“Isn’t it funny how even the most elegant, charming and noble-looking people can have the most cavalier attitude towards significant issues?”
She sighed as she looked at the man who minutes ago was trying to woo her.
“I thought he was a proper cavalier, you know, a renaissance charmer, who knows how to treat a lady right.
But turns out, he is a misogynist”.
Also part of Weekend Writing Prompt #165
She grew up in a bedroom that was as big as some apartments she later saw during her rent-hunting period. She had always thought that was the norm. That all children were brought up in loving families that looked after their every need and sacrificed (themselves) for their own welfare. Finding out the truth hurt.
Elegance, her mother had always told Grace, was something that you learnt to impose on yourself to the extent that it came out as natural. It was like the pain a dancer felt, but to the audience it seemed like blissful gliding. That was the essence of elegance. To appear to have everything under control, without worries, stress or agony. It was not easy.
As she grew up, Grace lost her temper a lot. She was often nervous, allowing her agitation and fear to overcome her. Uncertainty did not fare well with her. She wanted things to be organised so that she could feel that she had the ability to impose some order in the chaos around her. But that wasn’t always possible.
It was only when she returned to ballet that she remembered. It reminded her that not everything had to be forced. Some things needed calm and patience to work out well and everything took time. It all fell into place at the right moment with the proper strain. The elegance was knowing how to acknowledge that and be prepared for when that moment arrived.
Also part of Daily Prompt: Elegance
If there is an elegance in knowing how to speak, there is a charm in knowing how to write. In being able to express the thoughts that swivel in your mind, into words, phrases, sentences. Giving them meaning to paint an image to the outsider, enabling him/her to witness with their own eyes a fraction of your very being.
Being able to write is a gift, a talent, a skill.
In an age when we are constantly busy with something, and never have enough time for anything, possessing good writing skills is a trait few truly have. For, from a very young age, we are taught that reading and writing are intrinsically linked. They are two skills that you learn simultaneously. Today, we spend most of our precious daily time skim reading texts of all sorts. We have no time to waste. If the first few sentences do not grip your interest immediately, the text is not deemed worthy of your attention. So being a good writer becomes all the more important. You need to invite the reader in, to arouse their attention, raise an issue of common interest to them, welcome them into your stream of words, and grasp them so tightly that they would want to stay along for the entire ride. And if you are exceptionally good, you will leave them with an afterthought, having awakened inside of them their spirit of curiosity, of questioning, of bewilderment for the very world we live in. It is true that nowadays we speed read all the more, but that does not necessarily mean we should also skim write.
Think about the books you read. There are some that you can literally not put down. Not even when you feel your bladder so full it is pressing against your stomach, and you’re dancing around on your seat, trying to finish one more line, one more sentence, one more page, before you have to race to the bathroom like a mouse on fire. But there are others that actually put you to sleep after just one or two pages. It might not necessarily be just the plot at fault. It is the way the plot is written. The descriptions, the narrative, the tone. It is no wonder, therefore, that the best books you read – those that remain with you long after – are the ones in which the flow of words can reach deep into your soul, caress every atom of your being, and so thoroughly describe every emotion you feel to the extent that you experience a hair-raising chill down your spine. The most memorable texts are indeed the ones that so vividly describe exactly what they make you feel. The ones that help you embark on a rollercoaster of emotions, of racing heartbeats, and of sighs of relief.
Knowing how to write is more than a dexterity. It is an art. And like many others, everyone claims to know how to do it. But few truly do it well.
Also part of Daily Prompt: On the Edge
There was once a princess called Cecilia who lived in a large stone tower. When she was young her parents had locked her in the tower to punish her for being so mischievous. But the key had broken in the lock when it was time for her to get out again and for some inexplicable reason she had remained there for a decade or so. She would receive all relevant nutrition and luxuries through the tower window, by a makeshift elevator. She was a sort of Rapunzel and she constantly dreamed of that one prince who would come to rescue her.
