Today I am looking at Annabella’s goals and desires. To have the protagonist’s goals impeded by something or someone builds conflict in a story, and this is my intention today: conflict.

 

When Annabella first arrives at the village, she wants nothing more than to be back home with her grandmother. She was sullen and sulky. During this time, Zikmund befriended her – but this was short lived.

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Mrs Losch often told me I was a sour-faced girl who would never attract a mate. But somehow, there was Zikmund. I was intrigued by him. There was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something about him that scared me. His face was so sharp, so dark. He was a serious boy and several years older than me. But then, he would flash a big red-lipped grin at me and his face would brighten. Why he was interested in me, I have no idea…perhaps I held the allure of the exotic stranger from other lands.

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“So, what is it you do in the castle?” he asked me, half interested, half out of politeness.

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“I help out in the kitchens mostly, and I’m herbalist to the princess,” I told him. I swear I felt his body stiffen beside me, he looked at me directly. His eyes intense and burning with anger.

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“What? What is it?” I gasped confusedly.

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Without averting his eyes from mine, he asked, “What did you say your family name was?”

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“I didn’t.” I whispered.

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“But you are from *village*. Are you Adela’s daughter? No, you are too young. Her granddaughter perhaps?” I knew from the darkness of his tone that he drew more conclusions than he spoke.

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“How do you know of my grandmother?” I asked.

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“There’s been rumour of a great healer called Adela from that village. They say she is a witch, they say she service the princess. They say…”

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“I’m sure they say lots of things,” I cut him off furiously. “The truth is far less creative. She’s just an old lady, nothing near so fantastical as a fairy, let alone as fearsome as a witch! Surely you don’t believe such tales.”

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I laughed at him and he flinched, offended.

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“Believe me, I am not to be laughed at and witches are heinous creatures.” He spat the words at me with such disgust.

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He left me there, on the lower path to the river, wondering what exactly had just occurred. I wanted to speak to him about it, but for days I couldn’t find him, then I stumbled on him kissing the cook’s daughter in the church grounds. He didn’t see me, and I said nothing, but crept away hurt and confused.

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I tried to put him out of my mind, but a month later, at the beginning of summer, he came calling on me again.

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Cautiously I agreed to talk with him. I wasn’t interested in any kind of romance, I couldn’t trust him, but I was interested in what he had to say.

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He tried to kiss me. I pushed him away. I could smell beer on his breath.

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“Come on Annabella,” he coaxed, “I know this is what you like.”

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His arm was around me in a flash, pulling me to him.

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“I don’t want to fight with you, Zikmund.” I turned and wriggled out of his grasp, stepping back to distance myself from him.

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“Afraid you’ll get hurt?” he teased, taking a step in my direction.

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“No Zikmund, you’ve already hurt me. I’m afraid of further wounding your pride.” I took a step toward the door, in truth I was afraid and didn’t want to be here alone with him, but he grabbed my wrist in a tight grasp.

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“You cannot hurt me, witch!” he said slowly and deliberately, his face inches from my own. “You will wish you never came to this village.”

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He pushed me aside and left the room.

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“I already do!” I called to his retreating back, but he was gone.

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Mrs Locsh came into the room in a fluster. “Oh Annabella, what have you done to upset Zikmund? He was your best chance.”

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“Best chance for what, endless misery as his mate?” Slamming the door behind me, I didn’t wait for her response.

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I’m sure this needs work, but as I have said previously, these writing exercises are rough and unedited – as your writing should be when you are frist getting your ideas down.

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You might like to have a go at writing your own scene using conflict as the central idea.

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