Creativity

For my creative writing class, we were assigned to write a story based off a paragraph the teacher provided. This is what I came up with...

The Imperfect Proposal
I utterly disfavor parties. I would much prefer to be alone. With my thoughts. Away from society. Away from secrets. Away from peering eyes... I knew this would happen. If everything had gone as planned... I find myself uttering, "If only he didn't have to complicate things! But he does. I love him and I loathe him for it. He has no right to do what he has done tonight, in front of my family, our neighbors and friends." Yet I find myself wishing I could be honest. To overcome my pride and admit my convictions. After all this time...

As I walk along the beach, the waves kiss my feet and return to its sandy, salty sweetness. This is my home. It's isolated. There's no light --aside from the moon-- which isn't shining tonight. Yet another reminder of today's events, I suppose.

The hour is late. I'm beginning to hear the wind whistling stronger through the trees, like an exasperated sigh from the sea. I stop pacing and look out at the ocean. I settle myself onto the dampness, sinking my toes into the sand, watching as the foam refuses to sink, as it floats on top instead. The waves, never ceasing, never resting... It shares my sentiments. A soft pounding can be heard and at first I believe it to be my heartbeat, energized from my short exercise. But it isn't the consistent sound I'm used to. It's more. And it's growing louder.

I gather my skirt to rise and see a darkened silhouette riding a horse that I recognize immediately. My father has come to find me. I should have returned home sooner. I've worried him... As he nears, I hear the occasional "bark" from our dog. I walk toward my father, as if to split the distance between us. But after a short length, I stop. That isn't my Father.
I step back. Who could this be? Why does he have Father's horse? The rider's face is shadowed by night. I'm frightened. The rider calls my name. I know this voice, I should never forget it. It is him... Why has he come?

He stops aside me and dismounts. His hair is disheveled and his face, elated. After enduring the embarrassment of his asking my father for my hand in front of our dinner guests, and my stammering reply that was neither a yes or a no, my sudden departure left all concerned and wondering. My father allowed him to borrow the stallion to search for me, for he was most concerned, as he favors me more than my sisters.
My father has granted him my hand, and he has come to persuade me in accepting. Little to his knowledge, I already have.


I believe the setting would take place in the late 19th or early 20th century-- you know, like a Jane Austen novel. :) I also wrote this with an "old English, but not Wadsworth Longfellow" kind of tone-- more like classy with rock-awesome vocabulary skills. Thesauruses are my favorite!