Dust - a story about three girls

Fishyperson has given it back now


The rain pounded her feet against the glass roof in some frenzied dance, illuminated by flashes of lightning polished to perfection, which tore the sky into ragged, bleeding pieces. Thunder roared from the mouths of dense black clouds which prowled the sky in menacing packs, tossing their heads in arrogant pride. On the hunt. It seemed that every part of the storm had rehearsed her part well, and was now performing her role with the fierce determination of a west-end actress, to outshine everyone else, and please the disturbed lunatic who was directing the play. All except the wind. She howled and shrieked like some lost child, and ran screaming round the town in search of her mother. She wrapped herself round the Fяancæn (Th-ran-say-an) Windows, as if trying to find some comfort in the tiny conservatory. Tonight, Aunt Beatrice decided, the wind had lost all her dignity and resorted to grovelling and tears. Tantruming gets you nowhere, she concluded, half to herself, and half to the storm.
She sat with her abnormally large and mottled purple nose in a tome of Fяancæn (Th-ran-say-an) poetry. Now, Aunt Beatrice was not the most attractive of women. This was mainly due to the fact that her face (mostly dominated by the gnarled violet nose) had the lumpiness and dull grey colour of a rather distorted potato. She had the tiny black eyes which betrayed her zero tolerance of any sort of nonsense and lack of pity, and the fierce bulk of a twisted and very angry rhinoceros. This is the reason why, when a rattling sounded from the hall, she was not pleased. Not pleased at all. That is also why, only when the disturbance persevered, did she rise reluctantly from her huge cane chair, and begin to waddle, with as much dignity as she could muster, towards the door.
Muttering curses to ‘ill-mannered, ignorant’ youths, she flung open the door, ready to let fly with her words. But what she saw shocked her. Three girls stood in the porch, precipitation dripping down their noses. The smallest was tiny, she barley came up to Aunt Beatrice’s waist. Her two sisters stood on either side of her, their large eyes outlined in kohl, faces grim and silent, but somehow still radiant with the elegant beauty from the nomad tribes of the eastern Aiganian desert. The tallest had hair the colour of the shining midday sun, and amber eyes like a cat. She was taller and slimmer than her sister, whose long, deep brown hair fell into loose corkscrews which now hung limp, drenched with the rain. Aunt Beatrice stood staring at them, her face deformed with disgust, as she cried out “what are you here for? I don’t give money to beggars, especially not foreign outcasts; and I’ve given charities more than what they deserve. Go. Shoo. Scat. Be gone ye foul creatures.” But they just stood there, their hollow eyes staring up at her, desperately pleading with her. For what, she asked herself.
“Papa said you knew. He said you’d take us in. You will, won’t you, Aunt Beatrice? Please?” The little girl’s plea hung in the air, as Aunt Beatrice realised who they were. Her brother, Adolph had died not even a week ago, and had demanded, in his will, that she look after his children. She had never met them, but now she had, she was disgusted. They were so miserable and vulgar and spoilt. No one deserved to endure their company for long, she decided, and thought it unfair that she should be burdened with them. Mais, c’est la vie, she thought, as she gestured for them to enter.
“Height order, backs straight, heads up. Up!” She barked suddenly, not unlike an army commander calling his troops to attention. The door slammed shut, the bang echoing through the silence that followed her orders. Aunt Beatrice strode round them in a circle, like a lioness, checking out her prey. Suddenly, she swung round and grabbed the eldest by the chin, thrusting it upwards, towards the light. She twisted her face, so the dark hair fell from her cheeks, and brushed away the few strands that still clung, moist and sticky, to her skin.
“Hmmm. I can see the family resemblance. But let me tell you one thing,” She whispered now, and dropped the girl’s chin, glaring at all of them, “I will tolerate no nonsense and no tricks and no spoilt pampering or whining. Get it? Good. You’ll survive. Just. Names?”
“Aahmas”
“Khepri Mert”
“Taa”
“What vulgar, despicable names. Barley suitable for respectable Englesian young ladies. You will be given new names, and your old ones are never to be spoken again. Never. They are swear words. Oh, fine, use them in school but I do not, let me repeat not want to hear them ever.”
“What are our new names, ma’am?” Khepri Mert asked, her voice quaking.
“Aunt Beatrice”
“…um, Aunt Beatrice?”
“I shall tell you in the morning. Go onto the top floor, and you will find a trap door and ladder. That is your bedroom door. Be down here for dinner in half an hour, changed, washed and – just go! You’ll hear the gong.”
She stalked off to the conservatory, to resume her reading of the Fяancæn (Th-ran-say-an) poetry, but found that, however hard she tried, she could not immerse herself once again in the beautiful, foreign literature. The thought of these girls plagued her mind, shadowing her being with a dark cloud of annoyance and despair. However would she cope with such insolent wretches? She cast her mind back to her own childhood and shivered.
