The Witch of Swansdale

[DinMacXanthi]

Όνομα Συγγραφέα: Κωνσταντίνος Κέλλης

Βία; Ψιλό

Σεξ; Ψιλότερο

Αριθμός Λέξεων:3700

Αυτοτελής; Ναι

Σχόλια: Επιμελημένη έκδοση του διηγήματος που ανέβηκε για τον διαγωνισμό short story championship αυτό το καλοκαίρι. Σκέφτομαι να το παρουσιάσω στο μεταπτυχιακό οπότε κάθε γνώμη είναι χρησιμότατη. Thanks.

Υ.Γ.Όσοι λίγοι το έχετε διαβάσει, δεν θα βρείτε μεγάλες διαφορές μέσα πέρα από γραμματικοσυντακτικά και κανα 2 αλλαγμένα σημεία οπότε δεν νομίζω να είναι αναγκαία η ανάγνωση του ξανά. Καλοδεχούμενη όμως, εννοείται.

 

WITCH

 

 

 

The rumors had circled between the good folk of Swansdale for many weeks now, a witch lived among them! The Devil’s snake slithered about, poisoning their peaceful devout village. Although their prayers were strong and true, their livestock kept getting sick and their crops withered. As their malady seemed to know no end, the villagers abandoned prayers and took up curses instead. Though late, the lights in the tavern were burning bright, just like the angry patrons’ eyes.

 

“I’m telling you, Goodman Tuck, ‘tis she!” said miller Gordon striking his empty flagon upon the hardwood. “Since the girl returned to our homestead, our soil hasn’t given us a single healthy harvest. My mill runs empty now and I have people to pay, young’uns to feed. Can it be sheer bad luck?”

“She’s got the evil eye that one.” Nora was heard, the tavern keeper’s wife, as she refilled the miller’s flagon with their ale. She quickly returned back inside her kitchen. The miller nodded and then brought the filled cup to his lips.

 

“Gordon’s right. And so ‘s your wife, Tuck.” replied Goodman White, eyeing one of the tavern keeper’s daughters. The young girl was cleaning one of the tables on the other side but had an ear on their conversation. Tuck’s sweet cider was making him lustful and his own wife was getting bigger and fatter with his fifth child inside her belly. He quickly averted his leering gaze, leaving that sight for another day, as this was a serious matter they were discussing.

“Old man Rook’s girl is different, God rest his soul. She’s got… wossname… knowledges. Books and such. Just when did a lass like her learn to read, eh? She’s been gone for what now, five years? She didn’t know tit from tat till then, a little child of fourteen. And she’s returned a full grown woman. Her stature alone is…” He stopped talking right then as one by one, they brought the image of her alluring body to their minds. Her fiery locks and eyes of amber, supple-breasted and slender-limbed, she had come unbidden to their sleep many times since she returned from the big city in the north.

 

White coughed and continued, “Well, we are men with families of course and won’t be bothered, but they say she rejected all young lads that went to her house a-calling. For shame…”

“And have you seen her garden?” Miller picked up the conversation again. “It’s more plentiful than Eden, teeming with good seed while every other in the village‘s been corrupted. Can’t be. Just can’t. She’s doing this.” Said he and spat down in disgust.

“Hear hear.” Said two men nodding and then the door opened and the young pastor came to the tavern. Tuck, the keeper, picked himself up from behind the bar and welcomed him.

 

“Father, we speak of a grim matter, will you grace us with your company?” He said and drew a seat for the young man to sit.

“Forgive me, but I’m only here for my supper and I cannot stay. I have tomorrow’s sermon to finish.”

“Come father, a sermon can wait now, eh?” Tuck said and turned a chair for the pastor. The young man couldn’t refuse.

“You know I pray for our village’s crops everyday Goodman Tuck. Our Lord will hear our prayers sooner or later, have faith.” He replied and sat among them, men at least twenty years older than him.

