This is my GCSE English Creative Assignment, which was to write a short
story with a twist.
Please read and review this, as it needs to be handed in soon, and I need
to know what to alter.
If you review, please summarize the story for me, say what you think
happened at the end; mention anything you noticed or think you were
SUPPOSED to notice. I promise to review your work if you help me with this.
"Nevermore"
If there is one fate worse than death for a child, it is one of entrapment and isolation. This fate is worsened by the inclusion of the paranormal, as one small girl found out all too soon.
Being naturally curious, as most children of her time were, the supposed danger and forbidden territory of the upper floors of the house were tempting. Escaping her nurse to investigate was simple. The girl produced her cherished Lewis Carroll volume for the umpteenth time, settled beside the wearisome young employee, and counted the seconds till the recitation of Alice's adventures took its toll. The nurse was asleep within minutes. The girl crept up the oak staircase and along the corridor, ears naturally trained to listen for the presence of servants, and found herself outside the small, rather monotonous-looking door; fifth on the left.
Her reasons for being here did not only lie with her naive curiosity. A darker purpose, one perhaps more advanced than she could be expected to cope with, had spurred her on.
The brass doorknob twisted open with a squeak, startling her. After one swift glance up and down the deserted corridor, she slipped inside, allowed herself to be enveloped by the shadows, and carefully closed the door. She tossed ringlets from her eyes and inhaled with a sour face. Dust lined every surface; ever space of floor visible; every pane of glass on the small windows, preventing the afternoon sunlight from penetrating through.
Wondering with distaste why the servants had not seen to the room, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the weak lighting. Reaching into the pouch of her dress, she produced a small linen handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe the window nearest to her relatively clean, frowning as her delicate initials, which had been stitched onto the linen, were covered with a coat of thick dust.
With the new light, she was able to account for the large objects which had been undecipherable in the dark. A bureau stood in the far corner, its wood dulled by the dust. A bassinette stood to her right, and numerous chests and boxes of varying shapes, sizes and values cluttered the floor. She spotted what looked like her late grandmothers rocking chair, half hidden by the gloom.
The girl was eager, yet anxious, to begin her search. Where should she start? She had no idea. What was it she sought to obtain? She was undecided. The only thing she was certain of was that this very room held within its walls information of vale to her. As young as she was, she knew the importance of the subject.
Lifting the skirt of her dress, the little lady stepped cautiously over the creaking floorboards, leaving miniature footprints on the dusty floor in her wake, and knelt by the largest chest in the room.
It was a proud container; one which she did not remember ever seeing in the lower rooms. Beautiful carvings travelled the breadth of the sturdy wood; carvings which looked like dancing fairies. The girl ran a wondering hand over its lid till she found the opening. Her fingers grasped at the ridges and heaved, releasing a cloud of smoke-like dust from inside the chest.
Spluttering, she waved the cloud away from her face and peered inside. A gleam of polished oak caught her eye first. She reached in and produced from the depths a beautiful music box. Eyebrows knotted, she revolved the trinket in her hands. She instantly fell in love with its delicate carvings and details, its glossy surface and comfortable weight. Smiling, she turned the small handle at its side, and let fourth the high, tinkling sounds of the box.
The music still playing softly, she set the box beside her, making a mental note to bring it downstairs later. The next treasure she found, to her surprise and delight, was a sample of one of her own baby invitation cards. She wiped the rectangular card clean and read the inscription:
Mrs. Alexander Frederick Mayfair
At home
From two o'clock to five o'clock
In the afternoon of
The fifteenth of December
She noted her own name and date of birth on the slip attached by a length of pink ribbon. She had never before seen her own card, only that of a baby boy, born to one of her aunt's close friends, a year ago.
Thinking the find too precious to join the music box, which had finished its quaint tune on the floor, she slipped the pair of cards into her dress pouch.
She continued her rummage through the chest of surprises, and in so, found a number of other objects of relevance to her early childhood: a finely sewn baby wrap, in the customary white; a shining silver Christening spoon, its sender anonymous, several soft blankets which, when shook powerfully, lost their dust and returned to white, and sitting at the bottom of the unfathomable chest, lay a darling, picturesque miniature, displaying her own face, its age approximately five years past. This, she also pocketed.
Shaking her head at the thought of so many valuable things being locked away in such a place, she restored the bundles of cloth back into the chest, rose, and wiped her hands clean. She stared around the room, having to squint even with the help of the sunlight. She had not yet discovered what she so hoped to find.
