Thanks for the review :) I’m glad you enjoyed it. I enjoyed writing it, so I figured it would be all right.
Short Story / Waves of Flame
Not much stood in Iris’s way to the top. The mirror on the landing was reassured her of her natural prowess. Countless hours in front of other mirrors had given her time to cultivate the looks to rise into the highest of society. Whether it was the raising of an eyebrow or the hint at a smile, this woman of twenty knew exactly which facial expressions were appropriate for any occasion.
From her early teens onward Iris had been taught the value of beauty. Cotillions, dances and high society concerts littered her life like blazing stars in the sky, numerous and outstanding in the dark space through which they were dispersed. Each event was an instructive course in politics and drama. Though she had taken lessons in dancing and speech, they could not compete with the raw teachings of a bitter rivalry exposed, a lustful affair being brought to a close, or any number of social scenarios that could take place or be divulged over such luxurious evenings.
Iris’s hand trailed along the banister, gliding along the polished surface absentmindedly. Below her was the tiled front hall, open to the garden and waterfront on this breezy early evening. The youngest maid of the household struggled with a crate of stemmed glassware, her arms straining to keep the bulky package balanced in her arms. Iris watched the girl for a moment before remembering the importance of the approaching banquet. A plan began to form, one crafted to highlight her looks while simultaneously displaying her supposed pity and charity.
The young girl was not even the most beautiful of the maids, let alone as gorgeous as the debutants of the county. A birthmark marred the girl’s face, partially hidden behind hair escaping from a hastily arranged bun. Her figure was ambiguous, hidden by her uniform. Most likely it was non-existent or not even worth comparing to Iris’s. Such an unappetizing girl would certainly not be seen at a party as grand as the one planned for later in the evening, either as guest or server. Should Iris invite her, she would appear a charitable soul for allowing such a girl to attend a grand night of fun and luxury.
In addition to gossip of her character spreading through the hall like wildfire, her looks would be appreciated all the more with such a sad excuse for femininity next to her all night.
“You,” Iris called from the head of the stairs, “set that crate aside and come with me.” The girl dutifully followed, expecting yet another chore. Rather than do service to her mistress, she was led to the vast wardrobe in the attic which stored the family’s lightly-worn dresses and suits, worn once to display wealth and status and exiled to this abyss of fabric to save. Should the family ever fall on hard times and be forced to repeat a formal outfit, they had the option. The maid marveled at the finery, wondering which garments were to be passed in charity to cousins and in-laws. Iris began to estimate the girl’s size, not yet revealing her purpose for the measurements. Her selections were hasty, hangers literally flying from her hand to the floor, reject dresses following the path.
At long last a dress of deep burgundy and gold was selected from the pile which had met Iris’s perpetually high expectations. As she held the dress up to the maid, she wondered where it might have come from. Unsurprisingly she had no recollection of it.
How many parties had she been to in her few years on the social circuit? This she could also not recall. As she did not remember particular outfits, she did not remember particular parties. Life for her was so overwhelmingly scheduled with social engagements that she did not bother attempting to count even the ones thrown to celebrate her milestones.
Iris’s invitation for the maid was brief but convincingly charming, radiating warmth and friendliness, a practice she had employed over the years, and her attempt at beautifying the maid was a notable success.
Following this time consuming endeavor, the maid went about her duty of assisting her mistress in complete gratitude for being shown what she believed to be kindness. Iris smiled at the girl’s idle chatter while admiring her golden curls in the vanity’s mirror.
Over her shoulder and past the bustling maid, Iris eyed her dress splayed over a chair. This dress was the most radiant to date. The midnight blue bodice, tailored to her figure, was rigid and embroidered with a mixture of threads of silver and pale blue, patterned with roses and foliage. From her waist to the floor, silver and midnight pleats hung casually and intermingled, moving fluidly like the ocean she loved so much. At times when she had seen the dress she had feared that it would distract the eye from her own beauty rather than compliment it.
Once the maid left the room, Iris wished aloud, “Give me the radiance and sheer beauty to fill this dress tonight.”
In front of the full length mirror at the hall’s end, Iris allowed herself a demure smile. With a spark in her eye and the poise only a southern pedigree could guarantee, she walked away from the mirror and approached it once more, watching the movement of her own legs beneath the lower half of the dress. The fabric’s eye-catching quality would certainly detract from the attention paid to her face. But perhaps a young suitor would take more interest in her figure than her conversation in such attire. What woman would not kill for such a seductive yet classy appearance?
As she donned silver hoops and bracelets, the quartet hired to entertain for the evening began their opening music, slow melodies and classics. The jangling of her mother’s bracelets could be heard in the next room as she made last minute touch-ups to her powder. Together, Iris and her mother would descend to the foyer slowly, taking each step along the curving staircase with grace so all who attended the gathering would see the latest statement in fashion.
The sky had grown dark, lights throughout the hall and adjoining parlors casting light onto the lawn, the tips of the highs windows releasing light to the point where sand met grass. The water could be heard crashing on the beach with increasing intensity though this sound of nature was barely audible over the four musicians.
Obligatory introductions were made, more hands shaken than names learned. Highly demanded gossip was shared. Couples gathered to dance, then split apart to venture to various parts of the house, segregated by gender. The women clustered around a coffee table and tea service, taking seats according to their status in the community and receiving cups in the same manner. As time progressed, Iris pondered the best way to exhibit her specially invited guest. At long last she stood before the congregation to introduce a “guest of honor”. When told the girl’s origin, every woman exchanged glances. All present had simply assumed her to be a woman of wealth and privilege much like themselves.
