The local writers’ group sets writing prompts with two randomly chosen words. One of those was Summer Castle. Here’s what I did with that.
Joanna sat down on her favourite bench in the garden, arranging her skirts over the crinoline as she made herself comfortable. She’d been moping for a week. All her friends went to London for the season, but she still had to accompany her family to this dreary castle. Every confounded summer.
She sighed. When she was little, at least there had been a boy here with whom she would play. She wondered who he was, now. She hadn’t seen him after she turned 8. Curious. She’d have to ask papa who the boy could have been. Billy Something-or-other. He always wore the same old-fashioned clothes and made her do dangerous things. Joanna smiled at the recollection. Once, she’d broken her ring finger trying to scale the wall surrounding the garden. How he’d laughed when she cried and ran off to find mama. But the next day, she’d played with him again. What else was there to do around here?
Twisting the engagement ring on her finger, she resolved never to return here after her marriage. Gloomy old place. She stood, stretching her back. Almost time for supper. As she moved towards the open door, her foot slipped, and she fell backwards. Hands gripping nothing but air, she felt a sharp pain as the back of her head cracked against the stone bench. The last thing she saw was the writing on the bench’s support. ‘R.I.P. William Taylor, 1758-1766’.
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Christa Bakker 