Making up her determined little mind, she awkwardly dragged an old wash stand in the corner, taking care not to upset the blue and white painted chamber set perched upon it, out of her way.
Concealed behind this were several more wooden chests; dull and unsightly when compared to her baby box. Stepping around a folded dressing screen, she lifted the lid of the largest one; a great, strong chest, one of which she was doubtful she could move.
The little girl's heart quickened and a weight was lifted as she surveyed the contents.
It had been five years since she had seen these almost foreign, feminine things. Five years since she had smiled at the sight of her mother dressed in them before a tea party. Five years since she had seen her mother at all.
The police didn't spend a lot of time investigating. She had disappeared without a trace. Every room in the house was examined; the town and surrounding countryside had been searched. But although she had not understood at the time, she now knew the case of her mother's disappearance had been closed, and murder was assumed. Her father had never gotten over his grief. He took refuge in his study, surrounded by his work and books, letters and meetings with colleagues. The girl's upbringing had been supervised by the nurse ever since, her father remained uninterested. His face became distorted with anger or woe when she attempted to converse or just be near her father. She was told by him one day, in his moment of fury that she looked too much like her.
Every picture, painting and procession of her mother's had been removed from view in the house. Servants were ordered never to speak her name. The music room, being her favourite room in the house, was locked securely and the piano inside it sold. After the mourning period, women were hardly ever guests at the house. The lady's maid had been excused and the only explanation given to the girl was that her mother "had left and was now an angel".
She now began to remove items from the box. She remembered them well, she had seen them often enough. A cream parasol, two pairs of finely made boots, several pairs of gloves, corsets, and many beautiful dresses.
Each item was like holding a lost memory in her hands, and each one surfaced a mental image; her mother opening the new parasol in the garden amongst her beloved flowers, the boots she had seen the maid do up with the buttonhook, which she discovered at the bottom of the chest, as she peered through a crack in her mothers bedroom door. The picture she now had as she held the gloves; her mother pulling them securely on before a grand party, was so vivid it seemed reality, even in the murkiness and solitude of the lost room in which she now knelt.
She spent many minutes just looking and touching the finds that had finished her search for her mother's memory. She opened and closed the parasol, leaning it against her shoulder as she saw so many ladies do, fluttered the rose and white fan she had found in front of her face, examined the precise stitching of the strong, immaculate heeled boots, which had been sent to her mother from a country she didn't know the name of and displayed the full length gowns of lace and splendour in front of her small frame, wishing there was a mirror in the room.
After many reminiscing moments with these fine things, she began to wonder where the rest of her mother's belongings had been hidden.
Shutting everything back into its chest again, she knew she could not save it all from the confinements of the room, the now satisfied young girl stood to scan the room of so many mysteries. Her eyes fell upon the other chest she had uncovered from behind the wash stand.
As she fell to her now rather dirty knees again, a flash of black plumage landed on the windowsill of the only window giving her light. One look told her it was a raven; her nurse was fond of birds and had identified this particular one to her.
She watched it for a second as it ruffled its sleek feathers of ebony, its beadlike eye fixated on her actions in the room. After her moment of observation, she opened the second chest, curiosity flaring again.
This particular chest interested her greatly. Stacks of books, old and new, filled it to the brim. She looked through them with glee, touching the thick leather bindings, wiping the covers to display the titles and authors.
Many of the books she had seen before, on her mothers many bookshelves. She discovered a worn copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, a book which was a firm favourite of her aunt's; many volumes of Dickens; Louisa M. Alcott's books were found near the bottom, in good condition, along with tales she rather enjoyed herself; fairytales and The Secret Garden.
Amongst these familiar books, she found a predominantly dustier one, by an author she had never heard of: Edgar Allan Poe.
Intrigued, she flipped open the large book at a random page and laid it across her lap. The pages were thick and smelt mouldy, but the text was neat and legible.
The opened pages contained what seemed to be a poem. Just as she was beginning to read, the spectator on the windowsill gave a low caw, causing her to jerk her eyes from the pages up to the window.
She scowled at her disruption, but realised, with amusement, that the name of the poem was in fact "The Raven". She smiled up through the window at the bird, and laughed when it hopped from one small foot to the other, almost out of self consciousness.
When she returned to her book, she was dismayed to find there were many words she couldn't read, nor understand. After scanning the verses and reading what she could, she slammed the book closed in annoyance, involuntarily coating herself with dust.
Wiping herself down, she reached for the one book left she hadn't yet touched. It sat at the base of the chest, and was apparently without a title.
