Inspired by the opening scene of Little Women (2019).
The scent of faded leather and ink hung heavy in the air of the Weekly Volcano, intertwining with the faint tang of smoke from perpetually smouldering cigars. Dark wood panelling wrapped around the room like the lining of a coffin, oppressive and stifling. A scatter of men sat peppered throughout the newspaper’s office, their postures rigid as though carved from the wood that surrounded them. Their hushed whispers formed a murmur that vibrated throughout the halls, a symphony of undeniable power and authority. There was no room for hesitation here, no space for weakness. This was a world built on precision, and in its sharp, calculated roar, Beatrice was but a whisper.
A gasp of golden light pooled in the corners of the room like spilled honey, coating Beatrice’s desk in a warm glow. Tucked in the far corner, its surface was a patchwork of ink-stained papers and precarious stacks of files. Smudged fingerprints adorned the edges of the documents, reminiscent of the hands that had shuffled and re-shuffled them countless times. Beatrice’s typewriter loomed in the desk’s centre, its keys worn smooth from hours of diligent work, though no one ever seemed to notice the woman behind them. A rusty name badge peeked curiously from the clutter, declaring the small structure to belong to Miss ‘Beatrice Jones – Secretary.’
Beatrice perched on her desk chair, her fingers dancing over the keys, the silent room punctured by their rhythmic click. A sea of suit-clad men formed a wall around her, their greying moustaches and severe expressions half visible amidst the haze of cigar smoke. Their very presence was a sickening reminder of her role:
To file.
To fetch.
To fade into the background.
Her coworkers’ stoic suits radiated authority, stiff and tailored, while her blouse billowed gently, as though to remind the office that she didn’t quite fit into the sharp lines of their world. To them, she was an ornament—an office fixture meant to blend into the woodwork, the perpetual other in this world of buttoned-up authority.
Buried in her work, Beatrice’s fingers stilled on the typewriter as a young woman’s voice echoed throughout the office. Jo March perched at an editor’s desk, animatedly pitching the scribbled pages she held in her hand.
“Oh, it’s not mine, you see. A friend of mine desired me to offer a story,” Jo declared nervously.
At this, Beatrice couldn’t help but smile, recognizing the thin veil of pretence. Jo wasn’t selling this story for someone else—this was her work, her chance. The realization stirred something within Beatrice, a flicker of longing she couldn’t quite shake. It was as if Jo’s steadfast ambition had cracked open a door that Beatrice had longed to open herself but never dared.
Shortly after the exchange, Beatrice’s eyes drifted toward the window, where the relentless pulse of New York City sprawled before her—a labyrinth of cobbled streets and winding alleys that twisted endlessly into the horizon. The city breathed with a restless energy, its veins teeming with an erratic rhythm that pulsed through the streets and into the very marrow of its buildings. The skyline loomed like jagged teeth; a twisted crown perched over the endless stream of pedestrians below.
Suddenly, her gaze froze, catching sight of a mop of mousy curls bobbing amidst the sea of top hats and stiff coat tails. It was Jo, tumbling down the street like a whirlwind, her skirts a vibrant blur, gathered tightly in her hands, their colours defiant against the muted palette of the crowd. She wasn’t just another faceless figure swallowed by the city’s tide—she was a spark, alive with purpose and possibility, a force of nature cutting through an ocean of monotony. There was no hesitation, no shadow of doubt in Jo’s stride. She moved with the kind of boundless energy that could reshape the very streets beneath her feet.
Beatrice watched with an envious hunger. How easy it seemed for Jo to conquer the city’s streets, carving out her own path without hesitation. The stifling environment of the Weekly Volcano had always bound Beatrice, forced to adhere to the expectations of a workplace that viewed her as nothing more than a spare key, kept on hand in case of emergencies but otherwise discarded.
Trying to dismiss these mournful thoughts, Beatrice looked at the pile of towering papers before her. Yet, for the first time, she didn’t feel bound by them. With a single deliberate motion, she thrust the stack of paperwork aside, instead pulling her typewriter towards her in a close embrace. The endless stream of thoughts that had swirled amongst her head for years began to jolt throughout her body, a violent chorus of creativity. With a single, half-hesitant sigh, she began to type.
The first word fell from her fingertips.
And then another.
She didn’t stop.
This piece is a part of The Student Showcase for Year 10.