“Our good Lord has turned his back to our humble village, father.” said White, anger running along the cider in his veins.

“What is this you speak of, Goodman, that’s blasphemy!” said pastor Keanes. The man finished his drink with a quaff then said, spitting as he went on.

“Nay, Father. I’m not the blasphemer. It’s that harlot who aggravates our Lord. She rejoices while we suffer, her plants thrive while ours wane under our care! That she-devil must be confronted and you are the man of God, you must do this!”

Goodman White’s chair had fallen on its back as he found himself standing, panting for breath, over the pastor. The young man, who had seen no more than twenty-three summers, seemed at a loss for words, something surely not common. He stood up and put his hands on the man’s broad shoulders trying to comfort him. The man was almost crying.

“I know that you lost most of your crops Goodman and I pray for the sake of you and your family. God is testing us, all of us,” he said looking around, stressing that last part, “and a small girl can’t be the cause of all these mishaps. Go to your wife, sleep and get the cider out of your veins. Thankfully,” he said raising his voice, “our Lord hasn’t tampered with your fine beer Tuck and the orchards will give plenty of apples for the cider.” The tavern keeper actually made the sign of the cross at that, as he had thought of that same thing many times before.

 

“Now listen to me, all and sundry. I shall speak with Miss Eleanor. Our Lord has given us a test, including that poor orphan girl. Seemingly unharmed by our maladies, she has to endure our stares…”

“Are you saying that we must feel sorry for that wicked child, father?” the tavern keeper’s wife interrupted him, incapable of holding her temper. Her words carried enough spite to stink of bile.

“Woman!” cried the keeper as he turned angrily towards the kitchen’s door. She shrunk back, embarrassed. Some of the others though coaxed her on and one of them called from a table.

“The Goodwife is right, father. Must we feel guilty because she’s got the better end of the deal? Nonsense!”

“Remember the Book my children, I beg of you. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s possessions.” he replied, as Goodman White sat down again before him. The Miller replied to that, in low tones.

“And what about that other part of the good Book, Father? You shall not suffer a witch to live, it says. Does the word of our Lord apply to heathens? Has she ever come to one of your sermons? Because neither I nor any other ever saw her in church or shared the communion wine with her.”

That was true. The girl rarely came out of her cottage for the past few weeks, about the time things took a turn for the worse in Swansdale. She would only wander in her small garden and tend to her plants, hidden from sight. People rarely went to her house nowadays and she seemed to prefer it that way.

Father Keanes himself hadn’t seen her in weeks. He went to her door more than a few times, twice this past week but she didn’t answer. These visits though, were kept secret from the good folk of Swansdale.

He stared at his hands in silence. Finally he said, “I shall talk to Miss Eleanor. You must show patience now and all will be right. God bless you.” The tavern keeper’s daughter brought a package of food to him, blushing as he thanked her. The pastor was a handsome man, unburdened by labor and at an age when most of the young girls in the village would look upon him and feel an unknown urge amidst their loins, were he not a man of the cloth. Desire still surfaced whenever they looked upon him, walking in the village streets or standing behind the pulpit, but confusion and guilt quickly stifled those feelings.

“Father,” said the miller as pastor Keanes stopped, “she is not welcome here and you know it. Talk to her and amend her ways, or send her packing, back to that city of sinners from whence she came. And if you can’t,” he said pausing ominously,

“well, a cross can be used more than one way. You understand me, I reckon. This village has seen its share of witches over the years, before me or you ‘ere born. The stakes still stand tall, up Smith’s Row.”

The pastor didn’t answer; he didn’t even turn to face them. He left the lights of the tavern behind him as the darkness of the night engulfed him. Its blackness seemed fitting to the grim, terrible thoughts that swirled inside his mind, till he found himself inside the small bedroom, at the back of the church. He didn’t touch his food that evening nor did he pick up his unfinished sermon. He sat with the Book in his lap, whispering prayers until sleep overtook him.

