4 years ago1,000+ Views
Responding to this week's Writing Wednesday prompt by @TessStevens, which is aimed at the style of F. Scott Fitzgerald!
The prompt's basics:
- "You've been invited to a party hosted by a millionaire playboy you've never seen. Describe what you see and what you know about the host. Use qualitative statements that wind and bend."
- Long sentences are a hallmark of Fitzgerald's style. These are not run-on's, they're lengthy but grammatically collect.
- Use foreshadowing as well.
- limited point of view
I decided to go with a time period sometime-off-in-the-future, just to see what I could do with it. Again, I don't love this, but the important part is that I wrote something, right?
The bell boy motioned for me to wait for the next elevator, and I realized in that moment that I really had no idea what I was getting myself into.
I nodded at him, stepped backwards and looked up the ornate gold designs that surrounded the door frame, also decorated with what seemed to be real gold, not goldtonium, that led into the the elevator. Beside me, the smell and radiation of Galaxy Dust, Nebula Nemesia, and Cooled Comet coated over the trench coats and rock jackets of the other guests waiting continued creeping closer to my own, less dusted outer wear.
When arriving home to find a single, holographic piece of paper hovering outside my bronzing door just three rotations earlier, the first thing that I had decided after checking 'yes' on the mysterious invite to the Cummings house was that I would only wear my space dust over my evening dress, because I couldn't afford to cover myself in the layers that other guests surely would. It would be the least noticeable to the largest number of guests this way, I had figured.
I hadn't counted on Cummings being of a class that didn't fall prey to using the corporation operated jet streams to transport guests inside his outer rings and onto his space stay, instead hiring an elevator and bellboy to make the experience more unique, and more line with his tastes. I hadn't counted on the close quarters to other guests who would surely sense a lack of radiation from me in the elevator as we traveled to the Cummings' Stay at a slower pace than a jet stream would have taken us.
I hadn't counted on a lot of things about the Cummings that the world knew everything, and nothing, about, that would later be part of the intrigue that I held in regards to him.
What I had counted on, though, turned out to be entirely correct. Unlike the usual night affairs, there were no gender equality gates ensuring ratios that would allow everyone, regardless of identified genders and orientations, to statistically have a potential pairing that would be appropriate for all involved. I know that a man like Cummings didn't believe in this, and Cummings didn't believe that there should ever be a lack of romantic options for anyone, particularly himself.
Looking out over the party floor from the entry balcony, the radiations of identifying females glowed brighter than any males, and in the middle of this concentrated mass stood one man who didn't radiate at all.
Wick Cummings was waiting, and for a moment, I thought I felt his eyes on my outfit, lingering on my unreactive overcoat. I shrugged it off into the hands of a waiting servant, started to glow, and went to work.
1 comment
Hey! I liked this indeed...