Young Writers Society

This is a short story I wrote for english clas that is meant to allude to Macbeth in some way and particularly the quote 'Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't'. Any critique is welcome including any nitty gritty gramatical things etc.

QUEEN BEE

She looked at her shoes - black and buckled with pink ribbons. It was only a matter of time now. Thoughts bloomed from her mind, if she could just get through this round she’d be on a clear road towards the final. Her heart thundered and her hands began to feel like burger grease. A gush of rain followed a crack of thunder.

"Opportunity, spelt o-p-p-e-r-t-u-n-i-t-y"

She almost cackled, he was an absolute wreck. His knees chattering, shoulders hunched, with a head as shiny as my mother’s china set. She let go of the sides of her skirt she’d previously had bundled in her fists.

"Incorrect. Next, Rosie Ridley"

She strode up to the microphone and gave the audience a flash if that endearing smile, teeth the colour of the blindingly white ribbons strung around her bouncy curls. The judges looked at each other with a grin.

“Your word is, loyalty”

Rosie stared down the barrel of the camera with a bat of the eyelashes. The rain fell steadily.

“Loyalty, spelt l-o-y-a-l-t-y”

One judge lent towards their microphone, “Correct”

The audience gave a polite applause. As she walked off stage into the wings Rosie smiled, celebrating her victory in silence. It was sickly sweet, like her grandmothers cookies. Just as she felt friendly hands on her back her heart dropped.

“Duncan Prince.”

That’s when Rosie saw him, the game-changer. He was stout with bones like twigs, the sort of child you’d want to bundle in bubble wrap and bandages. His hair was so blonde it almost glittered under the stage lights; he had porcelain skin to match. Freckles littered his face like dead fleas, she thought. Worst of all, was the huge bright blue eyes, staring Rosie right in the face, mocking her. She could tell he would smell exactly like freshly baked muffins and fabric softener, feeling as soft as hazy dream. The audience sighed in unison as he straightened his red bowtie and shuffled his too-big tangerine loafers. Rosie felt her nails digging into her palms.

“Your word is, ‘hierarchy’” the judge said, cupping his chin in his hands.

Duncan’s forehead creased and he placed his tiny palms together. Crowd members sat forward in their seats, nodding their heads like bobbling figures on a dashboard. Rosie’s eyes couldn’t have been more glued on his quivering mouth. The auditorium filled with a wave of complete silence.

“h-hierarchy, spelt h-i-e-r-a-r-c-h-y” he said in his shrill but honeyed voice.

“Correct, well done.”

Applause erupted more suddenly than buttered popcorn in the flames of hell. Rosie felt the rage bubbling in the pit of her stomach. The sympathy technique, she hissed. Duncan shuffled of the stage, waving to the crowd. Camera men scuttled throughout the stage, desperate to capture the shot. Before he reached her she tore through the throng backstage and slithered around to the exit. As she began scaling the stairs she felt her face contort in fury and her cheeks turn pink. She reached the upper level and venom spewed from her mouth as she ordered the man to open the doors. The man smiled down at her before suddenly becoming impacted with the full menace of her gaze. The industrial sized door groaned as she entered the changing rooms.

Her eyes flashed with all the excitement of a horse sneaking into a carrot farm. On the table was a knife. Next to that knife was a complementary apple pie. She held it in front of her nose. She smiled; it smelt like world championships.

Her heart fluttered, her mind began tick like it was fueled by a sugar high. It was her mother’s pie, and her mother’s baked goods always had one flaw: an overbearing aftertaste of salt. She carefully cut a slice and placed it on a plate. Then she scrounged around what she knew to be Duncan’s suitcase until she found his labeled drink bottle. She froze. A final applause echoed from downstairs. Her breath quickened and her hands shook. She rose onto her tippy-toes to the duffle bag stored away on the shelf and her hand felt for the bottle. She glanced at the clock and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Finally her hands grasped the familiar object. Thank god her superficial mother always had her dieting-aid laxatives nearby. She pulled out the pill bottle but her clumsy 10-year-old hands flung it across the room. She watched in horror as it dropped to the ground and the white powder was spread on the floor. Heavy feet clambered up the stairs. Her heart pounded so hard it ripped out of her chest. She crawled on the floor, scooping up a large amount of the powder in her hand and dropping it into the water bottle she’d left open on Duncan’s table. The footsteps grew closer. Rosie closed the bottle. The doorknob began to rattle. She scrambled to brush the excess powder under the cabinet. Rosie flung herself into the bathroom. She saw a glimpse of the red powder slowly dissolving into a transparent liquid before she shut the door behind her.

Rosie took a deep breath. The hum of bustling and murmuring from the main room became louder. She looked down at her red stained hands and began to place them under the running water. It felt as if an anchor pulled down on her chest. Needles pickled at her skin. She stared at her face in the mirror and was faced with a flash of heat and an image of Duncan holding the golden trophy. Rosie splashed water onto her face and began scrubbing at her fingernails. A knock resounded at her door. She jumped.

“Is Rosie in there? This is her final call”

“Yes coming!”

Rosie flung the door open and allowed herself to be escorted down the stairs to the stage. The grand final, she thought to herself. This was what she always wanted, wasn’t it? Duncan was nowhere to be seen. She walked onto the stage with a face of enthusiasm. Trying not to think about the millions of home viewers she flew through her timed questions. The audience roared and she felt her heart fill with praise. She fidgeted side stage while the judges collected their notes. A drum roll started from the speakers. Rosie bit her lip and squeezed her toes.

“The winner of the 67th annual USA National Spelling Bee is… Rosie Ridley”

She stepped onto the stage, heart singing, but when she held the trophy in her hand Rosie did not feel victorious. When Rosie held the trophy, she felt the heat of the lights on her skin, the flashes of the cameras in her face, the itch behind her ear and the sudden urge to own a time machine.