Images of the villagers came in his sleep; how vengeful and terrible they seemed as they strode towards the blackened poles on the hill. He saw the young girl too, her ebony and scarlet dress tossed to the floor, smiling at him, her sweet breath warm against his chin. She was laughing, a blissful sound that quickly turned into a soft moan.

Then a woman’s cry of ecstasy came and the pastor was awakened, his skin crawling.

But the cries didn’t stop.

In the middle of the night, he heard screams of distress from the square next to the church. “Father! Wake up! You are needed!” A boy’s voice was heard outside his door. He hastily dressed, trying to clear out his thoughts of that last vague dream. By the time he got out, a growing crowd had gathered outside Goodman White’s house.

He could see the men’s brooding faces lit by their torches as he passed through their numbers. He could hear vague words about “Goodwife White” and “baby” and “witchcraft”. That last word quickly ran over the crowd like wildfire through a meadow. Witchcraft. He pushed and shoved, trying to get in front. White still smelled of alcohol almost three hours after their discussion in the tavern. He had blood on his hands and shirt; tears were running down his furrowed face.

“What is the matter Edmund?” He said, trying to look him in the eyes. His breath stank while he muttered incomprehensibly.

“She’s doing this, her fault, not mine, the she-devil, the whore…”

He left the incapacitated man to the cares of those around him and ran in the house. Four small children looked at him from the corner, crying. A woman was sitting with them and she pointed to the staircase.

He ran upstairs while the people outside amassed. He could hear it from inside now. “Witch!” they cried in terrible tones.

Hannah White was lying in her bed and the village’s midwife was already there, smeared with the blood that stained the linen. The pregnant woman had fainted. She was glistening with sweat and her breath came short. Two women were standing over her pale face, trying to wake her up.

“I cannot save her, Father,” he heard the coarse voice of the old midwife. She turned to face him. “She was hurt.”

“How?” he asked as the girls, her sisters, were visibly crying, kissing her forehead, pleading to unhearing ears to regain consciousness.

“Goodman White mumbled something about her falling down the staircase. He kept saying it was not his fault. It won’t be long. Only our Lord can help her now and you must show her the way out if He is to take her near Him.”

One of the sisters made way for the priest. He took the Bible out of his pocket and with trembling fingers, he turned to the pages starting to recite. He was freshly anointed and had never done this before, not to one so young. He paused and turned to the midwife.

“And the baby?”

She shook her head while washing her hands from the blood.

“Lost before I arrived.” The woman’s sisters wailed as he turned again to Goodwife White. She had an ugly bump on her forehead, probably where she hit when she fell. There were marks lower than that though, burning bright on her cheek. They looked as clear to him as what had really happened. He felt angry but tried not to think about it. His task was more important.

 

Pastor Keanes was left alone soon afterwards, as he eased her passing to the next life. She never gained consciousness and it seemed as though she just fluttered away, one last breath and she was gone. He felt tears rolling but tried to hold them back. Theirs was a life of hardships as his doctrine taught him. People lived and people died, sometimes abruptly; the only thing he could do was to give hope and comfort to those who needed it. He felt confident that his Lord would aid these people.

But he wasn’t sure about himself now as he held her quickly cooling hand.

"May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life." He said solemnly and left the small book in her arms. The women came inside the room again and their wails clawed at his heart. But then he felt it shatter to a million pieces as his eyes caught the red glow outside the window. Up on the southern hillock of the village, the little cottage was burning.

 

Eleanor’s home.

 

He ran down the stairs like a madman and coming outside again, he saw the crowd return from the little hill, bearing their torches. To his horror, he turned to look at more torches being lit on the northern hill behind him, Smith’s Row. The crowd was now a rabble in full of rage and a single woman, moonlight and torchlight shining on her red head, was stumbling and running in front of them. They were walking around her like wild animals, cursing and swearing as she ran in her nightgown. Her naked feet were bloody as she reached the church, not a hundred feet away from the dumbstruck pastor.

