomorrow.”
As I walked down the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom, it was as if my dance slippers had little wings, made of silk and pearls, perhaps, or spun snow that glittered as if with a thousand shards of diamonds, and never melted.
Dreamily I hummed a lively polka from the ball as I removed the hairpins from my coiffure and watched my dark blond tresses fall from their intricate style down past my waist. How well it had all turned out, beyond anything my nervous mind had concocted. The fluttering caged bird I had felt in my stomach from earlier in the evening returned, except not fluttering in nervousness, but in utter delighted anticipation.
There was so much ahead of me here, so many possibilities.
“Oh, thank you God!” I cried, rushing to the window and peering out into the night. A few stars glimmered in the darkness, but each and every one of them, visible and not visible, stood for all that I was grateful for, and all that I knew I would be.
Maybe it's cheesy, maybe it's sappy, it is probably very over-sentimental-romantic, but I really like the way this story turned out. Maybe because I never was stuck on it.
I have no idea what Alix truly felt, or anything about a ball held at Ella and Sergei's, but I was inspired for this, oddly enough, riding home from my grandparent's on New Year's Eve. I started writing it right then and there, because I had my laptop with me in the car.
There is one definite inaccuracy, as Alix and Nicholas first saw each other after four years at the train station when Alix arrived, but... Dramatic license!
Alix and Nicholas eventually married in 1894, and had five children: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, who famously "survived" (DIDN'T!) the family's eventual 1918 massacre, and Alexei, whose hemophilia caused Alix (Alexandra by then, having changed her name upon conversion to Russian Orthodoxy,) great stress and pain. Alexandra would be very misunderstood, (she was criticized for not caring for Russia and being proud and cold because of her excessive shyness,) and disliked eventually during WWI, (she was called the "German Woman" as she was half German,) but her and Nicholas's happy marriage has been called one of the greatest royal romances of all time.
It is hard for me to think of the princess in my story, if indeed she really was like I portrayed her, and even if she was not, being shot down by Bolshevik/Soviet soldiers with hearts of stone, along with her true love and beloved children, in a cellar in the Ural Mountains thirty years after she and Nicholas truly began to fall in love other than a childish infatuation. It was a true tradgedy, and Rest in Peace.
Alix in an engagement portrait, 1894.
I have lately been very much absorbed and interested by the early, pre-engagement life of this fasctinating, beautiful, shy princess with a mind of her own, and I would most certainly expect more stories on her!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The First Dance, Part Two
Part Two.
“Fairly well.” I smiled a little, feeling greatly awkward. “How have you been?”
“Oh, quite well. I’ve been doing lots of military events and such. Rather a bore at times. And you? I was quite worried about you, that you might freeze on the trip here.”
I laughed. “No, not at all.”
“How was Irene’s wedding?”
“Lovely.” I smiled as I recalled the happy event, and I began to feel a bit more comfortable.
“I wish I could have come.”
“Mm. I have a photograph if you’d like to see her dress.”
“I’d love to.”
“She wanted to come, but…being so soon after the wedding and all…”
Inwardly I cringed. This conversation was so dull, so shallow and, while sincere, at the same time very forced.
“Did you know,” Nicholas said suddenly, “that I wanted so very much to dance with you at Sergei and Ella’s wedding ball?”
“No…I didn’t.”
“Of course it was impossible, so I gave you a brooch instead.”
I laughed, but it sounded a bit strained.
“Wouldn’t it have been funny if Xenia had worn it tonight?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Bit by bit, Nicholas’s casual witticisms made me feel more and more at ease, until, all too soon, the dance ended, and Sergei came to claim me. After the dancing was over, (two more I danced with Nicholas, although one was so brisk there left no room for any conversation whatsoever, except for occasional warnings not to bump into something,) the guests retreated to zakuskas, light appetizers. I didn’t much feel like eating anything, partly because Ella’s lady-in-waiting Ekaterina “Kitty” had laced my corset so tightly. I stood talking with Xenia in a nook off the ballroom that was lush with potted trees and hanging vines. A strong, sweet smell radiated from an orange tree in full blossom.
I listened, amused, as Xenia chattered away.
“…and there’s a simply marvelous ice skating pond that is perfect for…oh! You startled me, Nicky! Don’t creep up on people like that, it’s awfully frightening.”
