G’ Sunday!
Question: Based on the following chapter beginnings, which chapter would you enjoy reading most:
I. Wintery Pond Evening:
Between trees, Chelsea trekked knee-high snowfall. Ahead, a frozen pond. She plodded to a thick-trunked pine tree, leant against it, and peeked back through bald stalks. Snow-covered footpath no longer visible, she sighed and then stooped down and peered throughout the scene ahead. Through drifty clouds, moonlight shone upon the pond, illuminating its surface, brightening the snow on surrounding banks. Suddenly, wind danced through trees behind her—creaking the timber, rustling twigs—rushed past her, and onto the pond. She pulled a wool hat over her ears, peering at flurries which pranced across the ice, upon an opposite bank, and into darkness.
**
II. Riley’s Barret:
Riley picked-up a beret, pressed it upon her head, and stepped to a mirror. Eying its shape, she turned about.
“Suits you well…”
She wheeled, saw a woman who held a box that brimmed with hats. The woman smiled, rested the box on the floor, removed a hat, and placed it on a display.
“But maybe a size larger,” the woman said.
Riley took it off, flipped it, and read a tag. “Didn’t see a size larger than—”
“Be right back,” the woman said, sprang to her feet, and dashed through a bead-draped doorway. Before long however, box-in-hand, she darted through the doorway to Riley, set the box down, and snatched out a hat. She handed it to Riley, and Riley placed atop her head, stepped to the mirror, and turned about.
“Wow,” Riley said. “Feels just right.” She thanked the woman, asked to purchase it, and followed her to a register.
**
III. Gretchen:
Gretchen opened the door. Shelves filled with books, oversized trunks, and racks packed with mothball-covered clothes. She stepped onto the hardwood. Dust coated all save for a window on an adjacent wall. She ambled to it. Far below, a yard stretched to trees that hid half an orange sun. She turned, peered throughout the room’s dimness.
An attic, she thought.
She tiptoed to a rack, sifted through garments, and found an off-white dress. She halted—tracing its collar, feeling its bodice—picked it up, and walked it to the window. Off-white indeed, she thought. But it wasn’t always so. Long ago, this dress had been white.
“Gretchen Regelson,” a voice said.
Her attention snapped to a young lady who stood amid spiderweb-covered boxes and peered at a clipboard she held. She wore a fitted red skirt with heels, hair styled upward with jewels embedded, and a white sash.
“Born in 1818, died in 1835.” She glimpsed at Gretchen and sighed. “Born in Essex to Catherine Regelson, a fabrics boutique owner, and Daniel Regelson, a tailor.” She glimpsed at the dress Gretchen held and nodded. “Educated at Laurel finishing school near London where she’d achieved high marks, honors, accolades, etc….” She glanced at a wristwatch. “You were Gretchen, correct?” she said, and scribbled on the clipboard.
“I still am.”
The young lady stopped writing, lifted her eyes to Gretchen, and nodded. “Of course you are, and my apologies. Under normal circumstances, my afterlife etiquette’s top-notch, but this evening, I’ve got this event planned and am just…” She shook her head. “Yeah,” she said, walked to Gretchen, and held out hand. “I’m Deana.”
Gretchen stared the outstretched hand.
“Don’t worry,” Deana said and held it out farther. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Gretchen reached for the hand, seized it, and shook it and then shuddered. “But, how did—??”
“I know you have questions, and rest assured, in time, they’ll be answered.” Deana held up a pen and clipboard, and Gretchen took the pen and studied the clipboard. Above her own name, they were numerous others, some which she recognized, and trembled. Deana cleared her throat and pointed at a blank lined beside her name.
“Please, sign here,” Deana said, and Gretchen did.
“Thank you.”
Deana smiled. “Well, for the next few hours, I’ll be away. Feel free to…”