She tried to sprint towards the small side door of the church. She managed to knock on it twice before a burly man, Miller Gordon himself, grabbed her by her auburn hair and pulled her back again, throwing her on to the cobblestones.

“No sanctuary for you, you shall not desecrate our church!” He cried as people came out of their homes and watched.

“Look Father!” he cried at pastor Keanes, “She stole poor Whites’ baby! Look at her!”

He saw her looking at him for the first time that night. Their tear-stricken eyes locked for a moment and then his gaze moved downwards, at her swollen belly as she tried to cover her almost naked form with the tattered garment.

She was with child!

“Daniel!” She cried, trying to run towards him. He felt like running in a dream as he sprinted towards her. They covered almost half the distance when someone threw a stone that caught her right in the jaw, dropping her down. Before the pastor could scream, a man ran to her fallen body and kicked her hard in her pregnant belly. It was Goodman White, rage burning in his bloodshot eyes.

“Stop this madness!” the pastor shouted and caught the man before he took another swing at the fallen girl. They fell crashing on the ground.

“She took my baby, pastor! She and her witchcraft! Let go of me!” He snarled, trembling as they were locked down. Before Father Keanes could go to her side, men had rushed from all sides and had picked her up. Her head was lolling backwards and the young man prayed that she was still alive.

“Let her go, I beg of you! She’s done nothing!” He ran behind them, along with the rest of the village. But his cries were lost under the mob’s chants of “Witch! Witch!” as they walked up Smith’s Row.

 

A flame was already burning bright by the great black stakes where Swansdale burned its witches and Eleanor was quickly bound to one of them. She had regained consciousness and was silently crying although the ruckus of the mob around her, demonic visages in the flare of the red blaze, was so thunderous that none would be able to hear her.

“Satan’s harlot!” they cried, “Burn the baby snatcher!” Their voices were carried on the smoke that rose high in the still night air.

“That is not White’s baby!” He cried again and again as he feverously struggled to pass through the throng. He finally reached the front of the crowd and tried to reach her and untie her. Hands closed around him, pulling the Pastor back. Miller Gordon was standing between him and the girl, a torch in his hand.

“This red-haired demon never took a man to her side, for we would have known! She made a bargain with her dark master and killed the Whites’ baby, probably took its life and gave it to the devilspawn inside her!”

“I slept with her!” Pastor Keanes screamed and that outburst silenced them. The only thing that was heard for a moment was the crackling of the torches.

“I loved her and she took me to her bed, willingly! I didn’t know! It’s my child she is carrying! You are murdering my child!”

Their silence was short-lived. Even such an unspeakable revelation couldn’t offset their murderous temper. People started shouting, tentatively at first but quickly, they were once again blinded by their frenzy.

“The succubus bewitched him!”

“He is her accomplice!”

“Burn them both!”

“Wait!” He cried raising his hands but Gordon turned him around with a violent pull.

“You betrayed our trust, you cur!” shouted the miller as he struck him with the torch in the face, slashing his cheek. A hand ripped his white collar and tossed it aside as he was rushed next to the woman. He tried to grasp the wound but his hands were grabbed and tied behind him. He stood, mouth agape from the pain and sheer horror, and looked at the people of his parish. What had happened to them? How could they lose their minds so… eagerly?

The miller turned towards the hungry mob. He held the torch high and the flames flickered.

“This witch brought a curse to our village! She seduced our pastor and they engorged themselves in sin! And their sins weighed heavily upon our honest backs! Our Lord cannot suffer such a disgrace upon us, pious and good folk and so, as our grandfathers did and their forefathers before them; we shall burn these devil worshippers and cleanse their foulness from Swansdale! May they rot in Hell beside their master!”

“NO!”

Everybody turned towards the girl. She was not screaming or pleading for help, she didn’t seem frightened at all now. She looked… angry.

“Poor man, you have never done this before.”