Nicholas had appeared behind Xenia, holding two crystal glasses of rosy-hued punch, and he now looked a bit sheepish.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, dear sister,” he replied in a jesting tone of voice as he handed us each a glass. The three of us were quiet for a moment as Xenia and I sipped the punch. I noticed Xenia glancing around with a sly look on her face, and then she said,
“Oh! I just remembered something I must ask Mamma! Don’t move, I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, she dashed off, narrowly missing spilling her punch on an elderly woman in lilac satin.
Her intent was obvious: to leave Nicholas and I by ourselves. Sometimes, Xenia’s impishness…although of course, there was nothing improper about it, as ball guests mingled not two feet away from us.
“I certainly hope that she does not mean, ‘do not move,’ in a literal sense,” Nicholas said, leaning against the wall.
“If she did, we would be in quite a dilemma,” I replied, surprised at my uncharacteristically witty response.
To my great relief, Ella came by and stopped at the nook.
“Alix, Nicholas! Do come, Kitty is to sing a solo from a new opera that has become popular in France.”
“A…cat singing an opera song? Novel indeed,” Nicholas said, un-slouching from the wall and peering over Ella.
“Oh, Nicholas! You are too funny. Kitty is my lady-in-waiting, Ekaterina!” Ella laughed heartily, and, snatching up my hand, led us to where Miss Kitty was preparing her little concert.
As Ella hurried to Sergei’s side, Xenia re-joined us and whispered to me,
“I hope it isn’t too high opera. I can’t stand high opera!”
Thankfully, Miss Kitty sang in a manner not too offending to Xenia’s ears, and after the concert was concluded, the ball came to an end.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The First Dance, Part One
The first installment of a story about the last Tsarina of Russia, Alexandra Feodorovna, while she was still Princess Alix of Hesse and her and Nicholas's courtship was just beginning. (I've taken to making covers.)
“You’re agitated, Alicky darling!” Ella took my hand to stop my walking to and fro. “What is it? You aren’t nervous, are you? You’re to see Xenia and Nicholas again tonight! I made sure Xenia would be allowed to come even though she’s only thirteen…”
I shook my head and pulled away from Ella’s grasp. I fumbled with the clasp on my necklace; focused on putting it around my neck and centering the pendant. I was not going to say that I was nervous to see Nicholas again after almost five years. I’d harbored a childish fondness for the Tsarevitch ever since I’d met him when I was twelve at Ella and Sergei’s wedding. But now I was sixteen and a half, far too old to feel that way for someone. I should be sensible, I thought. Sensible and greet Nicholas tonight indifferently, as an old acquaintance. Yet I could not do so. I’d been wondering, despairingly, if Nicholas still felt the same for me as he had that lovely June visit in eighteen eighty-four. It was obvious, even to me, a naïve, shy girl of barely twelve, that Nicholas felt the same, perhaps even more, for me. He’d given me a brooch, although Irene made me return it. I recalled the agony of having to give it back. He’d also sent some dried flowers for my debutante ball, he’d never once not told Xenia to include his regards in her letters to me. But still doubts plagued me.
It’s silly, I scolded myself. Silly, downright, absolutely silly. I felt Ella’s cool hand on my shoulder, and I turned to face her.
My beloved sister, so beautiful in her ball gown and brilliant emeralds. So selfless and kind, so lively and level-headed.
“You’re nervous about seeing Nicholas after four years, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Oh, sweetest Alix! There’s no need! He has been so eager to see you, I assure you. Maybe not so much as Xenia,” Ella laughed. Xenia, lively Xenia! I could barely wait to see her. “Yet he certainly has looked forward to this. He’s no longer the teasing boy you knew, Alix. He’s a serious, very handsome young man. And you’re not a little girl anymore, either. His parents want him to marry Helene d’Orleans, but…”
I vehemently shook my head. “No. no! Ella, don’t speak of such things! I’ve only just come out. Please. Not yet.”
“Nicholas has a mind of his own, though. I shan’t say any more, Alix, I’m just warning you. I would not be so very surprised if…well, all I can say is, it would be very strange to have my nephew be my brother-in-law, too!”
I laughed nervously as Ella kissed me on the cheek and handed me my lily-of-the-valley eau de cologne.
“You look beautiful,” she said.
