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No responsibility will be accepted by the author for the wastage of your valuable time whilst reading this. Any claims that she has forced you to visit this site in order to inflate her ego will go ignored, and will only go to show your vulnerability to the author's exceptional persuasive skills as developed in Year 12 English. That is all.

Bonne vivante. Raconteur. Procrastinator.

With nothing spectacular happening right now and the reluctance to affirm my creepiness by talking about my exchange student, I've decided to put one of my stories from Year 11 English on here, just so I appear like a conscientious blogger. Oh, and feedback please.

The Light of Life

'Light is the life of the world, while Love is the light of life.' - Lewis Wallace

“Enjoy yourself, darling.”

Anna smiled warmly at Peter. He glanced almost uncertainly at his wife. She looked pleasant; her shining eyes gazed amorously at him and her hair was bunched into a simple ponytail. He clambered out of the car and into the darkness of the night. Ambling up the path, he reached the reunion venue.

As he entered the bright hall, he recognised several faces: some of which had transformed notably, others distinctly similar. Then, he caught sight of her. The goddess. A saccharine fragrance emanated from her as she glided past; it smelt of vanilla. Her hair cascaded down in fine strands of chestnut, which complemented the satin draped around her voluptuous body. She was almost luminous, giving off her own brilliant light. Her eyes flicked in his direction, and then turned back to her path. Maybe she didn’t see him.

He milled around behind the crowds uncertainly. Despite their being close, the goddess had never seemed to reciprocate his sentiments. Thus, he married the plain but tolerable Anna. He knew he had to be faithful to his wife, but that would never last. Love was the light of life: he loved the goddess her and yearned to be loved in return. However, his wedding ring continued to sparkle tauntingly. He married Anna: for better, for worse… but he still dreamed of the goddess…

“Pete!”

He wheeled around and saw her. His chest pounded uncomfortably from the surprise.

“Hi there. How –” He paused, horrified, as his throat produced a peculiar gurgling noise.

The gracious goddess ignored the sound.

“How’s Anna?”

“She’s good.”

He felt pangs of guilt as Anna’s affectionate smile inundated his mind; he made his excuses and retreated to the opposite end of the room.

The night continued in that fashion, as he determinedly remained far away for the sake of his wife. His feet were itching to move towards her, and he finally succumbed. He shouldn’t have come.

“…the wedding ceremony sometime next month.”

He paused abruptly. The voice, akin to a nightingale’s, was unmistakable.

“You are so lucky to be getting married!”

The goddess giggled. She held out her porcelain hand; from her delicate finger sparkled flecks of white and gold.

He knew it was for the best.

As the night took its toll on several celebrators, the hall gradually emptied. He glanced over and saw the
chestnut-topped head floating amidst the dwindling crowds. In a rash decision, he made his way outside towards her to bid farewell and good luck. Cars left one by one, and she was alone.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

He did not answer, but was fixated on her eyes, those alluring emerald gems. They tantalized him.

“Well, I must meet my fiancé.”

She began to walk away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the back of her shimmering gown.

“Wait.”

The goddess turned around. With the realisation that she was promised to another man, lust washed over his self-imposed control. He thrust himself into her and kissed her gently yet passionately, in the same fashion as he had dreamt of since high school. Suddenly, he felt the warmth being peeled off his as she backed away furiously.

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly.

She continued to move away, off the pavement and onto the street, a look of revulsion and betrayal written onto her face.

“How could you–”

Her words were still ringing into the dark night as the oncoming car approached.

Tears clouded his vision. He wasn’t much help to the police; he was too overwhelmed to speak: overwhelmed by the guilt of betrayal and the guilt of being responsible. It was late.

Anna was seated comfortably in the kitchen. Her fresh countenance lit up brightly when she saw her beloved husband. He vaguely remembered when he had told her in their height of ‘passion’ that those glowing eyes were the lights of his life. However, when she saw the devastation on his face, her expression withered. She did not ask what was wrong; she did not intend to. He trudged towards her, collapsed into her arms and wept.

The morning arrived, and sunlight began to creep surreptitiously through the laced windows. His sobs quietened, and he fell asleep. Anna did not sleep; not when her husband was in pain. After all, he was the light of her life.

-Mel

PS And in case you were wondering, the motif was light. It's the first time I've used a motif, because all my other stories are bland soap operas. But hey.

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