Shortlisted
The Ice Palace of the Desert
French International School (Secondary), Jean-Baptiste Rioual, Fiction: Group 4
A
nd remember: eyes alight, chins forward, and smiles gleaming. I cannot stress this
enough; this is the most important gala of your entire, meaningless, frivolous lives.
You can and will be taken care of if you do mediocrely, and you, well, might upgrade
social castes if you do extraordinarily.” Savannah knew the last few words her
superintendent asserted semi-joyfully were mere lies that, after fifteen years of being pronounced,
had never come to existence. No one had, and no one would ever, leave the Peasantry; one’s caste
was inherited, and forever inalterable. But, like every other apprentice in the assembly, she knew
that any one of them who behaved inadequately would indeed be executed, or “taken care of”, a
euphemism the Oligarchy commonly used for the rather harsh punishment.
Bianca, the lavishly dressed superintendent, paced the hoverjet’s plush carpet, silently
rummaging in her mind for information she hadn’t yet told the new recruits. Defeated, she sat
back down on her leather seat and started scribbling her thoughts on her electronic clipboard,
before announcing, a few minutes later, that “We are about to descend. Get ready to be dazzled!
You have been blessed with the privilege of being the first to see this marvel of modern
architecture. Of course, as one of the major event planners, I got to see it before anyone did.
However, do remember that you have been chosen from the best, and that your presence means
dearly to our great hosts, Sir David Lancy and his wife, Valencia. This is the opportunity of a
lifetime for you, and...” The recruits watched amusedly as their boss rambled on and on, not
realizing that her voice had long since been covered by the roaring engines.
The scorching heat made Savannah feel nauseous. Whoever had come up with the idea of
hosting a ball in the middle of the desert was a complete idiot. Geography at school had taught her
that desert weather was fickle. Guests would, two hours later, regret arriving in skimpy beachwear
and wish they had brought their stately chinchilla coats instead. The eccentric spoilt Oligarch
organizer obviously hadn’t been listening in class, not that her education would ever equate his
private prep school one. Bianca stumbled around fake-smilingly, her stilettos sinking further
into the sand at each of her melodramatic steps. Savannah watched her amusingly, wondering
how such a pretending snob could have such a seemingly confident posture whilst feeling totally
out of place. Gusts of feverish wind twirled around her flowing fuchsia dress, lifting it up where
she couldn’t prevent it from doing so. She batted her excessively long eyelashes thrice, before
obliquely skimming the notes of her electronic clipboard.
“Right,” she said, as she recollected her thoughts. “Obviously, our guests won’t be socializing
under that,” she said pointing at white canopies on a distant sand dune; “You are currently above
the venue itself. It will be roused at sunset, when this abominable heat will have died down. The
delicacies that you will serve will also be arriving at the very last minute. Basically, all that we’re
asking is that you look good whilst obliging. Now everyone go get dressed; this is going to be a
long, memorable night.”
Savannah followed the troop to the aggregation of white teepees, and was directed to a cabana
lined with dozens of racks on which hung garments, each epitomes of elegance meticulously
wrapped in a transparent pouch. “And you are?” asked a smartly dressed man in white.
“Savannah Duncan. D-U-N-C-A-N,” she answered, admiring the dozens of white costumes
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