| Romance Fiction posted February 20, 2008 |
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MY FIRST STORY - Fantasy vs. Reality
The Arrival
by LateBloomer
From Boston, USA to Paris, France
There was a knock at the door. Well, I thought there was a knock. It was an early autumn night, just like any other. I wondered who could be calling on me. The sun was setting, and its orange glow danced across the wooden parlor floor. I placed my photograph album on the side table and glanced at my gnarled hands. How can it be that this emerald and diamond ring still fits so well? Twenty-five years ago, he gave me that ring and an unfulfilled promise. On that fateful gray day, I waited for him at the port in Boston, and he never showed. Finally, with nothing more than the clothes I wore, a small valise, and my first-class ticket in hand, I boarded the ship. As it set sail, I stared back at the empty pier and then beyond to my unknown destiny.
I put another log onto the fire and lowered the volume of the phonograph. For a quarter of a century, this was my Saturday ritual. With my wine-goblet companion, I would go through our album, savoring the stolen moments of us. Wanting to be certain that I indeed had a visitor, I stepped out onto the balcony and looked down upon the square. Gone were the days of idling carriages belonging to the gentlemen who would stop by just to say hello, and we would chat the day away. The flower and fruit vendors were closing their carts while the shops remained open. Lively music from the cabaret had begun to permeate the air. I had come to love Paris; its salons, shops and hues of people had become my family. This was a celebrated city, full of life, romance, and sometimes loneliness. As I closed the weathered shutters, I felt the first chill of the season. The parlor was now quiet and its stillness filled the air. Returning to the settee, I draped a chenille blanket across my lap, and it was then I heard a second knock. This time it was louder and more forceful. Bewildered, I stopped at the mirror to fix my graying hair before warily opening the door.
There he stood, a face I thought I knew, but who was he? I knew him, but I could not place him. Who is this familiar stranger? I looked down at my ring and twisted it--a nervous habit. At first, I did not realize it was he. After all, the ghost for whom I had so long pined had dark, wavy hair and the softest gray-blue eyes. I smiled at the unknown caller, and for some unexplained reason, a knot weighed heavily within me. "Who are you?" I asked.
He looked deeply into my eyes. I could tell he was a confident man and someone who knew my soul. This stranger was quite handsome with silvery hair and a broad smile--a smile that I should have known. Nervously, I broke his gaze and once again, I twisted my ring. As if the twist of the ring had broken a dam, memories flooded into my head and right then, I knew it was Jack Brigham. At the time of my unsettling departure, Jack was the sole owner and President of Brigham's Bank of Boston, the largest bank on the eastern seacoast.
I remembered the first time we met. It was a beautiful spring day. An archway of blooming elm trees lined Main Street, and the sun was warmly shining. With my business proposal in hand, I went into the bank to see Mr. Brigham, only to be quickly dismissed. To be mocked I could endure, but I was not prepared to be rejected outright. It had taken all of my courage just to walk through the ornate entrance of the bank. A feeling of complete disappointment overwhelmed me. I had worn my finest dress of soft pink chiffon and donned a matching bonnet trimmed with fragrant spring flowers. Pink and white silken ribbons laced my ebony hair and held my curls perfectly in place. For years, I had planned that day and truly hoped it would lead me toward a new life. I had dreamed of becoming a proprietor and opening my own studio. However, what I really desired was to become respectable and welcomed into society.
For years, I earned money by secretly teaching music to children of the working class. A worn burlap bag held my savings and I hid the money behind a loose brick in the coal-cellar. Society looked down upon me. I was not worthy enough to be a lowly servant or even called by my common given name, Mary Ann. What I knew and learned, I stole.
Being the illegitimate daughter of a servant girl, I was not welcomed into the respectable homes of Boston's high society. My mother died when I was very young, and the prominent family where she toiled allowed me to remain, albeit begrudgingly. A damp and dingy storage room off the kitchen was my living quarters. In the shadows, I spent my life spying on the children of the manor. I watched and listened to all lessons taught by their governess. On the dirt floor of the storage closet, I drew a keyboard and practiced the piano chords in perfect, silent harmony, as the fair-haired children practiced out-of-tune for hours on the Steinway in the drawing room. A fierce student I was; I yearned for a better life.
