Note: I wrote this in high school. I shouldn't include it here, but I think its poetic enough. I'm not great at fiction. I'm not very good at non-fiction, either. Okay, enough self-pity.
Amongst the tangerine haze of slumber, small stripes of sunshine seems to frolic lightly on the tips of Agnes’ eyelashes, calling her to consciousness. Lazily, she shifts her head and the spongy pillow below responds, moulding itself to her shape. The day has yet to be spoilt by the relentless hours spent hunched over books in discomfort, filled with the nagging sense that she does not belong, that she does not hold any particular value or purpose. But as she intently watches figures beyond the glass wall talk and play, she imagines something distinctly different; a change, perhaps? Agnes makes an effort to expel these thoughts from her mind, and to instead store them in her heart where they may rest as wishful thinking.Routine does not lull the a wandering mind. Agnes no longer sings along to the lighthearted and naive melody which once provided optimism; anticipate the future, ignore the past. Her future is now, and it does not look after her like she had anticipated, it does not caress her soul nor entice her tired mind to rest at the conclude of day.
The corridor is quiet, with only faint musings audible in the distance. The silence brings a memory to light; the first time she laid eyes upon a garden. There were rows and rows of golden crops, flowers of opulent colour which sat delicately on dark bushes, and from the ground spurted tiny, delicate, white, spherical flowers which caused excited little tremors to run up her jaws. That feeling, she wishes to reclaim forever.
Ivory coloured walls besieges Agnes’ snail-like walking pace. Though she’s a half-hour late, she feels its time to remember. Memories from a long-gone place flashes, like a dolphin leaping through glistening turquoise waters, only to swiftly disappear.
No matter how confused and gloomy she feels, Agnes always had The Ivory Hall. It is an architectural spectacle indeed, and never fails to leave her eyes brightly wide and mouth slightly parting, in a tableau of awe. Grand white columns run from roof to floor, remaining resolute in their intimidation. Yet up close, the building’s complexion seems a pale amber, and when Agnes caresses the carved stone, it is velvety and smooth, bringing pangs of pleasure to her senses. Upon entrance, slats of light timber line the ceiling, as if a giant golden cloud has attached itself to the ceiling, allowing those familiar small stripes of sunshine to peek through and onto the solid marble floor. Shelves of varying sizes, shapes and shades give the illusion of fun and playfulness, but are filled with scholarly works; Hegel and Nietzsche, Copernicus and Boole. On the tables numerous books lay splayed open on their spines, pages restricted underneath pens, pencils, protractors and papers.
The Elite, always planted within The Hall, cared much for maths, science and philosophy, and little for arts or literature. So much so, that many fictitious books were burned when the Regiment came to power. Agnes wanders around the shelves, not wanting to tire herself with education. As she tries to lose herself amongst the volumes of words, she encounters a familiar scent; masculine musk, that smell which is indescribable, perfumed by rose. A man, broad shoulders, covered in white, carries a series of papers and books balanced precariously in a pile between his chin and palm. His eyes are bright and face flushed with excitement at the sight of Agnes. A moment lapses where Agnes does not remember this man, though he seems achingly familiar.
Slightly cocking his head to the side, he chirps a warm greeting, and Agnes feels reassurance in his tone. Perhaps even slightly patronising. Caramel freckles are a mosaic against his milky white skin, and the keenness of his mahogany eyes evokes a memory from an unknown place, however it was a place Agnes is not sure she would like to return.
Another blast of wind forced a shiver to pierce through Agnes’ body, as she watched the zombie-like figures below her flock towards the luminous orange pyre, the only sign of life on that bleak July evening. The repugnant brown haze which attached itself to the landscape of lofty yet wrecked and abandoned buildings showed no sign of disappearance, nor did the various shades of black that painted the sky with the message of desolate depression. Agnes’ legs, dangling from the side of her residential apartment as she stared out into the distance, trying desperately to recognise the line which separated land and sky. It was then that she noticed the brittle maple leaves which once daintily decorated the trees had all fallen, now only thin, intricate, blue-grey branches stick out like static. She begun to feel a twist in her stomach, and decided to gaze her eyes upon the sacred edifice of the Elite. Dazzling white ivory, great gleaming columns, it all looked so astounding whilst she felt so insignificant.
“I’m thinking of taking up sculpting, what do you think?” The man had broken Agnes’ reverie.
“Sure,” she murmured with little attention. Her memories were strings attached to a ceiling that she couldn’t reach, always fluttering before her eyes but never grasped in her hands.
“I want to sculpt a beautiful woman who, ever so subtly, wears intelligence in her features. That would be utter perfection.” As his digress continued, his motions became increasingly animated, arms thrown from left to right, shoulders perking up and down, even his eyes seemed to be fixated on a vision of his perfect sculpture. This display of passion for something so trivial as sculpting, Agnes envied. At the forefront of her mind was the knowledge that her plebeian background would impede such passion for intellectual activity as the man’s. His motions made her remember. She knew him, he was…
“Mel?” Agnes asked.
“Yes, love?” His arms fell to the desk.
“N-nothing.” She looked away as he resumed his rambling. Another memory clouded her mind.
Mel spent long and tiresome days on a wasted cause - Agnes. Though, he never ran his hand through his hair in frustration, nor did he throw himself up and leave in a flit of rage. Mel’s hands were pure and whose face, young and lively, told of good intentions. Agnes wanted to believe this so much, she obeyed every command.
Alarmed by the deep ringing, Agnes raised her head from the table only to realise another hour had been struck by the clock. Another long night had been spent listening to a tired, husky voice ramble on about the Hellenistic period… that was all Agnes could infer through her throbbing headache. These past few days were laborious indeed, but she was comforted by the clean aesthetics of Mel’s room. She loved the meticulously placed furniture, and her favourite piece was a table which looked as if a man of golden complexion and distorted, thin limbs held up a dominant, charcoal marble rock. She loved the serene orchestral music; the feathery notes of piano, melodious flutes and mellow violin, they all married together in perfect matrimony, like a longing yet unknown love, drifting Agnes into peaceful unconsciousness. The atmosphere contrasted greatly with her own room on the Streets, a single dingy mattress which lay on the creaky boarded floor, constantly smelling stale and damp and leaving Agnes restless during the night.
So when Mel asked, “would you like to learn to sculpt with me?” She remembered the grimy, dark olive jumpsuit which made her body itch in disgust, and the white flakes of skin protruding from her rough hands which told of the icy gale of night.
Discreetly, Mel gently nudged her leg from underneath the table. The flicker in her eye met his across the stacks of books, creating something like a wall between them, and she questioningly furrowed her brow. Without speaking, he tilted his head again and squinting slightly, gazed searchingly at her facial features, for her attention, for control.
“Yes,” Agnes reaches across the table to grasp the hand of her mentor. “Of course,” she smiles, where she finds the energy to muster this smile, she is unaware.
“Excellent.” Mel replies. In this moment Agnes knows that Mel is her maker. The old, filthy commoner is gone forever, lost to an alternate time of which where there is no future. The Ivory Hall is her home, the Elite her peers, the Regiment her leaders, and Mel her master.