I am aiming for an English degree at university - ultimately I'd love to be an author. Long shot, I know. I'm writing a piece of prose for my GCSE coursework but given the amount of ideas that are flowing through my head I think it's going to turn out to be a novella!
Just as a start to it - what do you lovely people on here think to this?
Magdalena Martinez lived in Grenyác, mainly because that was the only place where she felt at peace with herself; she found the surrounding cities too harsh, rough and unforgiving. She resided within a tumbledown apartment above the local florists, owned by Mme Fitzgerald and from there she could witness the comings and goings of the sleepy town. The exposed beams of the low ceiling were draped with colourful ribbons and dried lavender sprigs - a local speciality. Many pieces of the oak furniture were donated by the residents of Grenyác, as a friendly peace offering; a rustic table, three reeded chairs, and a bookcase amongst other items. Standing on top of the scrubbed table was a glazed pottery vase with a poppy delicately placed into it, a glass containing some sort of liquid, a poppy petal floating a top. To the left of the table, a small lead piped window, diamond panes glinting in the hazy evening sunlight. A yellowing envelope sat on the white windowsill, dated the same year as the fatal political uprising. Under the small flight of stairs the old bookcase, packed shelf to shelf full of crumbling volumes - a beaten copy of Gigi on the bottom shelf next to an old paperback version of Utopia. Books seemed to reside everywhere in this apartment - even spilling through into the kitchen; Nicholas Nickleby and Hamlet taking the place of any guests who wished to sit at the worktop.
Magdalena, when she became acquainted with the town's folk would have been considered some foreign beauty not to be trifled with. The silky black hair from her mother's Spanish lineage, the sparkling blue eyes from her fathers Jewish - Romanian heritage. Her face looked pure, innocent if you will, yet there was an aura that surrounded her; it was an aura of knowledge and age old wisdom, like a seasoned traveller returning home from a journey he knew well. High cheekbones were a gift from the Spaniard ancestors, giving Magdalena an elven appearance but they seemed harsh compared with the soft robin's egg blue of her almond shaped eyes.
She had been, for the ten years she had called Grenyác her home, working for one Mme Depardieu at the Depardieu lavender fields, some six miles out of the town centre to the south. Every morning at seven she cycled down to the fields, stopping at Pierre's bakery to receive her lunch - a salad baguette and in winter a chocolat chaud. At three she was allowed to return home although she stayed many a time, often until six, to help with any unfinished business. After work she usually headed straight to the town centre, to the safe haven of the second hand bookshop, run by the infamous Monsieur Rousseau; awkward and vicious towards newcomers but warmhearted and pleasant towards Magdalena - a valued customer and friend. Very often she would carry, heading down the cobbled alleyways to the café which held live music in the basement. Other times she simply found a cosy nook in her apartment and read - her safety net.
She lived alone. It was not that she was an orphan, not at all; her mother, Rosamaria, had sent the her, at seven years old, to find solace with her Aunt in Nice; Rosamaria couldn't keep a family intact following her lover's death. Three years later Aunt Josephine passed away, leaving Magdalena quite alone to find her way in the world.
She possessed neither great materialistic wealth nor power, large groups of companions or formal schooling, but then again she didn't need to; she lived her seemingly, quiet life within the confines of the town walls. She had little duty to her family and relatives; writing to her brother Artemis every so often was the extent to which she stretched. To onlookers her life appeared simple, easygoing and carefree.
It was a Friday. She was perusing the shelves of the bookshop. The steady even count of Monsieur Rousseau prowling behind an unsuspecting tourist matched that of her heartbeat. She felt restless; Dickens, Rimbaud and Colette stared out at her accusingly - 'Why aren't you picking us up?' It had been years since she had opened the envelope that adorned the windowsill; it brought back memories.
Monsieur Rousseau hobbled through the doorframe, cursing under his breath, snatched up an English phrasebook and returned from whence he came. She stared at the shelves blankly, a mist crossing her view - lost in her own tortured thoughts. 'Why did it have to happen like that? Was it fate?'
A hand was gently placed on the back of her shoulder, starting her from the mists of her mind back onto earth.
"Est - ce que ... er...aider tu...um...ple
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