As she lifted the weighty book out, the raven cawed repeatedly through the window, making quite a lot of noise. She shushed the pest, uncaring for its presence and beauty now.
It continued to caw persistently as she opened the cover of the book, but when she accounted for its contents the sound became highly insignificant and faded.
This book was not in fact a book of literature, but a photo album. It's circular and ovular spaces held pages upon pages of photos. And as evidence of the names below each person, these were pictures of her family.
She scarcely noticed the album's rarely coloured black and red leather cover, its intact spine and surprisingly clean pages, nor its flower and ribbon decoration. These pictures were alien to her and she bit down on her lip and she turned its leaves.
They showed her relatives she never knew had existed: a young male named Edward Mayfair at the age of, she guessed, seventeen, gazed out of her through one circle; his eyes dark and serious, dressed in a cravat and waistcoat, handsome mouth set in a straight line. A group photograph showed her a whole family; an elderly man with whom she assumed were his daughter and grandchildren, looked at her fondly, the bouncing baby on his mothers knee took pride of place in the centre of the picture. Sarah Mayfair, a middle aged woman in a splendid gown and curled hair, sat at a piano, hands poised. She also found a recent picture of her late grandmother, Patience, whom her father never spoke of.
Page after page she turned, looking at these pictures in awe, getting glimpse after glimpse of her own heritage. These were people she had never seen before, not even in pictures.
She couldn't help but notice the raven's ever loudening call as she approached the end of her discovery. She passed girls and boys her own age (Leah, Nancy, Benjamin and Daniel, in a group photo featuring a pet dog) noble men who resembled her father (Louis, Thomas and Ralph, apparently brothers) and little infants who looked merely weeks old (Charlotte and Faith in their baby blankets).
She could not, however, understand why every one of these amazing pictures featured only her father's side of the family. Surely her father wouldn't keep a photo album?
Heart fluttering madly, fingers trembling as she stared at face after face (Rachel, Virginia) of people she shared blood with (Lawrence and Mary, a young couple) the raven's cry grew unbearably loud, and she feared one of the servants would hear and investigate before she could finish scanning the book of Mayfair's (young twins, Elizabeth and Noah).
She came to the last page double page of oval shaped pictures and clapped a little hand to her moth, smearing dust and dirt on her cheek.
A young, beautiful woman, dressed in her best silk and lace, looked out of the page, her eyes large and lined with the finest eyelashes. Dark hair fell in curls around her face, rosebud mouth curled in a small smile, cheekbones high and feminine. The name beneath declared Eleanor Mayfair. Her mother.
The girl, overjoyed at seeing her mothers comforting countenance after so long, wept over the book spread on her knee, taking care to catch the tear droplets before they hit the page.
She was exactly as she remembered her, and seemed to be attired in the last dress she recalled her wearing before her disappearance.
Ignoring the raven's high pitched calling, she reached into her pocket, still beaming with her eyes locked on her mother, to retrieve her baby invitation. Just as she began to wonder whether or not to show her father her finds, she noticed the name underlining the last, ovular photograph space, next to her mothers:
Amelia Mayfair
Her hand clutched at her card, frozen, eyes on the blank space yet to be filled, the raven's cawing now hysterical at the window pane, the room around her dissolved into nothing but blackness as the white glow from the book overpowered her eyes, the edges of the oval widened; grew all the more whiter, she couldn't keep hold of her card, her fingers relaxed and it fluttered to the ground, her head felt light, she was blinded, the page was at eye level now, the raven's cawing grew softer..softer..
She opened her eyes, the sweat on her forehead sticking her curls to her face and she calmed her breathing. She squinted in confusion; she could see the musty room, the shapes of the shadows and chests which had filled her with so much hope and happiness. But something was wrong; it was too distant, too high above.she was horizontal with the dark floor. She was tapped within something, she began to panic.
She lifted her hand out to reach, but couldn't; there was a blockage. It was clear yet strong and she couldn't press through it. Hysteria swept over the little girl in a wave as she pressed and twisted in her prison, trying to cry out but couldn't, the blockade was preventing that as well, she kept hearing the raven on the other side, wishing with all her heart she had listened to its warning, distantly she could hear her mother's voice calling her name, it was getting closer, ever closer, and one word repeated relentlessly in her mind, one word she was able to understand in the last piece of literature she had read in her world: "Nevermore.Nevermore.Nevermore.".