“What is it you speak of, witch?” He replied ominously. The crowd stared hungrily.

“You have never burned a witch before, you sanctimonious bastard.”

“You are wrong, witch. Your ilk has plagued this land before and they…”

“Oh, you lot have burned a lot of innocent women, while they were crying of their innocence. You burned them smiling and never looked back at your own faults and sins.”

“You will shut your foul mouth…” He said, grinding his teeth in anger.

“All of you,” she turned to the mob “watch now like wolves, thirsting for my blood and that of this guiltless man who dared be with me; a woman he knew and loved since he was a little boy! A man that would never lay a hand on me unlike many of you with your wives and children and servants!”

She was stopped by a heavy slap from Gordon but she stubbornly urged on.

“Unlike Edmund White, who treated his poor pregnant wife like she was a mule!”

“Lying whore!” Goodman White’s cry was heard from the front of the mob but quickly he shrunk back under her gaze. The bitch knew!

“Your next words will be your last, witch; I suggest you make them count.” Gordon said and plunged his torch in the kindling below her. The crowd howled ecstatically as pastor Keanes cried out. But she didn’t yell. She just looked her murderer in the eye and whispered, and that whisper was carried to every man and woman in the crowd.

“As I said, you never burned a real witch before, dog. May God have mercy on your tarnished souls, because I shall not!”

 

And as she said that her voice grew stronger, echoing around them. And the flames jumped from the kindling and turned into red snakes that wrapped around the man. He jumped back in horror, trying to free himself but he fell down, screaming. The living fire entered his body from his crying mouth and burned him from inside out. New hungry flames roared as they jumped in serpentine forms upon the crowd. The chaos that ensued was increasing by the second as the villagers who tried to escape were shoving and stomping on others but the fires came for them.

Their cries were short-lived. In a manner of seconds, the mob of Swansdale had turned into a cluster of ashes. Some people were lying still amidst the charred remains of the rest, terrified but unharmed as the fires seemed to pass through them without hurting them. They looked around and fell on their knees, trying to comprehend what had just transpired.

 

The pastor looked in astonishment at the woman next to him, as she easily escaped her charred bonds. She went to his side and cut the ropes behind him. There was a wicked cut right below his eye, bleeding badly.

“You are hurt,” she whispered softly. She seemed tired, exhausted from this energy surge, ready to collapse but still her concern was at his stricken face. She put her hand on his cheek, trying to stem the flow.

“By God, Eleanor, how…”

“For once, the truly wicked were given to the flames, my love.” She replied, smiling sadly, “I’m sorry it has come to this Daniel, I could withstand their torture but I couldn’t let them harm you, turn you into a martyr.”

“My Lord… what will come of us?” He said looking at the ashes in front of the stakes. The dawn was coming from the east and a morning breeze was already dispersing that carpet of grey and black into nothingness.

“Gather those that are left for they are good and righteous folk. Or, at least, they are not truly wicked and the old magick will not hurt them. Now hearken to me. Neither I nor any of my sisters have harmed the crops or animals but we can help it grow strong again. From afar.”

He turned and looked at her, as he understood the full meaning of her words. Tears were rolling down her high cheekbones but still held a smile on her beautiful countenance.

“You are going? No, you must stay…”

“Don’t be afraid for me or our child, my love. I shall take good care of her.”

He tried to hold her but she silenced his pleads with her lips and joined his tears with her own.

 

And thus, before the sun had fully risen above Smith’s Row, the last witch of Swansdale was gone, never to return; and the good folk of the little village never laid eyes on her or any other of her kind again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

Edited June 22, 2010 by DinMacXanthi

[supermario]

I'm your fan:D!

[mman]

[...] Σκέφτομαι να το παρουσιάσω στο μεταπτυχιακό οπότε κάθε γνώμη είναι χρησιμότατη. [...]