With the proposal crumbled in my hand, I abruptly left the bank. Holding back tears, I pulled the brass door open wide and stumbled down the few steps onto the sidewalk. Anger filled my heart--my plan had failed. As I sat up and rubbed my sore ankle, I heard the deepest and kindest voice say ... "Are you alright?" Looking upwards, his eyes met mine and we were instantly smitten. Without breaking our gaze, Jack reached out with a helping hand and a winning smile. Jack Brigham was the most handsome man I had ever seen. My heart raced as he gently took my ungloved hand.
Twenty-five years later, the same man stood before me. Nothing had changed about him; yet everything had changed. For an instant, he wore the same charismatic smile that many years ago melted my heart and then hardened it. Jack's smile quickly turned downward, and his lips quivered. He trembled as he whispered, "Marie, my Marie, my sweet Marie", in a way like no other--only he. It had been so long since I heard his voice and been called by that name. Many times, I fantasized about that moment and my body shook as if it were the last leaf clinging to a sycamore in the autumn wind.
With swollen eyes, one teardrop slid slowly down my face. This was not a tear of happiness or sorrow. It was a tear of anger and regret of a spent youth. Our bodies were now old, and my heart was empty. Why, after all these years, did Jack decide to show up? Did he think that we could begin our life where we left off? What was the reason for not coming to the port that day? Upon arrival in Paris, I sent him a post-card and for months, I waited for a letter that never came.
Jack had not written a single letter in twenty-five years. I could easily have kept pace with his life through the society pages, but declined. Answers to my past rested before me. Jack nervously searched my face and looked deeply into my eyes. I heard my name echoing inside my head, and I was numb. With our eyes fastened, I looked blankly at him. Another tear streamed down my face. I took a deep breath and once again, twisted my ring. Without uttering a mere word, I slowly closed the door.
Perhaps he knocked on the door once more or called my name aloud--never will I know. Returning to the parlor, the sun had set and gone was the beautiful fall day. A chill had overcome the room and the warmth of the hearth had vanished. In a trance, I picked up the album and walked over to the fireplace. For a short time, I stared at the album and then tossed it into the dwindling fire. I watched each page and its vivid memory burn slowly until the last ember flickered and the parlor went black.
This Sentence Starts The Story contest entry
There was a knock at the door. Well, I thought there was a knock. It was an early autumn night, just like any other. I wondered who could be calling on me. The sun was setting, and its orange glow danced across the wooden parlor floor. I placed my photograph album on the side table and glanced at my gnarled hands. How can it be that this emerald and diamond ring still fits so well? Twenty-five years ago, he gave me that ring and an unfulfilled promise. On that fateful gray day, I waited for him at the port in Boston, and he never showed. Finally, with nothing more than the clothes I wore, a small valise, and my first-class ticket in hand, I boarded the ship. As it set sail, I stared back at the empty pier and then beyond to my unknown destiny.
I put another log onto the fire and lowered the volume of the phonograph. For a quarter of a century, this was my Saturday ritual. With my wine-goblet companion, I would go through our album, savoring the stolen moments of us. Wanting to be certain that I indeed had a visitor, I stepped out onto the balcony and looked down upon the square. Gone were the days of idling carriages belonging to the gentlemen who would stop by just to say hello, and we would chat the day away. The flower and fruit vendors were closing their carts while the shops remained open. Lively music from the cabaret had begun to permeate the air. I had come to love Paris; its salons, shops and hues of people had become my family. This was a celebrated city, full of life, romance, and sometimes loneliness. As I closed the weathered shutters, I felt the first chill of the season. The parlor was now quiet and its stillness filled the air. Returning to the settee, I draped a chenille blanket across my lap, and it was then I heard a second knock. This time it was louder and more forceful. Bewildered, I stopped at the mirror to fix my graying hair before warily opening the door.
There he stood, a face I thought I knew, but who was he? I knew him, but I could not place him. Who is this familiar stranger? I looked down at my ring and twisted it--a nervous habit. At first, I did not realize it was he. After all, the ghost for whom I had so long pined had dark, wavy hair and the softest gray-blue eyes. I smiled at the unknown caller, and for some unexplained reason, a knot weighed heavily within me. "Who are you?" I asked.
He looked deeply into my eyes. I could tell he was a confident man and someone who knew my soul. This stranger was quite handsome with silvery hair and a broad smile--a smile that I should have known. Nervously, I broke his gaze and once again, I twisted my ring. As if the twist of the ring had broken a dam, memories flooded into my head and right then, I knew it was Jack Brigham. At the time of my unsettling departure, Jack was the sole owner and President of Brigham's Bank of Boston, the largest bank on the eastern seacoast.