Her wide eyes so much like those of her mother on the page beside her, and the dozens of pairs throughout the beautifully bound book, stared helplessly out of the page, her figure sealed in the claustrophobic, ovular shaped prison, her name displayed below her image, the "Mayfair" connecting her with these many, lost relations.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
"The Raven": Edgar Allan Poe
"Nevermore"
If there is one fate worse than death for a child, it is one of entrapment and isolation. This fate is worsened by the inclusion of the paranormal, as one small girl found out all too soon.
Being naturally curious, as most children of her time were, the supposed danger and forbidden territory of the upper floors of the house were tempting. Escaping her nurse to investigate was simple. The girl produced her cherished Lewis Carroll volume for the umpteenth time, settled beside the wearisome young employee, and counted the seconds till the recitation of Alice's adventures took its toll. The nurse was asleep within minutes. The girl crept up the oak staircase and along the corridor, ears naturally trained to listen for the presence of servants, and found herself outside the small, rather monotonous-looking door; fifth on the left.
Her reasons for being here did not only lie with her naive curiosity. A darker purpose, one perhaps more advanced than she could be expected to cope with, had spurred her on.
The brass doorknob twisted open with a squeak, startling her. After one swift glance up and down the deserted corridor, she slipped inside, allowed herself to be enveloped by the shadows, and carefully closed the door. She tossed ringlets from her eyes and inhaled with a sour face. Dust lined every surface; ever space of floor visible; every pane of glass on the small windows, preventing the afternoon sunlight from penetrating through.
Wondering with distaste why the servants had not seen to the room, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the weak lighting. Reaching into the pouch of her dress, she produced a small linen handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe the window nearest to her relatively clean, frowning as her delicate initials, which had been stitched onto the linen, were covered with a coat of thick dust.
With the new light, she was able to account for the large objects which had been undecipherable in the dark. A bureau stood in the far corner, its wood dulled by the dust. A bassinette stood to her right, and numerous chests and boxes of varying shapes, sizes and values cluttered the floor. She spotted what looked like her late grandmothers rocking chair, half hidden by the gloom.
The girl was eager, yet anxious, to begin her search. Where should she start? She had no idea. What was it she sought to obtain? She was undecided. The only thing she was certain of was that this very room held within its walls information of vale to her. As young as she was, she knew the importance of the subject.
Lifting the skirt of her dress, the little lady stepped cautiously over the creaking floorboards, leaving miniature footprints on the dusty floor in her wake, and knelt by the largest chest in the room.
It was a proud container; one which she did not remember ever seeing in the lower rooms. Beautiful carvings travelled the breadth of the sturdy wood; carvings which looked like dancing fairies. The girl ran a wondering hand over its lid till she found the opening. Her fingers grasped at the ridges and heaved, releasing a cloud of smoke-like dust from inside the chest.
Spluttering, she waved the cloud away from her face and peered inside. A gleam of polished oak caught her eye first. She reached in and produced from the depths a beautiful music box. Eyebrows knotted, she revolved the trinket in her hands. She instantly fell in love with its delicate carvings and details, its glossy surface and comfortable weight. Smiling, she turned the small handle at its side, and let fourth the high, tinkling sounds of the box.
The music still playing softly, she set the box beside her, making a mental note to bring it downstairs later. The next treasure she found, to her surprise and delight, was a sample of one of her own baby invitation cards. She wiped the rectangular card clean and read the inscription:
Mrs. Alexander Frederick Mayfair
At home
From two o'clock to five o'clock
In the afternoon of
The fifteenth of December
She noted her own name and date of birth on the slip attached by a length of pink ribbon. She had never before seen her own card, only that of a baby boy, born to one of her aunt's close friends, a year ago.
Thinking the find too precious to join the music box, which had finished its quaint tune on the floor, she slipped the pair of cards into her dress pouch.
She continued her rummage through the chest of surprises, and in so, found a number of other objects of relevance to her early childhood: a finely sewn baby wrap, in the customary white; a shining silver Christening spoon, its sender anonymous, several soft blankets which, when shook powerfully, lost their dust and returned to white, and sitting at the bottom of the unfathomable chest, lay a darling, picturesque miniature, displaying her own face, its age approximately five years past. This, she also pocketed.
Shaking her head at the thought of so many valuable things being locked away in such a place, she restored the bundles of cloth back into the chest, rose, and wiped her hands clean. She stared around the room, having to squint even with the help of the sunlight. She had not yet discovered what she so hoped to find.
Making up her determined little mind, she awkwardly dragged an old wash stand in the corner, taking care not to upset the blue and white painted chamber set perched upon it, out of her way.
