Chatterbox: Inkwell

Writing Contest! So, like Soren, I'm also writing a story for the contest that Jwyn (I think? XD) posted. I'm not very far along yet, but I thought that I would post it here and see what you think. I have a whole page written about the plot and stuff, but I want to see if you like it without knowing what it's about and I want to see if you catch on. Any critismn is welcomed. Anyways, here it is, without further ado, although you should know that it's kind of distopian and the time period is in the future, but it's kind of like the Hunger Games. Ugh, nevermind me. If you read all this, congrats, and please enjoy the story. :) :) :)

Oh, just one more thing. Each chapter is about five pages, so I'm only posting parts of chapters, about one page, at a time. K, I'm ready now. :)

I sling my satchel over my shoulder, the white drawstring bag hitting my back in perfect synchronism to my steps. I look down at my knee-high white boots, pounding the worn dirt path even more than it already is from the miners who come this way every day. I take my time walking to the market in the center of town, listening. Just listening. I like to listen. It’s odd to find someone who likes to talk and knows how to listen, but I do. Given my history, it’s not all that surprising. Once I get to the market, Frenna waves me over, pushing a few coins into my palm and slipping me a napkin-wrapped chicken wing in the other. I raise my eyebrows at her, sighing as I look around and see the ramshackety wooden stalls where everyone comes once the work day is over. The square is packed with people selling in the stands, banners half-heartedly hanging from posts above the counters where everyone else is buying dinner. I turn my eyes back to the old lady.

“Frenna, you really don’t have to do this,” I sigh again, pulling my satchel of my back. “I’m the one who should be paying you.” As I start to rummage around the bag, Frenna forces the sack back onto my slender shoulders in the pushy but mean-well way she has.

“No, no, no, hon, you just take that money and buy yourself something. Something nice, mind you, not using that money for your granny. I’m knowing that chicken’s her favorite, so you a gonna give that to her and buy yourself something. You understand me, girly?” Frenna shoves the items back into my hands before I can do anything. “Now, then, you gotta pretend to pay me so they don’t a get suspicious of me, you hear?” Once again, I find myself smiling and doing what Frenna asks. It’s just too hard to resist her.

Waving goodbye to Frenna, I head over to the other side of the market, using the money my grandmother’s best friend gave me to buy a small tin of dark-chocolate-covered caramels. I select nuts, bread, cheese, apples, and a large tin of fresh water from another stand, putting everything into my bag as I head home, knowing that a fire will be blazing with a pot boiling above it. As expected, when I walk into the small but cozy hut, Steph is rocking in a chair by the roaring orange glow, a thick stew roasting above the flames. I set the food on the small wooden table and sit down on the feather-filled mattress, my bed, and hand my grandma the chicken wing.

“Frenna?” Steph questions, biting into the meat and continuing her sewing. Steph insists I call her by her first name, because, according to her, we’re more like best friends then relatives. I nod, sipping stew from a metal cup. Steph rolls her eyes, but I can tell that she’s hiding a smile and a secretive laugh behind her glowing and and hollow but full of life cheeks. I smile, raising the broken shard of glass from the counter to look at my own reflection. Steph sets down her sewing, staring into the fire and taking slow spoonfuls of stew like only someone who knows that food is limited does. Only someone of the Coal City. I finish my stew, rinsing the rusted cup in a tub of dirty water and setting it back on the counter. I curl up on the bed, unrolling a faded map of the Gem Kingdom, the one I keep in a wooden box that Dad made for me when I was little. I close the lid of the wooden box to keep the loose papers inside, running my smooth hand, so different from Frenna and Steph’s callused hands, over the worn engravings. My nails are in perfect condition and my fingers are slim, which almost makes me feel bad because Steph’s nails are so chipped and Frenna’s fingers are bent in all the wrong directions. Steph notices me upset, but all she does is sigh. She doesn’t like that I got raised so perfectly from being a princess while everyone in the Coal City seems to suffer. It’s not like I agree with that either. I don’t have a say in the matter, though, and Steph doesn’t seem to understand that. She can be hard sometimes.