***
Meanwhile, in the dusty shadows of the attic, Khepri Mert opened the curtains, letting golden rays of light illuminate their poverty. There were three mattresses on the floor, moist, and smelling of dust, damp and mould. The sheets on them were yellow and patched, the floral prints faded and worn. I suppose people could’ve been excused for thinking that, apart from the boxes and boxes, the room was empty, but every corner and crack was overflowing with mystery, neglected beauty and shadows. A broken mirror with a huge, mahogany frame stood on its side, her face scarred, dusty and half covered in an old curtain. Newspapers from the year 1654 stood stacked and tied with string in a corner, and several lamps lay on the floor, dead and dejected. Taa gasped at the thick layer of dust turning even the most vivid of paintings grey and dull. Rugs and lengths of carpet stood rolled up in corners, and tables lay at distorted angles like mangled people involved in some sick terrorist attack. Aahmas looked at the mattresses in disgust stating that they were more suited to biological war-fare than being slept on. They stared at the chipped basin that maybe, in some distant century had looked white. A thick layer of scum lay round the plug hole, and the taps were lying half way across the room.
“I don’t quite think we need to wash our faces tonight, girls.” Khepri Mert whispered, placing her pile of clothes on an old sideboard. Taa just sat in the dust and cried.
***
The time they had been dreading for so long – dinner. Empty sunlight glinted off judgemental, haughty silver and glasses polished to perfection. The girls sat, backs straight, terrified, sipping soup from porcelain saucers, trying not to slurp the grey, tasteless liquid.
“Mushroom soup, full of taste and nutrition. Lovely. Isn’t it?” Aunt Beatrice hissed. Grimacing, with the taste of that foul broth on their lips, wondering who had washed their feet in it, the girls reluctantly agreed. ‘They may not be so bad after all’, Aunt Beatrice thought, noting that they had set the table well, in silence. She only wished they’d smile, and stop whispering. But then again, one thing she really loathed was optimism.
The girls sipped their soup in silence, miserably watching their reflections in the perfectly polished porcelain. They remembered dinner with their father, drinking soup out of earthenware mugs. They’d dip warm, crusty bread into a soup full of meat and herbs and deliciously warm vegetables. Though the crockery was by far superior to the stained, cracked bowls they were used to, the soup tasted like someone had washed their feet in it.
“You are dismissed from the table. And it would really help if you helped Anita wash up.” She hinted. Taa’s eyes went as round as the soup bowls, taking in all the dirty pots and jugs and plates on the table. Her sister’s began to gasp in horror and disgust, then simply nodded.
“Of course we will.” Aahmas said, “Oh! Aunt Beatrice.” She added her new ‘mum’s’ name as a rushed after thought. She could never be their mum. Couldn’t even be their boss or employer. Simply a monster.
“Now, for your names.” Silence fell like a thick cloud. Aunt Beatrice pointed at each girl in turn, starting with the eldest, and ending with Taa.
“You, girl are Elizabeth. Not Betty. Not Liz. Not Lizzie or Beth or Elsa. Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Aunt Beatrice.”
“You, are to be called Sarah Jane. Sarah Jane, do you hear me? Sarah Jane. Not Sarah or Jane but Sarah -”
“Yes, Aunt Beatrice.” Khepri Mert, no – Sarah Jane, cut her ‘Aunt’ off, who coughed in a ruffled sort of way, then carried on.
“And you, child, are now called Margaret. You may shorten it if you like, amongst yourselves, but when I address you, you shall be Margaret. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Aunt Beatrice.”
“Then you are dismissed.” She turned in a swish of heady, cloying perfume and grey lace, and stalked out the room, sucking her stomach in to fit through the door. Sarah Jane regarded the table with cautious disgust.
“Time to get clearing then, I suppose.”
“Nice start to our new lives.” Elizabeth added. Margaret, well, what can we say – she started crying. Again.
***
The girls awoke early, savouring the sweet warmth of their beds, one luxury they could enjoy. Aahmas, or shall I call her Elizabeth, had piled old blankets up, and used them to replace the mattresses, laying them down on old, flat mirrors turned upside down and supported by an assortment of tall, slender and very elegant chests of drawers and fat, gilded candlesticks. The old sofa in the corner had donated her huge cushions to be draped in tapestries and used as headboards. Overall, the three beds looked rather magnificent, if you looked past the chipped furniture and the need for a good dusting.
Sarah Jane slipped out of bed and threw open the curtains, bathing her sisters in cold, empty sunlight. She opened the window, letting the golden birdsong pour in from the heavens. You could barely see out of the windows for the climbing roses, their blossoms huge, deep deep red and as silky as a rich lady’s petticoat. Their beautiful, heady perfume filled the room, and the light shone through their petals, tinting their faces in warm, soft pink.
Sarah Jane began to make her bed, then started on her sisters’, turning them out of their beds and onto the floor in the process, reaping nothing but grumbles and whispered curses. They cleaned the basin, thus discovering that it was white after all, and painted delicately with blue flowers and leaves. The girls set about making the attic feel like home, which was rather hard in their circumstances, but I must say, they did quite well. In the end, they had constructed a rather delightful dressing table from cardboard boxes, wicker baskets and a large, round mirror. The pile of boxes and broken furniture which before had cowered in a corner, lying at distorted angles, were now labelled and piled neatly, the fragile items neared the top, and some chairs set up so they could be reached. After folding their clothes up on a bookshelf hidden by a curtain, they decided to face their Aunt. She had declared the previous night that they were to be attending an all-girls school. The though, frankly, was quite frightening, and Margaret had been close to tears. You see, they had never attended a school before, their parents and the rest of the east Aiganian community taught them. The name of this school you may ask? St Trisha’s.