Concealed behind this were several more wooden chests; dull and unsightly when compared to her baby box. Stepping around a folded dressing screen, she lifted the lid of the largest one; a great, strong chest, one of which she was doubtful she could move.
The little girl's heart quickened and a weight was lifted as she surveyed the contents.
It had been five years since she had seen these almost foreign, feminine things. Five years since she had smiled at the sight of her mother dressed in them before a tea party. Five years since she had seen her mother at all.
The police didn't spend a lot of time investigating. She had disappeared without a trace. Every room in the house was examined; the town and surrounding countryside had been searched. But although she had not understood at the time, she now knew the case of her mother's disappearance had been closed, and murder was assumed. Her father had never gotten over his grief. He took refuge in his study, surrounded by his work and books, letters and meetings with colleagues. The girl's upbringing had been supervised by the nurse ever since, her father remained uninterested. His face became distorted with anger or woe when she attempted to converse or just be near her father. She was told by him one day, in his moment of fury that she looked too much like her.
Every picture, painting and procession of her mother's had been removed from view in the house. Servants were ordered never to speak her name. The music room, being her favourite room in the house, was locked securely and the piano inside it sold. After the mourning period, women were hardly ever guests at the house. The lady's maid had been excused and the only explanation given to the girl was that her mother "had left and was now an angel".
She now began to remove items from the box. She remembered them well, she had seen them often enough. A cream parasol, two pairs of finely made boots, several pairs of gloves, corsets, and many beautiful dresses.
Each item was like holding a lost memory in her hands, and each one surfaced a mental image; her mother opening the new parasol in the garden amongst her beloved flowers, the boots she had seen the maid do up with the buttonhook, which she discovered at the bottom of the chest, as she peered through a crack in her mothers bedroom door. The picture she now had as she held the gloves; her mother pulling them securely on before a grand party, was so vivid it seemed reality, even in the murkiness and solitude of the lost room in which she now knelt.
She spent many minutes just looking and touching the finds that had finished her search for her mother's memory. She opened and closed the parasol, leaning it against her shoulder as she saw so many ladies do, fluttered the rose and white fan she had found in front of her face, examined the precise stitching of the strong, immaculate heeled boots, which had been sent to her mother from a country she didn't know the name of and displayed the full length gowns of lace and splendour in front of her small frame, wishing there was a mirror in the room.
After many reminiscing moments with these fine things, she began to wonder where the rest of her mother's belongings had been hidden.
Shutting everything back into its chest again, she knew she could not save it all from the confinements of the room, the now satisfied young girl stood to scan the room of so many mysteries. Her eyes fell upon the other chest she had uncovered from behind the wash stand.
As she fell to her now rather dirty knees again, a flash of black plumage landed on the windowsill of the only window giving her light. One look told her it was a raven; her nurse was fond of birds and had identified this particular one to her.
She watched it for a second as it ruffled its sleek feathers of ebony, its beadlike eye fixated on her actions in the room. After her moment of observation, she opened the second chest, curiosity flaring again.
This particular chest interested her greatly. Stacks of books, old and new, filled it to the brim. She looked through them with glee, touching the thick leather bindings, wiping the covers to display the titles and authors.
Many of the books she had seen before, on her mothers many bookshelves. She discovered a worn copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, a book which was a firm favourite of her aunt's; many volumes of Dickens; Louisa M. Alcott's books were found near the bottom, in good condition, along with tales she rather enjoyed herself; fairytales and The Secret Garden.
Amongst these familiar books, she found a predominantly dustier one, by an author she had never heard of: Edgar Allan Poe.
Intrigued, she flipped open the large book at a random page and laid it across her lap. The pages were thick and smelt mouldy, but the text was neat and legible.
The opened pages contained what seemed to be a poem. Just as she was beginning to read, the spectator on the windowsill gave a low caw, causing her to jerk her eyes from the pages up to the window.
She scowled at her disruption, but realised, with amusement, that the name of the poem was in fact "The Raven". She smiled up through the window at the bird, and laughed when it hopped from one small foot to the other, almost out of self consciousness.
When she returned to her book, she was dismayed to find there were many words she couldn't read, nor understand. After scanning the verses and reading what she could, she slammed the book closed in annoyance, involuntarily coating herself with dust.
Wiping herself down, she reached for the one book left she hadn't yet touched. It sat at the base of the chest, and was apparently without a title.
As she lifted the weighty book out, the raven cawed repeatedly through the window, making quite a lot of noise. She shushed the pest, uncaring for its presence and beauty now.
