Elizabeth’s Bio:

Elizabeth Barton has been writing stories for just about as long as she can remember. After attaining degrees in psychology and nutritional sciences, she began work as a medical writer and editor. She participated in the Writer’s Loft workshop in Chicago for more than four years and has recently begun seriously pursuing a career in fiction writing. Elizabeth has dozens of short stories in varying degrees of completion and is polishing a draft of her first novel. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Ian, and two cats, Roxie and Gordon. When she is not writing, Elizabeth is an avid reader and enjoys travel, theater, and wine. She also loves to dabble in, but never master, various pursuits including drama, sewing, painting, and stained glass work. She believes that every experience can be an inspiration.

The Wedding March

By Elizabeth Barton

She trembled as she opened the door and stepped into the church foyer.

“There you are! Thank God! It's almost time!”

While the first chords of Pachabel's Canon were audible, the foyer was a haze of pink taffeta, white roses, and black tuxedos. Hair was fluffed, and ties were straightened a final time as the party assembled into an orderly queue behind the doors leading into the main part of the church.

Dizzy and parched, she gulped for air, almost inhaling the white mesh that shrouded her face. One hand held the flowers, the weight of which threatened to make her buckle. The other hand was clenched, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms until she feared the skin might break. Mustn't get blood on the white dress.

Open and shut swung the doors. One couple disappeared. Her time was scant.

The world around her moved in slow motion while her mind was catapulted into the future, revealing a blurry pageant of regrets.

Stop it! Charles was a good man. Everyone loved Charles. He loved her, and he would take care of her. Good, dependable Charles would never let her down. That is why she was going to marry him.

Open and shut the doors went again. In front of her, only one couple remained. Her feet wobbled in their white satin heels while the penny in her shoe dug painfully deeper into the ball of her foot.

But Stephen...oh, Stephen. Why was she even thinking of him at a time like this? He was everything Charles was not—erratic, passionate, impulsive, unreliable, and intense.

Open and shut. She was alone, wishing that her father were there to give her away, to march her down the aisle, to make sure she didn't do anything rash and stupid.

The music changed—the Wedding March blared to announce the main attraction.

Wide open swung the doors, and the expectant congregation saw a wisp of white lace disappear out the back of the church.

 

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