Novel Treatments / The opening for a novella
Alas the child was crying. Thou painful coo of woe, of misfortune that she did not know of yet-sadness of a mother dying. The year was 1819, the date July 14. Sylvia Marie lay upon the Baltic surface of a hospital bed. Her corpse-like body drowning in soiled linens. Her skin, sallow and tinted blue. As twenty hours of labor had past she’d finally given birth to wee little girl. Most mothers would be overjoyed by this glorious hour, but the hour was morbid and Sylvia Marie was dying. Only a few months after being pronounced a pregnant mother to be, Sylvia Marie was diagnosed with tuberculosis. She’d been bedridden, or supposed to be at least. She was a nomadic woman, drifting from town to town. Never settling long enough for more than a night by a campfire with a glass o’ rum. And on this night, the night of July 14, 1819, Sylvia Marie lay shivering on what was to be her pre casket. By dawn, she was dead.
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I just finished reading your “opening”. I really like it. It has a poem like rhymth to it, which is neat. The only thing I’d advise is to explain the situation in more depth, for example more of Sylvia Marie’s past. I do enjoy your attention to detail and can’t wait for more of this tale to appear. Oh, and when you said “baltic” did you mean that the bed was cold, or that the character was in a nordic area? Maybe you should explain that more. Great Job, I’ll be reading more of it.
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