Creative Writing,  My Writing


The dress is too tight and too ruched. (Or whatever the word is.) It cuts across her chest in a weird way and makes breathing in deeply a chore. And dangerous. The hemline is too long for her liking and restricting her stride as she walks. It causes her to waddle and look largely uncoordinated. And the colour.

The colour is a harsh peach. If peach can ever be considered harsh. It’s garish and clashes hugely with the purple dahlias that make up the bouquet she is clasping tightly in both hands and against her chest. At least her shoes are comfortable. She had been allowed to choose her shoes, and had gone with a well worn (but still presentable) pair of nude court shoes that she figured would be the safest bet given the colour of the dress. That damn colour. Peach (pastel in general) had never been her favourite colour and this cemented her dislike.

The corridor she is currently standing (more of a walkway because it’s outside) in is cold. Although that may be because of the breeze whistling around her, the bride and the two bridesmaids in front of her.

There is a clear nervous tension in this moment. While they stand waiting for the doors to open and the music to start. The gradual procession of bridesmaids, to the maid of honour (her), and then the main event. The bride in all her glory.

The idea of walking down that aisle in this dress terrified her. It was ugly, constricting unflattering and made her look like a penguin. And the colour. Why the peach? But it wasn’t her day. It was her sister’s. She cast a glance back, taking in the arches of the walkway, the blue sky with wisps of cloud scattered around and the glaring shine of the sun, her eyes eventually settling on her sister. They shared a smile and her sister exhaled on a laugh of disbelief. Then the doors opened. The bridesmaids walked through them and then she took a deep, yet constricted, breath and made her way towards the altar.

The dress fits better this time. It accommodates the bust, cinches at the waist and is a comfortable fit over the hips and legs. It hits the floor. That could prove problematic if she doesn’t kick the dress out as she moves forward. Tripping would be one of  the worst things that could happen today. She was holding the front of it up slightly so that it wouldn’t get dirty. Grey scuff would show up on the white (ivory, off white, cream…whatever) hem.
She is wearing her trusty nude court shoes and they also apparently constitute as ‘something old’. Her sister stands just in front of her wearing a blue floor length girl, that contrasts so greatly with the dress that her sister made her wear at her wedding. It’s not peach, it’s actually nice this time. Her sister is also clutching some purple dahlias but they are hanging down with her relaxed arm.
Their eyes meet and her sister nods reassuringly then raises the flowers to the centre of her body, and looking away, preparing herself for the walk down the aisle.
She casts her eyes back around the walkway. Notices the detailing in the arches. The birds chirping harmoniously. The sun making an appearance through the thick grey clouds that had been threatening rain. Her eyes settle on her dad. His tear glazed eyes and proud smile. The doors open and she inhales sharply and on the exhale lowers her dress back to the ground. She watches her bridesmaids go. Then, with a final look back, her maid of honour follows suit.
With a final deep breath, she accepts her bouquet from her dad and smiled. Kicking the dress out as she takes tiny, preparatory steps.
Then the ‘Wedding March’ starts.
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