One night, as she was now a young adult, she was staring at the full moon shining brightly and streaming all of its glistening light in through her only window. She had never seen the moon that big before. Maybe it was a sign her life would change. That something good was about to arrive. She fell asleep bathed in the moonlight.
Cecilia was awakened by the sound of hooves stomping on the stone-paved path below the tower. She hastily got up and looked out the window. It was a young man all suited up in what could only seem like those expensive suits Cecilia had read about in her fashion magazines. He was sitting proudly on a white horse. He seemed awfully sure of himself and gestured to Cecilia as if she was the prince she had long been expecting.
Cecilia politely smiled and mouthed a greeting. And then he condemned himself. He asked her to come down the tower so they could ride together back to his castle where she would become his princess.
“If I could come down, do you think I would still be up here?” asked Cecilia quite irritated.
The prince appeared shocked. Obviously he wasn’t very smart.
“I’ll throw you a rope and you can climb down then,” he offered.
Cecilia was so disillusioned she turned away back into the tower and even shut the window, something she very rarely did. This was no prince, she thought to herself. “What kind of gentleman tells a lady trapped in a tower ‘I’ll throw you a rope?’”. “Pfff”, she thought, “hopefully my real prince charming will come soon. One who knows how to treat a lady. Who will arrive with flowers and love notes. Who will know exactly what to say at the right time. Who will be so sweet and gallant that he will strike a sensitive chord in her heart, making her cry with happiness”.
Weeks passed and Cecilia carried on her routine. Silently suffering her enclosure. But just when she was beginning to despair, it happened. It was a night with a full moon as big as the one she had seen a few weeks ago.
A blunt arrow flew straight into her window and landed with optimal precision onto her bed. Only looking at it more closely she saw it was not really an arrow, but a rose. A single red rose whose sweet scent filled the room.
With the rose in hand she approached the window. And right there stood the most beautiful white stallion she had ever seen, with hair glistening in the moonlight. It stood still waiting patiently.
At the bottom of the tower, Cecilia could make out the figure of a young man. He seemed to be occupied with something. As Cecilia tried to distinguish what was going on, suddenly a ladder rose steadily up the outer tower wall. And the young prince was climbing up with it.
In under a minute he was standing before her, his bright brown eyes staring into hers and offering her a dozen red roses neatly packaged, fitting for a princess.
“It has been days since I have been trying to find a way to come to you, my princess. These roses are not enough in front of your beauty. But I promise I will do anything to make you happy, if only you will allow me to be your prince.”
Cecilia melted away. Here he was, standing before her, the prince charming she longed for. Who said chivalry was no more? It is just so rare, that you have to be patient enough to find it, and when you do, never let it go.
Have you ever noticed how people in uniform have a different “air” about them? It is as if all of a sudden that piece of clothing they wear adds elegance and status to them. Be it soldiers, firemen, policemen, astronauts, nurses, pilots, even scouts, waiters and pupils, uniforms make the bearer feel all important.
It is no wonder that one of the most popular romantic fantasies involves the use of uniform.
But why does this specific clothing makes us all feel bigger, better and brighter?
It is not actually the clothing itself – although uniforms usually are made of better quality material. It is the significance attributed to the uniform. It is the discipline that is associated with it. The fact that in order to properly wear the uniform it means you will be clean, shaven, hair combed, and almost doll-like perfect. It is the entire image it purports. And particularly the fact that to wear the uniform you must usually gain the right to, by proving your worth through exams or physical tests of some sort.
It is interesting to note how when we’re young at school we usually despise wearing uniforms, but when we grow up we often strive to become part of a uniform-wearing team or profession. It is the sense of belonging, the camaraderie, the prestige associated with the clothing that makes it all the more enticing.
We just need to remember, it is not the clothing that makes us important, it’s the other way around.
Also part of Daily Prompt: The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man
MC's Whispers 