I remembered the first time we met. It was a beautiful spring day. An archway of blooming elm trees lined Main Street, and the sun was warmly shining. With my business proposal in hand, I went into the bank to see Mr. Brigham, only to be quickly dismissed. To be mocked I could endure, but I was not prepared to be rejected outright. It had taken all of my courage just to walk through the ornate entrance of the bank. A feeling of complete disappointment overwhelmed me. I had worn my finest dress of soft pink chiffon and donned a matching bonnet trimmed with fragrant spring flowers. Pink and white silken ribbons laced my ebony hair and held my curls perfectly in place. For years, I had planned that day and truly hoped it would lead me toward a new life. I had dreamed of becoming a proprietor and opening my own studio. However, what I really desired was to become respectable and welcomed into society.
For years, I earned money by secretly teaching music to children of the working class. A worn burlap bag held my savings and I hid the money behind a loose brick in the coal-cellar. Society looked down upon me. I was not worthy enough to be a lowly servant or even called by my common given name, Mary Ann. What I knew and learned, I stole.
Being the illegitimate daughter of a servant girl, I was not welcomed into the respectable homes of Boston's high society. My mother died when I was very young, and the prominent family where she toiled allowed me to remain, albeit begrudgingly. A damp and dingy storage room off the kitchen was my living quarters. In the shadows, I spent my life spying on the children of the manor. I watched and listened to all lessons taught by their governess. On the dirt floor of the storage closet, I drew a keyboard and practiced the piano chords in perfect, silent harmony, as the fair-haired children practiced out-of-tune for hours on the Steinway in the drawing room. A fierce student I was; I yearned for a better life.
With the proposal crumbled in my hand, I abruptly left the bank. Holding back tears, I pulled the brass door open wide and stumbled down the few steps onto the sidewalk. Anger filled my heart--my plan had failed. As I sat up and rubbed my sore ankle, I heard the deepest and kindest voice say ... "Are you alright?" Looking upwards, his eyes met mine and we were instantly smitten. Without breaking our gaze, Jack reached out with a helping hand and a winning smile. Jack Brigham was the most handsome man I had ever seen. My heart raced as he gently took my ungloved hand.
Twenty-five years later, the same man stood before me. Nothing had changed about him; yet everything had changed. For an instant, he wore the same charismatic smile that many years ago melted my heart and then hardened it. Jack's smile quickly turned downward, and his lips quivered. He trembled as he whispered, "Marie, my Marie, my sweet Marie", in a way like no other--only he. It had been so long since I heard his voice and been called by that name. Many times, I fantasized about that moment and my body shook as if it were the last leaf clinging to a sycamore in the autumn wind.
With swollen eyes, one teardrop slid slowly down my face. This was not a tear of happiness or sorrow. It was a tear of anger and regret of a spent youth. Our bodies were now old, and my heart was empty. Why, after all these years, did Jack decide to show up? Did he think that we could begin our life where we left off? What was the reason for not coming to the port that day? Upon arrival in Paris, I sent him a post-card and for months, I waited for a letter that never came.
Jack had not written a single letter in twenty-five years. I could easily have kept pace with his life through the society pages, but declined. Answers to my past rested before me. Jack nervously searched my face and looked deeply into my eyes. I heard my name echoing inside my head, and I was numb. With our eyes fastened, I looked blankly at him. Another tear streamed down my face. I took a deep breath and once again, twisted my ring. Without uttering a mere word, I slowly closed the door.
Perhaps he knocked on the door once more or called my name aloud--never will I know. Returning to the parlor, the sun had set and gone was the beautiful fall day. A chill had overcome the room and the warmth of the hearth had vanished. In a trance, I picked up the album and walked over to the fireplace. For a short time, I stared at the album and then tossed it into the dwindling fire. I watched each page and its vivid memory burn slowly until the last ember flickered and the parlor went black.
