to dance at the ball

One of the several chandeliers in my apartment.


She would hide on the upper staircase to watch the guests arrive.

She knew they drove up in fancy carriages with pairs of gleaming horses.

Footmen would open the doors to release the resplendent passengers.

Coats and cloaks, walking sticks and hats were taken.

Women’s lady’s maids spent hours preparing their mistresses for the ball.

Ladies’ best features, hair, figure, face, complexion, were highlighted by dress, jewelry or coiffure.

Men wore the latest fashion, but some, like their wives, were best to have worn something else.

Names were announced when gilt-edged invitations were handed to the head butler.

Much fuss was made over Miss So & So whose engagement to Col. So & So. announced at a recent reception.

The arrival of a junior and rather genealogically-removed member of the royal family was cause for even more fluffing and puffing.

She dared go further, to catch glimpses of the glistening ballroom itself.

Every feature of the room had been scrubbed by the under staff till it glowed.

Chairs lined the walls for those disinclined to dance.

Tables held luscious pastries, punches, and other delights.

As the music began, she knew it was time to leave.

“Oh, what a world,” she thought, drifting back to the attic.

“If only I could dance at the ball.”


“Prompted” by “one of [the] chandeliers in [sunday photo fictioner, also known as al] apartment” on Sunday, November 9, 2014.


5 thoughts on “to dance at the ball

I like first person narratives.

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