The Mask
By Tipper
Disclaimer: You all know I don't
own the rights to any of them.
Note: Answer to March
challenge by Beth Baker – The Poem Challenge:
"Nope, it's not to write a
poem, but to base a story around one. Pick a long one, short one, old one, or a
new one…heck, use one of your own, which would be great. Don't include the poem
in your story…this isn't about that. Do, however, post the poem (please include
the author's name, book title, and the publisher) at the end, just so the
readers can read your inspiration."
Description: This isn't a
story; it's just a description of a possible beginning. Very
short, as you can see.
_________________________________
And so it happens, as it often
does….
The Masquerade Ball.
How to describe it? Perhaps by starting in the vaulted kitchens,
where the heat was making the walls melt. Roast pigs were being stuffed, vats of caviar
were sitting in the corners, strings of sausages like paperchains
hung from the ceiling, cooks yelled at bakers who shouted at the waiters who
nodded at the butlers as they pushed through the main doors into the parlor
rooms….
Servants slipped in and out of
notice between the bubbling laughter and the rapid paced music, the sliding of
the bows and the beating of the hearts, the constant, overwhelming buzz of
hundreds of voices talking at once. There
the hint of decadence, the hiding of truths, the masking of reality, the power
of the moonlight shifting shadows to trick and deceive, the uncertainty of
enemies mixing with friends. Here the
subtle glances, the blood flushed cheeks, the wild eyes of the dreamers, the
dark gazes of the jealous, the haunted look of the unrequited, the thankful smiles of the found. Here the dresses and the costumes, the masks
both monstrous and fantastical, the beauty of the hairstyles and the smell of
the perfumes. There the secret meetings,
the quiet agreements, the back room corruption, the shaking of the dice and the
playing of the cards. Here the constant
pouring of the alcohol, the drowning of ills and inhibitions, the freedom of
knowing not with whom you speak….
And knowing they do not know you.
In this world,
in this place, in this time, this moment.
Only the servants saw them go….
He took her arm, and she followed
willingly, down the stairs, through the courtyard, the heat of the night
pressing on her bare shoulders, the wet of the humidity dampening his dark
locks. She laughed as he lifted and carried her into the small alcove,
the heavy smell of roses and honeysuckle covering up the overwhelming headiness
of the ocean beyond. His lips found hers beneath her mask of ostrich
feathers, devouring, searching, hoping. She let
the darkness hide her features, allowing the shadows to hide his, knowing only
the color of his eyes through the golden mask he wore.
And onto the soft grass they
fell, a tangled heap, a single whole.
He put his mask back on before
she did, and bowed, leaving her softly and dreamily. She leaned up
against the stone wall of the
She never saw his face, not in
the dark, not even in the moonlight. Never knew his name. Would never have him to hold again.
But his child would always be
hers.
With the same
green eyes and the same burning gold mask.
____________________________
The End
Inspired by:
The Mask, by William
"PUT off that mask of
burning gold
With emerald
eyes."
"O no, my dear, you make so
bold
To find if hearts be wild and
wise,
And yet not
cold."
"I would but find what's
there to find,
Love or
deceit."
"It was the mask engaged
your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what's behind."
"But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire."
"O no, my dear, let all that
be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in
me?"