I put another log onto the fire and lowered the volume of the phonograph. For a quarter of a century, this was my Saturday ritual. With my wine-goblet companion, I would go through our album, savoring the stolen moments of us. Wanting to be certain that I indeed had a visitor, I stepped out onto the balcony and looked down upon the square. Gone were the days of idling carriages belonging to the gentlemen who would stop by just to say hello, and we would chat the day away. The flower and fruit vendors were closing their carts while the shops remained open. Lively music from the cabaret had begun to permeate the air. I had come to love Paris; its salons, shops and hues of people had become my family. This was a celebrated city, full of life, romance, and sometimes loneliness. As I closed the weathered shutters, I felt the first chill of the season. The parlor was now quiet and its stillness filled the air. Returning to the settee, I draped a chenille blanket across my lap, and it was then I heard a second knock. This time it was louder and more forceful. Bewildered, I stopped at the mirror to fix my graying hair before warily opening the door.
There he stood, a face I thought I knew, but who was he? I knew him, but I could not place him. Who is this familiar stranger? I looked down at my ring and twisted it--a nervous habit. At first, I did not realize it was he. After all, the ghost for whom I had so long pined had dark, wavy hair and the softest gray-blue eyes. I smiled at the unknown caller, and for some unexplained reason, a knot weighed heavily within me. "Who are you?" I asked.
He looked deeply into my eyes. I could tell he was a confident man and someone who knew my soul. This stranger was quite handsome with silvery hair and a broad smile--a smile that I should have known. Nervously, I broke his gaze and once again, I twisted my ring. As if the twist of the ring had broken a dam, memories flooded into my head and right then, I knew it was Jack Brigham. At the time of my unsettling departure, Jack was the sole owner and President of Brigham's Bank of Boston, the largest bank on the eastern seacoast.
I remembered the first time we met. It was a beautiful spring day. An archway of blooming elm trees lined Main Street, and the sun was warmly shining. With my business proposal in hand, I went into the bank to see Mr. Brigham, only to be quickly dismissed. To be mocked I could endure, but I was not prepared to be rejected outright. It had taken all of my courage just to walk through the ornate entrance of the bank. A feeling of complete disappointment overwhelmed me. I had worn my finest dress of soft pink chiffon and donned a matching bonnet trimmed with fragrant spring flowers. Pink and white silken ribbons laced my ebony hair and held my curls perfectly in place. For years, I had planned that day and truly hoped it would lead me toward a new life. I had dreamed of becoming a proprietor and opening my own studio. However, what I really desired was to become respectable and welcomed into society.
For years, I earned money by secretly teaching music to children of the working class. A worn burlap bag held my savings and I hid the money behind a loose brick in the coal-cellar. Society looked down upon me. I was not worthy enough to be a lowly servant or even called by my common given name, Mary Ann. What I knew and learned, I stole.
Being the illegitimate daughter of a servant girl, I was not welcomed into the respectable homes of Boston's high society. My mother died when I was very young, and the prominent family where she toiled allowed me to remain, albeit begrudgingly. A damp and dingy storage room off the kitchen was my living quarters. In the shadows, I spent my life spying on the children of the manor. I watched and listened to all lessons taught by their governess. On the dirt floor of the storage closet, I drew a keyboard and practiced the piano chords in perfect, silent harmony, as the fair-haired children practiced out-of-tune for hours on the Steinway in the drawing room. A fierce student I was; I yearned for a better life.
With the proposal crumbled in my hand, I abruptly left the bank. Holding back tears, I pulled the brass door open wide and stumbled down the few steps onto the sidewalk. Anger filled my heart--my plan had failed. As I sat up and rubbed my sore ankle, I heard the deepest and kindest voice say ... "Are you alright?" Looking upwards, his eyes met mine and we were instantly smitten. Without breaking our gaze, Jack reached out with a helping hand and a winning smile. Jack Brigham was the most handsome man I had ever seen. My heart raced as he gently took my ungloved hand.
Twenty-five years later, the same man stood before me. Nothing had changed about him; yet everything had changed. For an instant, he wore the same charismatic smile that many years ago melted my heart and then hardened it. Jack's smile quickly turned downward, and his lips quivered. He trembled as he whispered, "Marie, my Marie, my sweet Marie", in a way like no other--only he. It had been so long since I heard his voice and been called by that name. Many times, I fantasized about that moment and my body shook as if it were the last leaf clinging to a sycamore in the autumn wind.
With swollen eyes, one teardrop slid slowly down my face. This was not a tear of happiness or sorrow. It was a tear of anger and regret of a spent youth. Our bodies were now old, and my heart was empty. Why, after all these years, did Jack decide to show up? Did he think that we could begin our life where we left off? What was the reason for not coming to the port that day? Upon arrival in Paris, I sent him a post-card and for months, I waited for a letter that never came.
