On the Petals of a Dying, Yellow Rose

[saralioness]

OK, I am working on this story and I have a vague idea of how the plot is supposed to go. *clears throat*

The old woman, when she was young, sold her immortal soul for immortality and unmatched sorcery. However, after the fact, she met her one true love and swore her love for him on "the petals of a dying, yellow rose." He is long dead, for she is immortal now, and her life has become one series of bitterness to another. Her life, once overflowing with roses, has gone bad, and now stinks of rotting petals. Now she is an old woman traveling with a band of gypsies. She does not know what to do, and all she does is sit and ponder. The story is basically about her wandering until she dies in some dramatic way. Still trying to decide how.

Any comments? Criticism? Requests for intro?

[louise]

" immortal soul for immortality and unmatched sorcery." het mortal soul, I assume? Sounds nice... just make sure people don't go compleetly bitter after reading it. Maybe some kind of cynic, dark humor?

[saralioness]

I just said immortal because, um, you know, how religious people think its an immortal soul? Anyways, thank you for the comments.

[saralioness]

Here's the beginning of the story.

The woman was old. This was without question. The exact extent of her age, however, was more difficult to tell. The wears and tears of daily life, the ferocity of the sun in early life and the gentle caress of moonlight now changed her once brown, tough skin into a pale, papery, spotted shroud that covered the stick-thin bones of her face tightly, but lined. Although wrinkles were not present on her arms or legs, tired lines wove their way under her dark, bird-bright eyes and around her mouth and forehead. Although lines of happiness managed to jump into the design, most of the lines were those of sadness, anger, and great despair. Although her hair was probably once long and luxurious, more likely than not a fiery red from the reddish cast about it, it was now still long but far from luxurious; a rough, tangled, matted mess of snow-white hair that shone only dully in the light from the benevolent moon. Though this hair caused her much anger and pain; old folks do not like to dwell on the past, she did not shear it off. It was her only link to a fast-fading past. Her light, bird-like frame suggested that she was a slender, beautiful woman once, but now the tiny old woman sat on a vibrant pillow in a train of a bright caravan; the walls covered in brightly colored silk and the immense color all around a striking contrast to this small, pale, old woman. Her dainty hands were crossed in her lap; finely manicured nails stained with dye made from certain flowers that yielded a nice color. The hands were her pride; the one thing that she could keep pretty about herself. This had prevailed in the earlier years of her old age, but now the wrinkles and ugliness were beginning to seep onto the hands, too. It caused much sorrow and despair deep inside the woman, although she would never show it. She was like a rotten fruit; an apple with a worm inside. You would never know but for the tell-tale hole the worm made, or when you took a bite. The only thing bright and somewhat happy about her were her garments; a crimson silk tie that went around her forehead and tied back her foam-colored hair. a bright red silk dress augmented by first a thick purple sash, then a red sash with gold embroidery on it. She looked tiny and crumpled in these clothes, not so much her position but for the sense of defeat about the old woman. Her cabin was small, but it was near the front of the Gypsy caravan. She was not doing much of anything in particular; staring at the ceiling, her dark eyes welling with tears at the memories that flooded her head. The Memories. She was unable to escape them. The horror of her past life; the grievances and losses she had suffered, all of them were not hers to command. They came unbidden, the horrible cost of her sorcery years before. Sorcery that she never used now, never hoped to use again; the sorcery that had been her life had slowly destroyed her. The woman had traveled along with the gypsies for a very long time now,

As you can see, I got a writers block right there, after now. Any suggestions how to rid myself of this devilish writers block, anyone?