St Trisha’s[1180]
The cream and duck-egg, Tatton patterned curtains danced gently in the breeze, in a desperate attempt not to end up rolled up in the girls’ attic. Bone china chinked in time to lilting birdsong as Aunt Beatrice sat, her rather large frame crushed onto a slender cherry wood chair, round a delicate circular table, in the conservatory. Her two friends, Makoto and Emilie, sat beside her sipping Turkish apple tea and nibbling Deutsch biscuits with goat’s cheese.
Now, Makoto was from Kasai Sakura, and her name meant true. The name fitted her perfectly as she was known in the neighbourhood for being nice enough and honest enough not to conceal the truth from anyone. However, she counted her opinion as truth and left more scars than gratitude for her so called ‘sincerity’. She had a very round flat face that looked like a tomato that someone had shaped with a steam roller. Her eyes were tiny almonds which squinted at everyone like a bad tempered teenage boy, and to put it politely, she had ample proportions. Not in an Aunt Beatrice scary bulk, I-could-crush-your-face-if-I-wanted-to way, but in a rather squashy, round way, which gave her the resemblance of a lump of lard.
Emilie on the other hand, was from Alleuman, and was as straight and thin as a beanpole. Her dark brown hair was pulled loosely into a bun and you could be excused for considering it ‘glossy’, but no, it was merely coated in grease. Her name meant ‘rival’, as the only people she seemed to be liked by were Beatrice and Makoto, and even then, her temper was often aroused. Now, whilst seated with these two ‘delightful’ women, sipping tea and nibbling biscuits, Aunt Beatrice chose St Trisha’s as a school for the girls.
“Now I’ve heard some rumours, Beatrice, which I’m sure couldn’t possibly be true,” Makoto started. “I heard that you are housing some girls from a desert. I mean a desert. Of course, I said that it couldn’t be true. And if it is, you must send them to school.”
“You did what?” Emilie spluttered on her tea as Makoto grinned from behind her teacup. She knew that it would annoy Beatrice that she had told Emilie like that.
“I can assume you,” Aunt Beatrice said in a strained voice, “that I did not volunteer nor did I even want the wretches, and that they shall attend school immediately. Would you share with us your sources, Makoto darling?” She suddenly changed her voice, grinning evilly, knowing that she won. You see, the entire town knew that Makoto drooled over the vicar and he was her source of gossip. Everyone knew but no one admitted to knowing.
The conversation went on in this manner, each woman’s intention not to have idle chitchat or catch up on the news, but to find some juicy gossip on the other, or pretend to exchange pleasantries which were really intended as insults.
Sooner or later, which one I couldn’t say, the conversation turned back to Elizabeth, Sarah Jane and Margaret. “I have no idea which school to send them to…” Aunt Beatrice began.
“St Trisha’s.” Both Makoto and Emilie said in unison. They seemed decided on the school and both decided behind Aunt Beatrice’s back to make sure the girls were enrolled. Immediately.
***
You cannot put words to the extraordinary experience that the girls and their aunt had shopping for uniform, but eventually, the girls had their uniforms, hockey sticks and leather bound notebooks. And one moon after the tea party, they stood on the gravel outside the school as the horse and carriage trotted off. Oblivious to their abandon, they stood, staring. A sympathetic wind ruffled their hair, whispering to them that it’d be alright, as the sun disappeared behind grey clouds, unable to watch. The school towered above them, daring them to oppose her. The solid oak doors were giants, studded with iron nails fat as Aahmas’ fist. Centuries of spilt blood, broken hearts and fallen angels were carved upon those school doors, glaring down at them. They must’ve stood there like that for hours, waiting. Waiting. Winds passed them by, whispering rumours to their sisters. No one believed that the doors would ever open, not the stars or the trees or even those terrifyingly beautiful doors.