“So do you,” I replied.
My heart beat like a caged bird as I walked down the stairs of Ella and Sergei’s grand home, hearing the music distantly playing from the ballroom. My brother Ernie’s frank, teasing expression as he took my arm calmed my nerves a bit, but not completely. Sergei and Ella took precedence with Ernie and I following with Papa.
“His Highness the Grand Duke Sergei, Her Highness the Grand Duchess Elizabeth. His Highness Grand Duke Ludwig of Hesse. His Highness Prince Ernest Ludwig of Hesse, Her Highness Princess Alix of Hesse…” The footman sounded very imperious as he announced our names.
Nicholas and Xenia were not yet there. I felt out of place, and clung to Ernie’s arm nervously as I scanned the room. Nobody I knew, at all. Ella began to introduce some of her friends, but I only made half-hearted responses.
Then I heard it.
“His Majesty Tsar Alexander the Third, Her Majesty Tsaritsa Marie Feodorovna, His Highness the Tsarevitch Nicholas. His Highness Grand Duke George, Her Highness Grand Duchess Xenia…”
Ella and Sergei came forward to welcome the important guests. Then the moment I had been most dreading and looking forward to at the same time came.
“Alix!” cried Xenia, rushing forward and giving me a hug. “How grown-up you look! You sent us your confirmation photograph, but…! I love your dress! How have you been? I hope the journey wasn’t too awful. It’s so cold! I hope we can go sledding and ice-skating. I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Xenia, stop chattering!” Nicholas laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Welcome, Alix.”
He took my gloved hand and kissed it lightly.
“It’s wonderful to see you again after so long,” I heard myself say.
“Yes, four and a half years.”
We stared at each other for an awkward moment before I blushed and looked down. He was so much more handsome than I had remembered him being.
“If you aren’t otherwise engaged, Alix, I would dearly love to dance the first dance with you.”
Heat rushed to my face. Mentally I groped at straws. Why hadn’t Ernie stayed with me instead of going off to the punch bowl? Then it would be obvious to Nicholas that my brother had escorted me and that I was obliged to dance the first dance with my escort.
“Oh, Nicky! Don’t be so dim! She’s got to dance the first dance with her escort, silly!”
Nicholas stared at Xenia for a few moments. “Oh! Right! I’m sorry. The second, then?”
“Yes! Of course! I’d love to.” Silently I mouthed, “thank you,” to Xenia, who looked baffled.
Just then the orchestra struck the opening chords of the first dance. Ernie came rushing up to me, and clapped Nicholas on the back heartily, greeting him before we went off to the dance floor. I saw Nicholas’s mother come up to him with a dark-haired young woman in a pink dress. Nicholas, rather grudgingly, took her arm.
Ernie and I didn’t talk much as we danced. I was glad, in fact, to begin the ball with someone I felt endlessly comfortable with. Nicholas, in contrast to this, would be at once an agony of awkwardness, and yet at the same time, a delight, for I had wished for such a thing for a long while. All to soon and yet all to slowly, the dance came to an end and Nicholas came to claim me.
Next installment coming later. Forgive the sappiness of some parts!!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Short Story or Novella?
I've been wondering if I should start calling my stories novellas instead. Sure, I have written some proper short stories, such as Skating on the Standart, the Anne Boleyn one, and several others which I haven't posted but might soon. But "stories" such as Cecily Trilby Birche are not really short stories. It'll probably be over 30 pages when it's complete!
Novella: short novel: a fictional prose work that is longer than a short story but shorter than a novel. *
Short story: short work of prose fiction: a work of prose fiction that is shorter than a novel.*
So... short story, or novella? Technically I don't call any of my writings short stories, just stories, but that makes it sound short. It will take getting used to, just like when one's been pronouncing something a certain way for a long time only to find out that it's the wrong way to say it, but I do love the term novella. It sounds so French, even though the roots of the word are in Italian and Latin.
*Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2005 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
Novella: short novel: a fictional prose work that is longer than a short story but shorter than a novel. *
Short story: short work of prose fiction: a work of prose fiction that is shorter than a novel.*
So... short story, or novella? Technically I don't call any of my writings short stories, just stories, but that makes it sound short. It will take getting used to, just like when one's been pronouncing something a certain way for a long time only to find out that it's the wrong way to say it, but I do love the term novella. It sounds so French, even though the roots of the word are in Italian and Latin.
*Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2005 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Stuck, Stuck, Stuck!
Grr! The Dorothy Devereux story I mentioned 2 posts ago has run into a standstill. The opening bit I think turned out okay, but from then on! I just despise it when I can write something, but it turns out so awful and dully plodding that I just can't stand it! This is the opening bit:
My name is Dorothy Devereaux, and this is my story.
It isn’t a particularly exciting tale, but it is a story nonetheless and I am determined to convey it to the best of my ability, so that it may be known to future generations and not be mangled by confusion, rumour and misunderstanding.
Now, that turned out good. It sounds Elizabethan. But then... I think it might go better if I wrote it in third person instead of first, but I want it to be in first person. Grr. My characters are on strike, as a friend once termed it.
My name is Dorothy Devereaux, and this is my story.
It isn’t a particularly exciting tale, but it is a story nonetheless and I am determined to convey it to the best of my ability, so that it may be known to future generations and not be mangled by confusion, rumour and misunderstanding.
Now, that turned out good. It sounds Elizabethan. But then... I think it might go better if I wrote it in third person instead of first, but I want it to be in first person. Grr. My characters are on strike, as a friend once termed it.
Dorothy and Penelope Devereux around the time of my story.
When I look at this painting, I get a rush of inspiration of a general idea of how I want the story to be, but the actual wording is what is so greatly vexing me at the moment.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A Short Story about Anne Boleyn
It doen't have a title yet...
England, 1536--Greenwich Courtyard, April 30
A king--stature so stately, and a queen--elevated so high, and then fallen so low. It was a dusky evening, and the king was strolling in the courtyard of Greenwich Palace after an afternoon of merriment, when he heard a voice.
“Your Majesty! Henry!”
The king turned. “Anne!” he said, not so much delighted as puzzled.
“Your Majesty, I beg of you! For the love of our child, have some mercy! Give me another chance!” The Queen’s dark hair was slipping out of it’s pins, her hood askew. Her eyes were pleading, her face frantic. She clutched Princess Elizabeth in her arms.
Henry glared at her. He was almost moved to be forgiving, looking at her dark eyes beseechingly looking at him, but quickly changed his mind. This woman had lured him with her exotic, irresistible beauty, and she had tricked him. There was no need for mercy. “You failed to give me a son. You lied to me. I will give you no more chances!”
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “Henry! You loved me! I thought you loved me! Can you not spare some kindness! Look at our child!” Princess Elizabeth squirmed in her mother’s arms and turned around to look at her father. Met by this menacing figure she quickly hid her face in her mother’s gown.
“I loved you! For the sake of this love, please, I beg of you! Henry!” This last was cried out in vain as the great king turned away from his wife, ornate cloak swinging as he strode away, callous to his wife’s pleas.
Anne stood forlornly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched her husband disappear into the distance, before she sank to the ground in utter despair, burying her head in little Elizabeth’s dress.
~~
The next day she tried again, carrying Elizabeth past Henry’s window, but he did not come out. He was with Jane Seymour, the little blond lady-in-waiting that had replaced Anne in Henry’s affections. He had flirted with her, gratified that she was the entire opposite of Anne, who was dark, bold, passionate and vivacious compared to meek, fair, quiet Jane.
Hurrying away, with no success, Anne wondered despairingly if Henry would finally show her mercy, or she would lose.
She lost.
England, 1536--Greenwich Courtyard, April 30
A king--stature so stately, and a queen--elevated so high, and then fallen so low. It was a dusky evening, and the king was strolling in the courtyard of Greenwich Palace after an afternoon of merriment, when he heard a voice.
“Your Majesty! Henry!”
The king turned. “Anne!” he said, not so much delighted as puzzled.
“Your Majesty, I beg of you! For the love of our child, have some mercy! Give me another chance!” The Queen’s dark hair was slipping out of it’s pins, her hood askew. Her eyes were pleading, her face frantic. She clutched Princess Elizabeth in her arms.
Henry glared at her. He was almost moved to be forgiving, looking at her dark eyes beseechingly looking at him, but quickly changed his mind. This woman had lured him with her exotic, irresistible beauty, and she had tricked him. There was no need for mercy. “You failed to give me a son. You lied to me. I will give you no more chances!”