It continued to caw persistently as she opened the cover of the book, but when she accounted for its contents the sound became highly insignificant and faded.
This book was not in fact a book of literature, but a photo album. It's circular and ovular spaces held pages upon pages of photos. And as evidence of the names below each person, these were pictures of her family.
She scarcely noticed the album's rarely coloured black and red leather cover, its intact spine and surprisingly clean pages, nor its flower and ribbon decoration. These pictures were alien to her and she bit down on her lip and she turned its leaves.
They showed her relatives she never knew had existed: a young male named Edward Mayfair at the age of, she guessed, seventeen, gazed out of her through one circle; his eyes dark and serious, dressed in a cravat and waistcoat, handsome mouth set in a straight line. A group photograph showed her a whole family; an elderly man with whom she assumed were his daughter and grandchildren, looked at her fondly, the bouncing baby on his mothers knee took pride of place in the centre of the picture. Sarah Mayfair, a middle aged woman in a splendid gown and curled hair, sat at a piano, hands poised. She also found a recent picture of her late grandmother, Patience, whom her father never spoke of.
Page after page she turned, looking at these pictures in awe, getting glimpse after glimpse of her own heritage. These were people she had never seen before, not even in pictures.
She couldn't help but notice the raven's ever loudening call as she approached the end of her discovery. She passed girls and boys her own age (Leah, Nancy, Benjamin and Daniel, in a group photo featuring a pet dog) noble men who resembled her father (Louis, Thomas and Ralph, apparently brothers) and little infants who looked merely weeks old (Charlotte and Faith in their baby blankets).
She could not, however, understand why every one of these amazing pictures featured only her father's side of the family. Surely her father wouldn't keep a photo album?
Heart fluttering madly, fingers trembling as she stared at face after face (Rachel, Virginia) of people she shared blood with (Lawrence and Mary, a young couple) the raven's cry grew unbearably loud, and she feared one of the servants would hear and investigate before she could finish scanning the book of Mayfair's (young twins, Elizabeth and Noah).
She came to the last page double page of oval shaped pictures and clapped a little hand to her moth, smearing dust and dirt on her cheek.
A young, beautiful woman, dressed in her best silk and lace, looked out of the page, her eyes large and lined with the finest eyelashes. Dark hair fell in curls around her face, rosebud mouth curled in a small smile, cheekbones high and feminine. The name beneath declared Eleanor Mayfair. Her mother.
The girl, overjoyed at seeing her mothers comforting countenance after so long, wept over the book spread on her knee, taking care to catch the tear droplets before they hit the page.
She was exactly as she remembered her, and seemed to be attired in the last dress she recalled her wearing before her disappearance.
Ignoring the raven's high pitched calling, she reached into her pocket, still beaming with her eyes locked on her mother, to retrieve her baby invitation. Just as she began to wonder whether or not to show her father her finds, she noticed the name underlining the last, ovular photograph space, next to her mothers:
Amelia Mayfair
Her hand clutched at her card, frozen, eyes on the blank space yet to be filled, the raven's cawing now hysterical at the window pane, the room around her dissolved into nothing but blackness as the white glow from the book overpowered her eyes, the edges of the oval widened; grew all the more whiter, she couldn't keep hold of her card, her fingers relaxed and it fluttered to the ground, her head felt light, she was blinded, the page was at eye level now, the raven's cawing grew softer..softer..
She opened her eyes, the sweat on her forehead sticking her curls to her face and she calmed her breathing. She squinted in confusion; she could see the musty room, the shapes of the shadows and chests which had filled her with so much hope and happiness. But something was wrong; it was too distant, too high above.she was horizontal with the dark floor. She was tapped within something, she began to panic.
She lifted her hand out to reach, but couldn't; there was a blockage. It was clear yet strong and she couldn't press through it. Hysteria swept over the little girl in a wave as she pressed and twisted in her prison, trying to cry out but couldn't, the blockade was preventing that as well, she kept hearing the raven on the other side, wishing with all her heart she had listened to its warning, distantly she could hear her mother's voice calling her name, it was getting closer, ever closer, and one word repeated relentlessly in her mind, one word she was able to understand in the last piece of literature she had read in her world: "Nevermore.Nevermore.Nevermore.".
Her wide eyes so much like those of her mother on the page beside her, and the dozens of pairs throughout the beautifully bound book, stared helplessly out of the page, her figure sealed in the claustrophobic, ovular shaped prison, her name displayed below her image, the "Mayfair" connecting her with these many, lost relations.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
"The Raven": Edgar Allan Poe