To these women, she had been a flawless beauty, made all the more unique by the color around her eye. She had seemed bold to these women for highlighting this oddity with the color of her dress. She had outshone every woman on the dance floor the women had claimed, an unparalleled beauty. Many men had enquired after her identity and status, both social and marital. Some women had labeled her a friend to grab a man’s attention, riding in on the hem of the raging beauty’s popularity.
However, Iris felt that she had been slighted. Her plan had backfired atrociously and certainly it was this maid’s fault for taking advantage of her gracious invitation! Now that the maid had been exposed as a servant in borrowed finery, she was subject to the snobbish interrogation of the privileged.
Iris headed the attack, her voice resonating with kindness and poised with a backhanded compliment. “Don’t be too hard on her. She is the only maid I trust near my jewelry!”
“How do you manage to keep such a grand house clean?”
“What strings you must have pulled to work for such an honorable family!”
“Do you have any tips on removing wine stains I could pass on to my maid?”
Every question dripped with feign interest and forced kindness purposefully masked poorly. Iris remained silent following her initial prod, allowing the conversation to blossom forth and enjoyed the onslaught. If the focus was not on her, Iris would rather the focus be on the negative aspects of the new center of attention.
Interest soon waned and conversation moved to friendlier high brow topics. As soon as the tone had changed, the maid excused herself, for having ever accepted an invitation so obviously crafted to make her into a source of ridicule. Through the entire party, no one had bothered to enquire of her name. To them she had been another pretty woman mysteriously cloaked by ambiguity, a nameless gorgeous member of the high and mighty. Now that she had been shown to the world as the woman who simply scrubbed the toilets, she was a servant not deserving of a title, rank or name. She was simply a background character who had been a source of service, and amusement once backs were turned.
Iris watched the maid depart, a slight pang of guilt touching at the edge of her heart. However, it was not in her best interest to admit to her cruelty nor was the guilt strong enough to prompt her to act. At any rate, what could she do? Any explanation or truth would damage a reputation she had grown for years from the heirloom seeds of a southern social family. Losing such an accomplishment for so little a fault was not worthwhile or appropriate for one of her station. What would her mother and father think should she open her mouth? They would simply see a line of lost suitors and rejected invitations from community big wheels, not the honesty and compassion of their only daughter.
The midnight hour approached and guests began to make their way out to the lawn, anticipating the family’s signature firework display. For decades, since the novelty of amusing explosives had come to the nation, the family had grown this tradition which originated from acquiring too much disposable income.
Iris’s dress reflected the colors of the explosions overhead as did the choppy waters of the ocean. The stars were blind to all that happened below, stunned by the foreign light shooting across the surf.
As the peak of the night finally arrived, a clock in the house marked the party’s end with twelve tolls. The last of the rockets was shot into the sky, sparks erupting from the end. As it progressed into the heavens it began to falter, it’s trajectory tragically changed. The unfortunate rocket found its way to the beach and made contact with the hostess’s daughter upon eruption.
In an instant, the beach was lit by the growing flame fed by the dress’s tender material. Not many registered the event before they saw the inferno rushing toward the choppy receding waters. Iris embraced the waters fearing for the life of her dress as well as the life of herself. Waters rushed over her, cooling her body as the flames died.
The depths of the water seemed to be increasing as her relief increased. All that mattered was that she was alive. The train of her dress grew heavy with water and belatedly she realized she was being dragged by the overwhelming strength of the current. As she sank into the darkest abyss known to man she could only think of how embarrassing it would be to die this way and how shamed her family would be to have lost their first born child to the very ocean she had learned to swim in.
This night had been filled with her beauty, though it had been overshadowed by her own careless planning. She had made it through the night relatively radiant in her stunning dress, but the morning, as well as the ocean, consumed her last remaining breaths.
On shore, many of the guests were stunned. However, one guest, ravaged with age and wisdom, thought herself witty and spoke aloud, sharing her clever comedy: “She had been swimming in that dress all evening. I guess this is what happens when one hires a cheap dressmaker.”
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oknapp reviewed Version 1 -
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Iris’s hand trailed along the banister…Great description i can picture this.
Nice description of Iris’s dress. Very vivid imagry.
Very nice. The writing is superb. Your descriptions are of the dress and its colors is done very well. I think Iris’s character was very well drawn. I like the ending because it proves a point. People cannot always get a away with being mean and cruel. In making the girl beautiful Iris cut her nose off tho spite her face. I like the cultural aspects of this piece but wished you would have added a little bit on how the birth mark was covered. I don’t think she would need a birthmark. Perhaps she could just be a plain and simple girl made beautiful by some nice clothes. Either way a splendid story. Thank you for sharing. Sandi
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SultryPoet reviewed Version 1 -
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All I can say is i truly enjoyed your work here. The story telling was lovely. Your use of descriptive imagery was wonderful. I could see this beautiful girl amongst a sea of snobby people who area dime a dozen. You area great story teller.
The ending was quite shocking but i wasn’t surprised in a way. I didn’t feel sorry for her, although i feel guilty that I should be.
Sammi
PS def a fav on my list
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