Laughter echoed through the dirigible. Wine corks popped, letting foam splash into thin glasses. The band played on and the party swayed with the music.
Anna pressed her nose up against the glass, looking at the ground far below, almost lost in the wreath of clouds. She remembered looking down before, when the cityscape had spread out in a mosaic. Bright lights had shimmered amongst mile-high skyscrapers. Other dirigibles had drifted in the wind, like floating lanterns burning bright. When the third moon had risen, everything had lit up in waves of blue.
There was no light below now, only a marbled darkness beneath the churning clouds. Lightning flashed and she could almost hear the crack of thunder through the soundproofed glass.
“A toast!” her father cried, her hair hanging in disarray, his tie undone.
He climbed onto a table, tapping his glass. The dancing stopped and the music slowed as every head turned to look at him.
“A toast to our home!” He raised his glass and the blue wine shifted like an ocean tide. “To Beovorn!”
“To Beovorn!” the others echoed.
Anna watched a cascading orange cloud, moving slowly towards them, reaching out with tendrils of fire.
Word Count: 199
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.
