Short Stories + Contest Entries

The First Waltz

Not based on anything historical, but a sign of the time period. I hope you enjoy it!

He was there, across the ballroom. Among the whipping gowns and glittering lights that skipped on gems and sparkled in wine glasses. I could spot him a mile away. A figure, tall and lean, with elegance sewn to perfection. From where I stood, this much I could tell for certain. His skin was not fair like mine, but bronze with a Mediterranean tan. This in itself made him different, an outsider.

His hand casually held his glass, and from my distance, it still seemed untouched. He stood alone, and by the looks of his unwavering glance, he was clearly uninterested.

So was I.

This gathering was no special occasion, but rather another excuse to have a gossip affair. It was meant to serve as a welcoming for our new members of the institute, yet one of our guests was being treated as a ghost. It was far from a welcoming, indeed.

My ear rang from my mother's high pitched chatter stringing up the table, sharing exciting news with close family and friends. The husbands of each gathered around the spirits, discussing business or the struggles of their weighing marriage. Or at least that's what I can assume from the looks of it. I, however, find solace in quietly observing. During these special occasions, I'm at my best when my mouth is shut, due to my unwanted candor.

The room was filled with laughter and brightness, but most importantly, opportunity. For a growing young woman, a ball is a perfect gathering to see potential suitors. The catch is, the woman must never be assertive. It's the lady's job to look presentable, desirable. Many find themselves hopelessly wishing for one special man to ask for a dance, but usually, it's the ones you like the least who grant you the attention you seek. Still, a proper lady never objects.

I don't affiliate myself with those expressively swooning girls. Wishing and begging never won a lady any honor, and it certainly leads to disappointment. But tonight, my fingers hid behind my skirts of amber to cross tightly. I wished he'd approach me and ask me, and only me, to dance. But by the looks of it, he was merely praying for an escape from this hell.

A couple flashed by me, the leftover wind chilling my shoulder. My loose curls tickled my cheek in reply. They all made it seem so easy to be swept away by a man. I'm close to ending my seventeenth year, but mother said there is still hope for me to become engaged before my eighteenth birthday. I knew mother will throw a ravishing party for that occasion, for all she's good for is starting gatherings, but I also knew she'd prefer to brag about my wedding instead of my aging.

"Florence, do sit down. You're making me nervous, watching you standing there hovering over the dance," mother insisted, and I obediently took my seat.

"My, my, aren't you wishing to be whisked away by gentlemen?" Her hand tenderly brushed my gloved one, but her cold, gray eye flashed a warning. Don't disappoint me, they screamed. Laughter broke around the table, but one lady remained silent. My mother also took note of this and set her wrath spiraling.

"And you, dear Amara, what made you decide to bring your family from France to London?" Curiosity mixed with mockery, a bitter poison my mother drinks and spits towards others for reasons even I cannot understand. How does my poor father manage her?

Her skin matched her son's, and I envied her for being a wildflower in a harvest full of bland tulips. "A matter of duty, Mrs. Cartwright. Ever since our bidding from Egypt, I have wanted the best for my son. He has been practicing much English in France, and after some time, I decided it was time for us to settle in a rather progressive society. We both are happy to be here." Amara's diverse accent separated her once more from the rest of us, but no one dared to say a word regarding their uncomfortable affections towards the woman.