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “Henry! You loved me! I thought you loved me! Can you not spare some kindness! Look at our child!” Princess Elizabeth squirmed in her mother’s arms and turned around to look at her father. Met by this menacing figure she quickly hid her face in her mother’s gown.
“I loved you! For the sake of this love, please, I beg of you! Henry!” This last was cried out in vain as the great king turned away from his wife, ornate cloak swinging as he strode away, callous to his wife’s pleas.
Anne stood forlornly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched her husband disappear into the distance, before she sank to the ground in utter despair, burying her head in little Elizabeth’s dress.
~~
The next day she tried again, carrying Elizabeth past Henry’s window, but he did not come out. He was with Jane Seymour, the little blond lady-in-waiting that had replaced Anne in Henry’s affections. He had flirted with her, gratified that she was the entire opposite of Anne, who was dark, bold, passionate and vivacious compared to meek, fair, quiet Jane.
Hurrying away, with no success, Anne wondered despairingly if Henry would finally show her mercy, or she would lose.
She lost.
This story is based on a true event.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Anniversary of the Romanov's death
Since today is the 93rd anniversary of the Romanovs' assasination, (er, late tonight it will be,) I am posting a short story I wrote a couple months ago about them, as well as a tribute video I made.
SKATING ON THE STANDART
a short story about the Romanovs
WITH THE RELEASE of the film, “Rasputin and the Empress”, starring the Barrymore family, in 1932, an interest in the last imperial Romanov family of Russia was kindled.
At the time I was a young reporter for a newspaper in my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
There had been many stories circulating the town about a Russian immigrant named Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky in the early 1920s when I was around ten years old. As far as I knew, he still lived in a little house at the end of Thirty-Fourth street, and so, armed with notebook and pencil, I boldly knocked on his door one day in the spring of 1933 with the hope of interviewing him for the newspaper.
I was surprised to find that he was a very amiable man, a bit of a recluse, and not at all the cruel Russian the townsfolk had made him out to be. I suppose these assumptions were merely made up out of prejudice and not knowing the truth about the friendly Mr. Chegoffsky.
He welcomed me in and made me a glass of tea with a Russian samovar. I told him of my purpose in coming, and he nodded.
“Ah, yes. I heard of this film, and out of curiosity I went to see it. It is terribly inaccurate, I must tell you. The Imperial Family is portrayed most untruthfully. It is merely a trumped-up version of fact, embellished with wild tales to make it appealing to the public. But--if it has sparked an interest in the family, then I am glad. More tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Now,” said Mr. Chegoffsky, settling back into his chair. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“Well, I came to interview you and see if you knew anything about the Imperial Family. It seems that you do.”
“Yes, indeed! I had the great pleasure of knowing them intimately for several years.”
“Really?” This was more than I had ever hoped for! My pencil poised to take notes, I asked,
“How so?”
“I served as a sailor on the yacht Standart from 1908 to 1911. I was in my early twenties then, and very proud indeed to serve the Tsar.”
Warming up to the story, I began to take down all he said. The following is the tale he told me, in his own words.
I have often thought back to my time as a sailor on the Imperial yacht Standart with joy. The Imperial Family was truly lovely, and it was an honor to serve them. I always look back to the events of 1917-18 with sadness, and wish that the lives of these remarkable people had not been cut off with such brutality.
My favorite memory from serving on the Standart is of the Grand Duchesses and some of us sailors roller-skating down the deck. It must have been around 1910 that we did this, for I left my time on this large yacht in 1911.
I believe it was the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaievna’s idea, and the rest of us played along. It made many a boring hour sailing on the Baltic Sea merry.
I do not recall how us sailors obtained roller-skates, but I distinctly recall skating along the deck with the two younger Grand Duchesses, Maria and Anastasia Nicholaievna, on either side of me.
There are many more fond recollections from my time on the Standart, but this one is my favorite. It shows how unaffected and candid the Grand Duchesses were, which, I think, will present a different view to the people of the present day. I sincerely hope that some day this cruel Soviet regime will end, and that the Imperial Family will some day be known as they truly were.
This I later transposed into a newspaper article which won the first prize blue ribbon in our yearly “Best Article” contest. I was very proud of that ribbon, and hung it in a place of honor in the den when I had my own house.
