User:ColonialTimesGal

Colonial Times: Dreams of a Goddess

I have dreamt of being a writer since I was only a couple years old. My father bought me a typewriter at age 5. I have never left a day without typing on it. I remain in my quaters, typing at a speed that is unbelievably fascinating. Even my speed fascinates me! I have stated about my dream; I now must describe myself. My name is Nora Janice Johnson. I have strands of dark gold hair. I have a british accent...ah...british accent. This is where my actual story begins. The story begins on January 28 1612.

I was busy at my typewriter, typing away my thoughts. I have been working on a Newspaper article for our Colonies' newspaper, Colonial Life. Some call it "Colonial Times". Colonial Times is quite famous, therefore, many come to my door, offering anything they can to recieve the first copy of Colonial Life. No one had come to my door today. It, for the first time in many years, made me feel off-course...like something was wrong.

I looked up from my typewriter, looking straight ahead at a slightly open window. I looked to the right, then left. It gave an eerie feeling. The room was dark, except for the barely noticeable light coming from the slightly open window. The room was gray. I could see the tiny, almost invisible, lint floating around the room. Millions, slowly moving, waiting until they will hit the ground, like snowflakes. While watching one specific piece of lint falling slowly, swiftly, it fell to the ground, collecting with a thick layer of dust on the wooden floor. My mind then was focused on the layer of dust covering the floor I was stepping on. I then tested how deep the dust was by stepping my right foot on a layer my eyes were focused on. The dust clouded up, then descended back onto the floor. I then was curious. Questions were filling up in my head by the dozen. Most questions created more questions, also creating an incredibly painful headache. I attempted to ignore my headache, and complete one of my questions. I looked on the floor. There were footprints, leading to the door. I only left my little house for necessities, such as food, water, to talk to my acquaintances, and to feel the sunlight on my bare skin, the warmth welcoming. Or if it was raining, I would be the only person dancing on the cobble stone streets, bare-foot, swinging my arms in circles, along with my body, careless and jolly. Today was different, though. I did not feel jolly, yet I did not feel unhappy. I was uncertain what I was feeling. I sniffed the air. It smelled of rain.

I walked to the only window in my house, and raised the glass window. I stuck my head out, looking both directions. Dark clouds floated up in the sky, slowly. The streets were clear of any life. I then stepped away from the window and walked to the door. As I turned the smooth, wooden door knob, I closed my eyes, inhaled, and slowly exhaled. I looked back at my typewriter, pondering the thought of leaving my most beloved possession. It was not the fact that someone might attempt to steal it...but it was the thought of betraying parents, leaving them to die.

I have had a terrible experience with...them. Them who have gave us no choice but to leave and thrive on our own. It was basically the matter of life and death.