Ballroom Disaster

• Chelsea Lucas, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2021

Pain grasps its coal hot fingers around her throat, scorching each nerve and painting her skin with blisters. The flames like the petals of a scarlet flower curl up and blossom, engulfing the gold-trimmed walls. The chandelier, glistening with diamonds shatters into the wreckage, the flames cleaning its mess off the mosaic floors. The acrid smoke twirls in whisps, travelling through her airways, its fingers squeezing the last ounces of air from her lungs. She lays alone, surrounded by the ever so hungry fire which began to dampen, its appetite relieved by the bodies it had devoured. Each tiny frill on her dress has burnt to the crisp, crumbling into black ash. The ballroom that once hosted feasts and waltz, accompanied by dainty tunes of the violin, has turned into a graveyard. Her eyelids, swollen and purple opens, her blurry, smoke damaged vision still able to pick up her disastrous surroundings. The splendid paintings, which lit up the room with a burst of colour had crumbled into ash. The walls had tumbled in, the floor covered in a blanket of ash.

He runs swiftly through the palace gardens, his steady breath just about the only thing that can be heard. His shadow, illuminated by the hues of the moonlight trails him, struggling to keep up with his immense speed. He ducks through corners, gambling with luck, the guards could be anywhere. He looks down, there is blood on his hands, even if he can’t see it. He stopped abruptly, as he turns around, and examins his work. He smirks as he sights the once grand palace, reduced to rubble, devoured by the crimson flame. The charcoal black smoke spirals heavenward, blanketing the light of the moon. He looks down, no shadow. His work is done.