Υπάρχει κάποιο deadline για τέτοιες γνώμες; Είμαι λίγο πνιγμένος με τις αναγνώσεις μου, αλλά θέλω να προλάβω να το δω με την ησυχία μου και να προλάβω και την υποβολή του.

[mman]

OK, πήρες σειρά προτεραιότητας :

Δυνατή ιστορία, με εντυπωσιακές σκηνές. Καλοί οι διάλογοι με ελάχιστες κατά τη γνωμή μου εξαιρέσεις που έχω σημειώσει.

Η ατμόσφαιρα πολύ αληθοφανής και τα σκηνικά επίσης.

Σχετικά με τη γλώσσα (και αφού διευκρινίσω ότι οι γνώσεις μου περιορίζονται σε ένα απλό Proficiency) έχω να παρατηρήσω ότι είχα πολλές (πολλές όμως!) άγνωστες λέξεις. Αυτό λογικά πρέπει να είναι καλό, γιατί σαφώς δείχνει τον πλούτο του λεξιλογίου σου. Κρατάω όμως μια επιφύλαξη, ακριβώς επειδή δεν έχω τις γνώσεις, μήπως το λεξιλόγιό σου φαίνεται κάπως εξεζητημένο στα μάτια του native speaker αναγνώστη. Σπεύδω να σημειώσω ότι εμένα δεν μου έδωσε αυτή την εντύπωση, και πιθανότατα φταίει το δικό μου φτωχό αγγλικό λεξιλόγιο. Απλώς βεβαιώσου ότι ο αγγλόφωνος αναγνώστης δεν θα θεωρήσει ότι προσπαθείς να του κάνεις φιγούρα.

Η ιδέα δεν είναι τίποτα το εξαιρετικό, αποζημιώνει όμως τον αναγνώστη ο ολοζώντανος, σχεδόν κινηματογραφικός, τρόπος που παρουσιάζεται.

Υπάρχουν μερικά ζητήματα που μένουν εκκρεμή στο τέλος:

 

Η τύχη του πάστορα (μου φαίνεται ότι την έχει πολύ άσχημα),

το αν τελικά ευθυνόταν η μάγισσα για τις χαλασμένες σοδειές, (νομίζω ναι),

το αν η μάγισσα ήταν καλοπροαίρετη (νομίζω ναι, όσο μπορεί να είναι μια μάγισσα δηλαδή),

το γιατί, αν ισχύουν τα παραπάνω, τώρα θα βοηθήσει τις σοδειές (νομίζω γιατί σκότωσε τους κακούς ανθρώπους),

το με ποιον τελικά έμεινε έγκυος (νομίζω με κανέναν),

και το τι σχέση είχε πριν με τον πάστορα (παιδικοί φίλοι πριν η μάγισσα φύγει απ' το χωρίο; ).

 

 

Αν έχω καταλάβει καλά τα θέματα αυτά, ΟΚ. Παραμένει πάντως το πρώτο, που το έχω σημειώσει κιόλας.

Γενικά μια καλή, άξια ανάγνωσης, ιστορία. Καλη επιτυχία στο μεταπτυχιακό!

 

The Witch of Swansdale - DinMcXanthi.doc

[PiKei]

Όμορφο.

Δεν βρίσκω εξεζητημένα τα αγγλικά του, όπως λέει ο mman.

 

Σαν επιπλέον πινελιά αν έχεις τον χρόνο και την διάθεση να την βάλεις, θα πρότεινα να ξαναδουλέψεις λίγο μόνο τις φράσεις των διαλόγων στην κατεύθυνση του "υπόγειου διαχωρισμού" των χαρακτήρων. Ατάκα την ατάκα.

 

Διευκρινίζω τι εννοώ: Αν και αποδίδεις πολύ καλά στην αρχή με τις συγκοπές, την "τοπικότητα" της γλώσσας των ηρώων, χάνουμε την ατομικότητα τους. Ακόμα και μέσα σε ένα μικρό χωριό, ο τρόπος έκφρασης διαφορετικών προσώπων είναι, στις αποχρώσεις του, διαφορετικός.

