Having a good 7/7/14, everyone? If so, then it’s your lucky day (pun intended) for another challenge from The Daily Post! (http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/leftovers/).
I started writing when I was ten years old, having kept a journal and describing my quotidian life in there (and still to this day!). It was also around the time when I began writing novels- at least, my attempt to write 100+ pages of stories. I even started several series, hoping to become the next Beverly Cleary or Cornelia Funke. I would always have these great ideas (i.e. a generational story about different family members, an elf-fantasy series, a spy novel), start them, then quickly run out of steam and never complete them. It was sad.
Luckily, I never through them away; I kept them for posterity in my drawers at home, collecting dust but still waiting to be taken out and revived.
I don’t think that I have a whole lot of space in this entry to post my entire story(ies), so what I will do is tell you how one of them ends (never really got to the end of it, in fact). I won’t give you much context from the story (simply because, again, there’s not enough room), but I’m sure you will figure it out. Thanks in advance, and enjoy!
She looked down at the bouquet of flowers that she was holding in her hands, her elbows bent and situated firmly at her sides. White. Purity and peace. She looked up, her expressive eyes looking straight ahead at the procession with a sense of calm determination.
Her father was at her side; he leaned over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he reassured her. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She turned to look at him. He smiled, creases crinkling around his eyes and mouth. He offered her his arm; she took it.
One. Two. A step. Another step. They made their way down the aisle as the quartet played some Bach tune that she vaguely recalled playing when she was thirteen. She also remembered the time when she was eighteen and had met him for the first time. Now, nearly five years later, in her grandmother’s gown, wearing her mother’s earrings and her great-grandmother’s wedding ring, she was ready.
He was waiting for her. He looked up from his deep meditation (a quality which she adored about him) and saw her. The altar seemed so much brighter when he smiled, basked in joy. Both of them. His hair, almost always disheveled, was immaculately kept in place, his suit traditional and contemporary at the same time (the John Keats pin near the lapel made it modern).
“Bright star, were I as steadfast as thou art…”
She took the platform and stood facing him. She had no trouble smiling- in fact, she couldn’t control the glee that was enveloping her in this moment. This moment was about us, the couple, and nothing could resist it.
The minister commenced. As he spoke, she looked at him and he at her. Almost one hundred years of history between their families- good friends- and never had she thought that it would turn out like this. She wished that her great-grandmother would have been alive to witness this.
She loved him. And she could see that he loved her, too.
“You may now kiss.”
And so they did.
– The Finicky Cynic