It was a dark and stormy night, window-shutters clattering against the Victorian suite in the east wing and the fire popping in the west set the scene. Out of the french doors in the library, a cooing was heard, and owl nearby trying to hold fast to a tree branch. It should have found a hole to roost in by now. Julianne was on the deck just outside of the french doors. She should have found a place in the house to start writing by now.
Outside, as the wind and clouds and sky all huddled together, rain forming miles above, she stood defiantly. In slacks, loafers, and her grandfather's large sweater, her arms were hugging herself, eyes to the sky. Nobody could hear her whispering to herself. With each clap of thunder, she couldn't hear herself much either:
"Get back into it, get a book done, get it done, write it, contact the company, write it, write it, write it..."
There were a few pages of a novel tucked beneath her left arm, manuscripts perhaps, or maybe destined for the bin. No one was going to read it, either way. This block was turning her novel into a trash-liner. Now it was getting wet. It was raining. Someone had it out for her, ever since she started this book.
Ever since she rented this house, this view, and this setting, she was locking horns with an unseen bull blocking her from creativity. No matter how beautiful the sconces or buttresses were, she was no longer as creatively satisfied as she had been before these metaphorical trials.
The only thing inspiring here, because there was something, was the lurking. While her view was high above the forest surrounding her, and the trees did no such lurking, there was something to be said about the ever-present and ominous shadows of her past.
For years, she was left alone by everyone she had imagined could leave her. The dread of a new friend or companion or pet leaving her was so over-whelming that it turned into an self-fulfilling prophecy. Even parents, family, and childhood friends were leaving her to her own devices. Now, here she was, and she was alone, save the shadows who had followed her here.
It began with just the one, a small child-like shadow playing games with her out of the corner of her eye. It hid behind trees and branches and distracted her from the work she had to do. She had to write this book, okay kid? There was no time for games!
Still, how could she leave this kid high and dry, playing alone in the woods. Sometimes she could almost make out its face. But never enough for her camera to pick it up.
Still, as time passed, one shadow turned into five. After six months, five turned into over three dozen. They ranged from the size of small animals to large hulking figures of around 6 or even 7 feet tall. They weren't disturbing, or scaring her. Even tonight, when they were all standing on the ground with their featureless faces upturned to the patio she stood on. With a wave, she left the drizzle, and entered the library again, shutting the swollen french doors as far as they could shut.
Sitting down at her leather chair, eyes fixated on the lightning outside, her fingers went on autopilot, typing.
She witnessed the death of her people. This queen could do nothing but witness the death of her people. She was to blame for the death of her people
She forced herself to stop, and deleted the lines again. All she could manage was re-typing and revising the description of a queen losing her country to plague and famine. Historical fiction was her forte, but really, was anything her forte anymore? Was she bound to a vicious cycle as the queen in her novel was bound for her psychological gallows.
Though some may speculate the parallels in a writer's life with what they write, Julianne was certainly an exception to this. Her life was nothing like the queen's. Nothing like the royal, or festive lifestyle of her's. She would never know what the critics said about author parallels, because she used a fake name. These days, it was best to protect oneself from the critics. Even if it required a secret life.
After a few more hours of sleeplessness and no kind of writing, there was room for a break. After a bowl of yogurt and a sliver of turkey on bread, she returned to the french doors, and stepped out onto the wet patio.
As if re-enacting a scene from the book in her head, she leaned over the banisters and greeted those beneath her. Both of her hands were in the air for a moment, and then one fell to her bosom. The shadows shifted beneath her, lightning cracking the sky into parts.
Smacking his lips, he flipped the pages, and flipped the pages some more.
"Tell me what I'm looking at here." He said, eyes barely moving from what lay before him.
"Well, what do you think? We're looking at one of three things. A hoax, an anomaly, or the best reenactment I've ever seen." He handed him a bundle of paper, along with an obituary.
"And... these?" The boss asked, hands gripping the papers lay before him. "Our investments?"
"Don't worry, nothing lost, and maybe something gained. Julianne Tudor died in the house, but there were no damages... And if you look at the pictures you'll notice something-- they're taken off of the balcony.--" Said the assistant.
"Yea-yea-yea, what are you getting at, Jim?"
The assistant laughed, pointing to the pictures.
"Come on, Adam... Look! Have you ever seen such a large group of war-time England reenactment actors before? And if you look closely, in some of the pictures, there are adornments which, if they're real, and they look it, are worth mill-i-ons."
Adam frowned, leaning back in his desk chair.
"So... Either she held the largest and most expensive casting-call ever... Or..."
"Well... Maybe it's a real photo."
"But it's in color...?" Adam said, smirking.
"There's a story... Even if we don't know the ending yet." Jim offered, reciting the publisher's own mantra with a smirk.
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