 

Αν μπορείς να πάρεις το μικρότερο πινελάκι που έχεις και να προσθέσεις αυτές τις ελάχιστες - σχεδόν αδιόρατες για τον αναγνώστη, αλλά πολύ σημαντικές αφού τον κάνουν να αναγνωρίζει αμέσως ποιος μιλάει - αποχρώσεις, νομίζω πως θα έχεις κερδίσει κάτι. Και ίσως θα μπορούσες μετά να ξεφορτωθείς μερικά (αλλά όχι πολλά) "είπε ο τάδε".

 

Καλή επιτυχία στο μεταπτυχιακό σου.

[Tiessa]

Βλέπω ότι είχες ανεβάσει την ιστορία το Σεπτέμβρη -και δεν την είχα προσέξει τότε- οπότε δεν ξέρω αν τα σχόλια έχουν κάποια αξία για το σκοπό που τα ήθελες.

Πάντως, να πω ότι το διήγημα μού άρεσε. Και το κλίμα του χωριού πολύ ωραία αποδοσμένο (επαρκώς υποκριτικό και απαίσιο δηλαδή) και η αγωνία και η ανατροπή. Ομολογώ ότι δεν είχα καταλάβει πού το πήγαινε και ξαφνιάστηκα ευχάριστα.

Τα αγγλικά ήταν μια χαρά για μένα. Δε βρήκα περίεργες λέξεις.

Δυστυχώς όμως πάνε πολλά χρόνια από την εποχή που έγραφα αγγλικά (αμερικάνικα, that is) κι έτσι καμιά φορά μερικές εκφράσεις δεν μπορώ πια να πω με βεβαιότητα να είναι σωστές ή αν είναι λάθος, αλλά αν υπάρχει τίποτα εξεζητημένο, εγώ το θεώρησα ότι ήταν επίτηδες, σαν μίμηση κάποιας παλαιότερης γραφής, που να συνάδει με την εποχή της ιστορίας.

 

Ανταπαντητικό spoiler του προηγούμενου

 

το αν τελικά ευθυνόταν η μάγισσα για τις χαλασμένες σοδειές, (νομίζω ναι),

Εγώ πάλι, νομίζω όχι. Ήταν απλώς μια κακή συγκυρία, αλλά δεν έχει σημασία. Οι χωρικοί έψαχναν αφορμή για να τα βάλουν με μια όμορφη κοπέλα που είχε αντισυμβατική συμπεριφορά.

 

το με ποιον τελικά έμεινε έγκυος (νομίζω με κανέναν),

Καλά, τώρα αυτό το εννοείς; Τελικά, είναι αθώοι οι άντρες.

 

 

 

[mman]

Εεεμμμ, Tiessa (προσπαθώντας να αποφύγω spoiler tags) ναι το εννοώ. Δηλαδή δεν είμαι σίγουρος, αλλά νομίζω ότι είχε τη δύναμη να μην επιτρέψει κάτι τέτοιο αν δεν το ήθελε πραγματικά.

[Και φυσικά και οι άντρες είναι αθώοι! Τόσα χρόνια το φωνάζουμε! Επιτέλους συμφωνείτε!]

[mman]

Bump εδώ γιατί το αξίζει!

 

Ψιθυρίζεται ότι μια μάγισσα ζει ανάμεσα στους κατοίκους του Swansdale.

 

Φοβερή ατμόσφαιρα, επαγγλεματικά στημένη.

[DinMacXanthi]

Κι ότι σκεφτόμουν μόλις χθες, πόσο καλός ήμουν με αυτούς τους χαρακτήρες, και πως μπορεί να αλλάξει αυτό το διήγημα για να περάσει στην άλλη βιβλιοθήκη... (και τ'αγγλικά θέλουν το retouch τους, κακά τα ψέμματα)

Edited November 6, 2011 by DinMacXanthi