My Short Story: The Glass Queen

© 2009 Hachiko Yukimora

A woman in a less gaudy sense of dress calmly situated herself upon a commoner’s cedar chair. Colors of the lightest blue, and elegant snow white laces and frills are amongst the beauteous features. Appearing to be merely within her mid-thirties, her facial features told whomever her eyes would fix upon that she had her wisdom and took in consideration utter cautiousness. She was a lady subjected to a life of gracious poverty by her own court. Though, the story is that she was a victim-- overthrown by malicious intentions. She sat before an audience with nothing but a smile drawn upon her. And she spoke with a voice belonging to a young girl’s, yet her intentions were no more misguiding than any person close by.

Without a glass palace, life becomes a burden. What, without the many walls to gaze through, and nobody to fully appreciate it all. Without a glass palace, my world would soon fall. Needless to say, there would be no need for a mesmerizing town and it’s kingdom to search for a perfect princess; a fairytale would never exist for children ever again. That kingdom exists as my glass pavilion, and I will forever be its Queen.

She paused without short fallen verse. This weary lady was swift to turn her gaze. From a downward bow to straight on glimpse, she sees and acknowledges, never missing the chance of simple hellos and goodbyes. Gray eyes; they were unbelievable in their own sense. Compare them to a painting, or to that of clear, glass stuck within a stone wall and you may have found them to be incomparable. Colored glass, in particular, is most unquestionably not as beautiful as these, particularly glass pearls. It is like watching a stormy cloud wayfaring in confined space. Her nature spreads into you, with you as her own. This woman’s voice still grasps your heart.

This glass pavilion sleeps as her master sleeps, acts upon her master’s rigid acts. This pavilion that I claim as my own chooses her master. She knows from righteousness and wrong doings. Now filled with crimson colored goblets between its see-through walls, it is screaming. I feel her pain; it is boiling inside, hot from exhaustion, and deafening tones. She has ways of warning those in debt of her: those of whom will protect her. Trumpets will sound, and all will be as it should be. The skies will roar with unavoidable anger, and tears will follow. Lightning will strike sandy beaches, and beauty will continue being renown.