I became very good friends with Vasily Chegoffsky, and was saddened when he died at the age of eighty-two in 1966. He told me many more tales of the last Romanovs, and by the time he passed on, I felt as if I had really known them.
At that point I was the head of the newspaper and I wrote an obituary for the Russian:
Two days ago a citizen of our city, Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky, passed away in his home on Thirty-Fourth Street. Many of you may remember the prize-winning article of 1932, which I wrote as a young junior reporter. That article would never have come to being if it wasn’t for Vasily Chegoffsky. He was a fine man, and he will be missed.
~~~~~
Video: OTMA: Antebellum
R.I.P.
![]()
SKATING ON THE STANDART
a short story about the Romanovs
WITH THE RELEASE of the film, “Rasputin and the Empress”, starring the Barrymore family, in 1932, an interest in the last imperial Romanov family of Russia was kindled.
At the time I was a young reporter for a newspaper in my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
There had been many stories circulating the town about a Russian immigrant named Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky in the early 1920s when I was around ten years old. As far as I knew, he still lived in a little house at the end of Thirty-Fourth street, and so, armed with notebook and pencil, I boldly knocked on his door one day in the spring of 1933 with the hope of interviewing him for the newspaper.
I was surprised to find that he was a very amiable man, a bit of a recluse, and not at all the cruel Russian the townsfolk had made him out to be. I suppose these assumptions were merely made up out of prejudice and not knowing the truth about the friendly Mr. Chegoffsky.
He welcomed me in and made me a glass of tea with a Russian samovar. I told him of my purpose in coming, and he nodded.
“Ah, yes. I heard of this film, and out of curiosity I went to see it. It is terribly inaccurate, I must tell you. The Imperial Family is portrayed most untruthfully. It is merely a trumped-up version of fact, embellished with wild tales to make it appealing to the public. But--if it has sparked an interest in the family, then I am glad. More tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Now,” said Mr. Chegoffsky, settling back into his chair. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“Well, I came to interview you and see if you knew anything about the Imperial Family. It seems that you do.”
“Yes, indeed! I had the great pleasure of knowing them intimately for several years.”
“Really?” This was more than I had ever hoped for! My pencil poised to take notes, I asked,
“How so?”
“I served as a sailor on the yacht Standart from 1908 to 1911. I was in my early twenties then, and very proud indeed to serve the Tsar.”
Warming up to the story, I began to take down all he said. The following is the tale he told me, in his own words.
I have often thought back to my time as a sailor on the Imperial yacht Standart with joy. The Imperial Family was truly lovely, and it was an honor to serve them. I always look back to the events of 1917-18 with sadness, and wish that the lives of these remarkable people had not been cut off with such brutality.
My favorite memory from serving on the Standart is of the Grand Duchesses and some of us sailors roller-skating down the deck. It must have been around 1910 that we did this, for I left my time on this large yacht in 1911.
I believe it was the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaievna’s idea, and the rest of us played along. It made many a boring hour sailing on the Baltic Sea merry.
I do not recall how us sailors obtained roller-skates, but I distinctly recall skating along the deck with the two younger Grand Duchesses, Maria and Anastasia Nicholaievna, on either side of me.
There are many more fond recollections from my time on the Standart, but this one is my favorite. It shows how unaffected and candid the Grand Duchesses were, which, I think, will present a different view to the people of the present day. I sincerely hope that some day this cruel Soviet regime will end, and that the Imperial Family will some day be known as they truly were.
This I later transposed into a newspaper article which won the first prize blue ribbon in our yearly “Best Article” contest. I was very proud of that ribbon, and hung it in a place of honor in the den when I had my own house.
I became very good friends with Vasily Chegoffsky, and was saddened when he died at the age of eighty-two in 1966. He told me many more tales of the last Romanovs, and by the time he passed on, I felt as if I had really known them.
At that point I was the head of the newspaper and I wrote an obituary for the Russian:
Two days ago a citizen of our city, Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky, passed away in his home on Thirty-Fourth Street. Many of you may remember the prize-winning article of 1932, which I wrote as a young junior reporter. That article would never have come to being if it wasn’t for Vasily Chegoffsky. He was a fine man, and he will be missed.
~~~~~
Video: OTMA: Antebellum
R.I.P.
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