Jack had not written a single letter in twenty-five years. I could easily have kept pace with his life through the society pages, but declined. Answers to my past rested before me. Jack nervously searched my face and looked deeply into my eyes. I heard my name echoing inside my head, and I was numb. With our eyes fastened, I looked blankly at him. Another tear streamed down my face. I took a deep breath and once again, twisted my ring. Without uttering a mere word, I slowly closed the door.
Perhaps he knocked on the door once more or called my name aloud--never will I know. Returning to the parlor, the sun had set and gone was the beautiful fall day. A chill had overcome the room and the warmth of the hearth had vanished. In a trance, I picked up the album and walked over to the fireplace. For a short time, I stared at the album and then tossed it into the dwindling fire. I watched each page and its vivid memory burn slowly until the last ember flickered and the parlor went black.
 Recognized |
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MY FIRST STORY ... I needed a deadline
FYI's about details within the story:
Emeralds - The emerald is the sacred stone of the goddess Venus. It was thought to preserve love. The emerald has long been the symbol of hope. It is considered by many to be the stone of prophecy.
Diamonds are the symbol of innocence and constancy.
American Elm Trees--the state tree of Massachusetts - home of Boston.
American Sycamore Tree--a massive tree, typically reaching up to 30-40 meters high and 1.5 to 2 meters in diameter.
Color meanings:
--pink denotes love and is romantic and charming.
--White is purity and innocence.
--Ebony--Origin: Greek Meaning: Strength (also conveys elegance, sophistication, or perhaps a touch of mystery.)
Silk--a symbol of wealth and high social status.
About Mary Ann and Marie, Sweet Marie ... I injected that into the story because my Grandmother came the USA in the early 1900's and worked as a servant girl for a prominent and wealthy family on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Her name was Mary Ann and her employer felt that Mary Ann was TOO common of a name and could not bear to hear anyone in her home be called Mary Ann and changed my Grandmother's name to Marie. I was grown before I knew that my grandmother's given/birth name was Mary Ann and not Marie.
"en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steinway_&_Sons" ...
Steinway - Steinway & Sons is a piano maker, founded 1853 in New York City, with a second factory established 1880 in the city of Hamburg, Germany. Both Steinway factories have undergone great changes, and still make Steinway & Sons pianos today. In 1857 Steinway began to produce a line of highly lucrative art case pianos, designed by well-known artists, which became popular among the rich and famous. These pianos today sell for vast sums of money in auctions around the world. In 1903 the 100,000th Steinway grand piano was given as a gift to the White House. This was replaced in 1938 by the 300,000th, which remains in the White House to this day
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. FYI's about details within the story:
Emeralds - The emerald is the sacred stone of the goddess Venus. It was thought to preserve love. The emerald has long been the symbol of hope. It is considered by many to be the stone of prophecy.
Diamonds are the symbol of innocence and constancy.
American Elm Trees--the state tree of Massachusetts - home of Boston.
American Sycamore Tree--a massive tree, typically reaching up to 30-40 meters high and 1.5 to 2 meters in diameter.
Color meanings:
--pink denotes love and is romantic and charming.
--White is purity and innocence.
--Ebony--Origin: Greek Meaning: Strength (also conveys elegance, sophistication, or perhaps a touch of mystery.)
Silk--a symbol of wealth and high social status.
About Mary Ann and Marie, Sweet Marie ... I injected that into the story because my Grandmother came the USA in the early 1900's and worked as a servant girl for a prominent and wealthy family on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Her name was Mary Ann and her employer felt that Mary Ann was TOO common of a name and could not bear to hear anyone in her home be called Mary Ann and changed my Grandmother's name to Marie. I was grown before I knew that my grandmother's given/birth name was Mary Ann and not Marie.
"en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steinway_&_Sons" ...
Steinway - Steinway & Sons is a piano maker, founded 1853 in New York City, with a second factory established 1880 in the city of Hamburg, Germany. Both Steinway factories have undergone great changes, and still make Steinway & Sons pianos today. In 1857 Steinway began to produce a line of highly lucrative art case pianos, designed by well-known artists, which became popular among the rich and famous. These pianos today sell for vast sums of money in auctions around the world. In 1903 the 100,000th Steinway grand piano was given as a gift to the White House. This was replaced in 1938 by the 300,000th, which remains in the White House to this day
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