The Wrong Era

"To put it frankly, I live in the past." The moment I saw those words on the website, I knew they described me, but I never thought how true it might become. That never even crossed my mind, and so I continued in my innocence and naivety for almost another month, a month that I took for granted when really it was all I had left.

I had always been fascinated by history, and the way people lived before modern conveniences and commodities became available. At the age of fourteen I was quizzing my grandmother as to what her childhood had been like; I started to compile a portfolio of all the information she was able to give me, and I used it when writing stories set in that time period.

Ah, yes, stories. I wrote a lot when I was younger. It wasn't that I had nothing else to do, because I did. I took lessons on two instruments and played three others, as well as attending several dance classes each week and studying for my rapidly approaching school exams, desperately trying to keep up while knowing I did need to sleep occasionally. But I always found time to scribble a few pages, and novels grew from the doodles almost without my noticing.

One day when I was almost fifteen, something changed which meant I suddenly had a lot more time to write, and to play music, and to dance ... but not the sort of dancing I had grown used to at my Irish dancing classes, with a thigh-length skirt and a low-cut vest top. Oh no, this dance was disciplined and 'appropriate', with calf-length white practice dresses. I wasn't ready for that.

It wasn't the only thing I wasn't ready for. Let me tell you my story.

The End

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