Fiction: Group 4
Then, as the last heavy vehicles deserted the rich avenues, and silence was all there was outside the
big republic of the school gates, a girl could be seen descending the steps of the vestibule balcony. Even
from afar, Stephen knew she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. It was his youth’s felicity and
his unwavering prejudice for romance that he knew, from the flame-like passion in his heart, that the girl
his great eyes now lay on was indeed Myra Chang.
As he decided on his next movement, he was reminded of a line of his own that he had written for Cecile,
at the end of year nine…
Swim, and dance, with me tonight, my love
For a foolish wreath is on thy head!
Stephen watched her discreetly from the veranda as she drifted to the bottom of the steps and over the
trembling grass. Carefully, he turned and moved down the veranda steps.
She was wearing a long white gown that outlined her slender, supple body, and a wreath of flowers
adorned her forehead. Her eyes were dark and sad and lovely, and her pale hands swung gracefully by her
sides.
“Hello,” he cried softly. “I’m Stephen.”
Hearing his voice, Myra turned around. What she saw was a boy of incomparable romance. His dramatic
eyes lulled her fatigued soul into bits of paradise, and then his name finally got around to her... Stephen! Oh,
Stephen…!
“We’ve met,” Stephen said breathlessly. His dark eyes said: “We’re in the same year… but I don’t think
you know me very well…I stayed behind, after everyone left, just to see you.”... “You might have met my
older brother, Monroe China.” At the proclamation of his brother’s name, Myra’s face perceptibly
brightened. “He was captain of the Football team at Archibald some years ago, but he’s since graduated.”
“Oh, yes, Monroe China…” she said pensively. “So you’re his brother?”...”He’s a collegiate legend of
sorts – my brother Dorian knows him, went to the same university. Real Archibald sportsman. You should
be very proud.”
Precipitately, a nervous jealously throbbed in Stephen’s head - not for Monroe’s success, but because of
the fact that Myra respected Monroe more than himself. They were walking off the pitch, into the darkness
of the nearby forest. Amidst the thick foliage, pale moonlight slipped onto the glinting leaves and through
the innumerable gaps in the trees. Stephen allowed a little distance between them, for fear Myra wouldn’t
like the intimacy.
“I
so very
adore you,” she whispered very suddenly, settling herself on a smooth rock. “Men nowadays
are all facile, unromantic things who lack the eternal quality of patience. You see the beauty in different
things, and your mind is cool and measured, and that’s where a generation fails.”
For the first time in his life, Stephen had found idealism, and the impossible quality known as physical
perfection, which now sat tremulously in front of him. Advancing toward her, he placed a polished shoe on
the rock, and both of his arms resting cooly across his leaning leg, he said: “I’m deeply flattered, Myra. Back
south -- could I visit you sometime, give you a call?”
Her eyes beamed with passion. Sitting there, she turned her wan face up to him in the moonlight, and
her pale lips trembled.
“Why-yes Stephen, of course…”
Precipitately, a harsh, imperious voice tolled through the night like a forlorn bell, taking with it all
the beauty of the night:
“Stephen! Myra! You two come here this instant! It’s way past time!”
Hearing this, she raised herself from the rock - very silently, the ends of her white blouse slipping
sadly off it.
“Good-bye,” said Myra.
“Good-bye,” said Stephen.
Stephen watched her disappear into the blue foreground, drifting like a phantom until she was only
a scarcely perceptible dot in the distance.
Skipping away, Myra saw vaguely the large, flame-like windows of the girls’ residence, and
scarcely keeping up with her rich, delightful blue streams that ran and jumped over rosebushes and turquoise
growths - full of floating lilies and gleaming a silver hard as steel.
