Morning all and Happy Monday. I hope you had a fabulous weekend. Our weather was actually, dare I say, fall like. I enjoyed it very much and would have liked a third weekend day. Alas it was not to be and the new work week starts. Let’s kick it off with a new prompt. Timers set and off we go.
I kind of like starting a story in a town where every level of society has just been altered and now had to find out what life will look like moving forward. Not sure what the actual story will be, but I do like the set up and will keep it for when I do have a story to go with the setting.
Monday, September 28th: Champagne corks popped like fireworks.
Champagne corks popped like fireworks. They spouted foam and golden liquid in arching streams before the liveried waitstaff filled the glasses. They each held a cloth to swaddle the bottles if need be but none of the cloths were used. The bottles emptied too quickly to bother.
While the first round of opening went in a dramatic wave, the subsequent openings were less timed. The waitstaff, at least the ones opening the bottles were well trailed. Even though the openings continued to open dramatically, if staggered rather than in a united display, the bottles were tipped in the direction of a grate so that any spillage would drain away instead of coating the floor with sticky liquid.
Paul watched the performance, his one glass growing warm in his hand. He sipped occasionally when he felt someone was looking but he had no desire to be compromised. He seemed to be the only one. While some waitstaff were clearly trained to open the bottles in the manner the celebration demanded, others were not and soon the opened bottles were passed to other, less experienced people to pour while more were opened.
He saw staid matrons empty glass after glass. For a time, Paul fancied they were melting with each glass. Then he realized it was the tension and stress they were wearing melting away. They had all worn the same mask for the last five years. The constant stress of worrying about those sent to the front lines to fight as well as taking care of those who were left behind in increasingly narrowed circumstances. They made the food rations last and came up with ways to occupy those who might be tempted into problematic behavior with too much time on their hands. They did their best to make life seem normal for the smaller children, those too small to truly understand the war that surrounded them.
They did well, but now, the war was over. Paul realized he started to think of the tension and worry as normal. The others were no less changed. Relief washed all the faces but given everyone’s rolls it was less pronounced a change than the others who had equally important, but less complicated roles within the community.
Paul let his eyes roam the room. It seemed a bright and happy place, no room for specter or shadow. He knew that would come tomorrow. Tomorrow the rolls of the dead would be read. The wounded were already in route, the non-injured soldiers of the city forming an escort for them as they all came home. The rolls of the dead would be read at dawn, to allow those who would not be welcoming family home time. Those returning would arrive at dusk.
Tonight was chosen specifically to celebrate the end, unclouded by loss. Paul questioned the scheduling, but it was what the city fathers chose. They would accept no interference.
