This is to be another creative writing opportunity. So take a good look at the picture above, roll it around in your noggin and come up with something truly original. That's right. Pressure is on. Not really. I just loved this picture and wanted to do something with it so there you go.
The question prompt is- Who lives in this house?
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Ok I've finally come up with something. It may or may not have been influenced by the copious amounts of a certain genre that I have been reading as of late. So - here goes my story. *Heh Hem*
Once upon a time, there was an adorable little cottage sitting on a verdant landscape in the north of England. In this cottage lived seven tiny people - one could hardly call them people in fact they were so small and cheerful. They were the seven romance novelists - responsible for every romance novel ever written. They took on many different pen names, but in fact, every single book gracing the romance novel room at Book Nook comes back to them.
The seven little romance novelists would spend their days in the flowers in the fields - is a rose or lavender more fit to describe my new heroine? they would muse. They would pick out new tunes on the pianoforte in the parlor - shall this book feature a secretly talented pianist? they would wonder. Or they would ride their horses through the wooded forests - surely no one has yet gotten tired of the hero being a bruising rider, they would think.
Yes, they lived a beautiful and quaint existence puttering about the small manse musing over words of love and trilling in the delicious obstacles they had just thought of for the hero and heroine to overcome. At dinner they would feast on beef pie and slices of tomato and discuss their newest writings. They would collectively ooh and ahh over each plotline - 'Oh, a Rakish Duke who has a secret love of painting! How sensitive!', or "Oh my word, what a pickle they have gotten into by not talking to eachother about their true feelings this time! How EVER shall they resolve their issues?! Maybe an unplanned pregnancy? Or should the hero just erupt with anger over his jealousies, but of course all for nothing because she has NEVER loved that other man at all, as he is really only her gay best friend and the hero has just been mistaken? How delicious.' Yes, the seven romance novelists got on just fine that way for many years.
One day at dinner, however, as one of the seven little romance novelists was called upon to share her new ideas, something quite startling occurred. "I would like to write books using my own name and not a pen name" the littlest romance novelist revealed. The other 6 shifted their eyes at each other and scratched their heads over the matter. Well, of course it had never been done before, but they supposed there was no real reason not to. So with merry encouragement the littlest novelist began to use her name to write books.
It began very well, very well indeed. The littlest romance novelist wrote of young maidens smelling of lilac, heros with a suitably tortured past, and enough stolen kisses to please everyone at the cottage! The other 6 were quite delighted, what a novelist the littlest was turning out to be indeed.
As time went on, however, the other 6 began to be puzzled as each dinner time revealed a new rape, or a new incestuous relationship brewing in the littlest romance novelists stories. "Well, it's a little dark," they would say to each other, "But I guess it's ok." Obsession, incest, prostitution rings, abductions - all of it began to be normal for this littlest romance novelist, and the other 6 began to get frightened. "What ever will she do next?" they wondered. And then one day they found out....
"Well, I've hit upon a capital idea today ladies" The littlest one announced one day at dinner. "You'll never believe that you haven't though of it before! I say, you'll all want to use it, and of course you can! You know our policy here - no plot line is used too often." So the littlest one described her new plot and the rest of the table grew silent with widened eyes. "Tastings???" As the littlest one concluded and sat down with a triumphal smile, the other 6 looked at each other aghast and turned the topic to something more palatable for all - perhaps it was a runaway governess or a gruff gambling hall owner with an adorable predilection for illiteracy - they could never remember ever after what they had talked about after that horrible dinner.
From that day forward, the other 6 romance novelists would watch the littlest one skip about the back yard with wearied eyes - they were all too tender hearted after all to tell her that her plotlines had a gotten a little fucked up - and they would smile and nod at her ideas with each dinner time, at the same time sending furtive glances to each other. But the littlest romance novelists never caught on to their uncomfortable coughs or stretches of silence. She just wrote and wrote each day with wild abandon. Yes, it was a good life the seven little romance novelists led in the adorable little cottage in the verdant fields of northern England. A very good life indeed. But as much as the other 6 might try, they could never imagine who would read the work of little Jo Goodman, so they shook their heads and let her write her books to no one, for after all, no one in their right minds could truly enjoy what they had heard time and time again at the dinner table.
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