Fran Lyon

Hi there! New here. I don't know if this will come out as I had hoped... but here's the begining of a short story I'm writing. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. --- Little Amelia Anne Bunce, age seven, trotted down the street in her mother’s wake, trying to keep up. On this day, Amelia Anne walks with pride. This is because on this particular day, Amelia Anne has bought a pair of sneakers with a small series of lights on the heels that flash with each step she takes. She feels like she’s walking on air right now. Amelia couldn’t be prouder; she beams as brightly as the lights on her feet. The pair of Bunces approached an alley, a gap between the highly priced shops that squeezed together along the busy streets. Something caught Amelia’s innocent eye and she turned to peer around the dimly lit corner. An old man was leaning against one of the graffiti licked walls of the rat-infested alley. He reeked of urine and booze, two smells Amelia could not recognize. The man’s beard was bristly and unkempt, and he grunted in an undertone while shifting his weight slightly so as to find a more comfortable spot on the concrete. He reestablished his grip on the ancient paper cup that contained a few pitiful coins and a bottle-cap someone threw in there as a cruel joke and closed his tired eyes. Amelia felt a sharp tug on her arm as her mother pulled her along. Once she had been dragged past the alleyway, her mother leaned down to her level and hissed in her ear “Don’t stare, Amelia Anne. Ignore them.” And little Amelia Anne, at the tender age of seven, did not understand the distasteful tone her mother used to say this to her. She said it as though the man were an animal, as though he were on a lower level of life. Poor, confused little Amelia Anne. Even then she could sense something fundamentally wrong with her mother’s disposition. This was the first time their differences would present themselves, but by no means the last. The Bunce family is one of wealth and prestige. Most of the Bunce estate and property was inherited and has been in the family for generations upon generations. The family name is widely known and revered in both the business world and the suburban setting. The Bunces’ often send their children to private boarding schools while living it up on the coast in one of their many summer homes, tinkling glasses filled with fine wines and laughing at the world. Amelia, age seventeen, reflects on this as she peers over the roof of one of the previously mentioned summer homes. A large white tent has been erected several acres away and from it a coalescence of music and laughter wafts across the manicured lawn. Her feet are bare, save for her sheer stockings, and her soles are straining against gravity on the hot overlapping roof tiles. She tries to resituate her billowy white bridesmaid dress so that it allows for a refreshing breeze to no avail and glares directly downward. Pale beige tiles surround the glistening cerulean gem that is the swimming pool. A few decorative lily pads float aimlessly in the overly chlorinated waters and the sun casts spectral reflections along the chilly pool floor. Amelia snorts in distaste as her gaze drifts out to the bay where three of the family’s boats are tied to their private dock. Her lip curls as she drinks in the decadence and luxury in which her family lives. Somewhere inside them they must know that living such a lavish lifestyle while others are in need is morally wrong, she reasons with herself, but for the life of her she can’t see any sign of guilt in her family members. But then again, Amelia had always been the black sheep in that respect. The Bunces didn’t share their wealth, either. They never donated to charities or orphanages. In fact, they did quite the opposite. Last Christmas Mr. Bunce had a local food drive shut down so the building could be demolished and upper class apartments could be erected in its place. Amelia’s mother, with her highly rouged cheeks, elegant rings and perfectly shaped, golden-blonde curls, always told her that she needed to embrace the high society into which she had been born. She told Amelia that she should be proud to be a Bunce. In reality, Amelia had gone her entire life ashamed of the tepid silences that followed her name after the teacher announced it in the classroom. She ignored the sideways whispers and glances that would ping-pong between the eyes of her classmates. Thinking of this, Amelia tilts her head back and take a long swig of wine from the bottle she smuggled up to the roof. It’s bitter and her face puckers unpleasantly at the aftertaste. She wipes the corner of her mouth clumsily and notices that the bottle is half empty. The glass was always half empty from her pessimistic perspective. She sways slightly now, hating the way that the red wine lingers on her lips. She never developed the mature taste for wine that her oldest sister Winnie did. Amelia isn’t like her family. It has taken her seventeen years to admit this to herself. She lives in the shadow of her three older sisters, all with locks of long golden-blonde hair and thin, feminine faces that always made it onto the homecoming court in high school. Amelia’s hair is short-cropped to her head in a pale golden halo of fuzzy thin curls that floats around her round face. Her skin is milky white laced with rosy pink near her ears and the tip of her nose. She is not the tall, buxom and tan skinned creature that those of her pedigree normally breed. Amelia sets the wine aside now. She picks out one of the white flowers adorning her unkempt hair and looks at it thoughtfully for a moment before tossing it over the side of the roof. She watches it drift to the ground, landing lightly on the tile porch. Today is her cousin Clara’s wedding. This particular bridesmaid knows that she will hardly be missed from the clamor of expensive dishes being unveiled and the general brouhaha of the noisy dining hall where all of her relatives are currently gathered. Come to think of it, Amelia is almost certain that she wouldn’t be missed at all. Perhaps the bottle of wine will be, though. Another white flower drifts to the ground. Amelia sidles closer to the edge of the four-story house. Her toes dangle treacherously above the party that sprawls out beneath her feet. She peels the petals from another flower in her hair and drops each one individually over the side. The direct beams of the sun are beginning to boil her insides and already parched lips. The pool looks crisp and cool, inviting her to swim in its depths. But swimming is not what Amelia has in mind. It is not what she came up here to do. She isn’t simply trying to escape the hubbub of the party, but in fact has herself a task at hand. Her jaw set in rigid determination, Amelia creeps closer to the edge. Another white flower blows in the wind and lands in the pool with only the gentlest of ripples. There is no place in the world for the black sheep. A bundle of white tumbles to the ground. ---