When they eventually did open, there were no violins, green lights or tendrils of dry ice creeping out from the Headmistress’ feet. She was a short lady with broad shoulders and thighs, and a long, thin nose. Her thin, dry lips were outlined in shrivelled red, the shocking ruby hue of blood beading from a fresh wound. When she did open her mouth, her pearly teeth, they were perfectly smooth, not pointed like vampires as they had been expecting them to be. Her voice was clear as crystal but as hard and cold and had just as sharp an edge to it. “Welcome to our Academy for girls. We expect you to work to the best of your abilities and achieve high standards. Please enter the school and follow me to your dormitories.” She had been talking slowly, trying to cram in as much malice and disgust as she could without doing the school a bad turn. Turning on her heel, she strode off. The girls just stood there, staring, dumbstruck until she disappeared into the rapidly decreasing warmth, when they grabbed their luggage and would’ve ran to catch her up, but their bags were too heavy and Taa felt on her face and got frit in her knee. The head mistress had strode by the matron, spilt her molten, and still burning instructions onto her tenderly busy schedule without missing a beat, and carried on to her office. The Matron stood inside waiting and the girls inside, until the receptionist saw them and called a porter to carry their bags.
***
As much as I’d like to give you three pages describing Matron, we must get on as there are too many characters in this story and we’d never see the plot. She was a tall, thin lady with brutally blonde hair scraped into a severe bun and a face like she’d eaten a lemon or looked in a mirror. When the girls arrived with the porter and a little grit in their knees, she whisked them into her office and dismissed the porter with a flick of their hand and their three dormitory numbers. This is probably why each suitcase was on the wrong bed but we must excuse that porter, he had the Receptionist on his back all day. Anyway, after the girls had been seen to by Matron’s tweezers and antiseptic cream designed specially to be extremely painful. The girls were sent to bed, with a lecture on school rules, dates and early morning routines up the school stairs. They were only boarding for the first term to get used to the school, then they would only attend in the day. Of course, none of this information was absorbed, but it was given to them regardless.

SCRAP THAT!!!!

I decided to write a description of something and make it into a story but I started it years ago and whatever - I'm scrapping it.

I liked it

thanks, but I'M ABANDONING IT...

Why?

its not a story. its an idea which never turned inot a stroy

It's still good

Not really. The plot was going ot be that Aunt Beatrice tried to sell them as slaves and feign their kidnap and it was about them escaping across the desert, hence teh title dust as they get sick of breathing, sleeping on and eating dust.

Still..... It is good. I love the characters especially.

STOP POSTING RANDOM STUFF WHICH ISN'T A STORY OR COMMENTS ON A STORY!!!

And what do you mean by 'still...'

I mant that it was still really good.

I'm giving it back to you, I cannot continue.