Friday, 30 November 2012

Witch Trials of 1612 - Writing History Fiction

The reason why I haven't been posting a lot lately is because I have so much work on right now. I have four deadlines in the next two weeks. And boy, am I panicking. My biggest reason for stress right now is the bloody Writing History Fiction module. I have two assignments due within a week of each other; one creative piece (2500 words) and an essay on why the Tudors are so popular in literature (2000 words). All together I have about 300 words written so's going slow. My lecturer is so picky, and it makes me scared to write anything because she is going to analyse every single word. I really want to get another first this year but it doesn't seem likely. Every time I get back an assignment I'm with someone who does get a first and it makes me sad.
Anyway. No time for being sad, I'm being stressed right now! So here's what I have on my creative piece at the moment, which is about the witch trials of 1612.

20th August 1612

     The wind blew violently through the trees as Isabel caught her first glimpse of the gallows. She stood as straight as her bonds would allow her. It did not matter what they said. She knew she was innocent.


    Fire crackled in the hearth. Warm light licked the sides of the stone walls and chased the shadows away. Isabel savoured the warmth on her legs; the weather had been particularly harsh that winter and the cold aggravated her aching bones. Even her herbal remedies had not been able to help. She relaxed onto the wooden chair as Mary fretted around her.
      ‘You know you should not be here, Isabel.’ Her voice was high with panic.
      Isabel looked over her shoulder at her goddaughter. Her slight figure and silken hair were reason for the many admirers in Wendel. But to Isabel it was the beauty of her face that made her so alluring. Dark eyes and full lips never ceased to trap men of all ages under her spell. Now, however, her brows met in the middle and her eyes darted to and from the door. She sat down in her chair, then stood, paced around the room, and then sat down again. She repeated this motion four times when Isabel finally spoke.
      ‘My dear, he won’t be back until nightfall. Cease your worry.’ Isabel rose and rested her hands on   Mary’s tense shoulders. Mary held her body rigid for a moment before letting herself to curl into her godmother’s comforting arms.
     ‘He’ll be back soon, and then it shall start once more.’ 

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