The Palace – a Short Story Inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby

The Palace

-A Short Story Inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby-


It was just my first night in New York and already I had made a fair few acquaintances who lived there. We spent the day in the city, indulging ourselves in liquor and only the finest foods that ‘Le Pachoise Rouge’ had to offer. Incidentally, I later discovered that the French word ‘Pachoise’ is not in fact French at all, so it was a wonder to me how they managed to keep the restaurant’s name so incorrect. When I asked one of my new ‘friends’, Mr Trevor Westwood, he simply stated, “My friend, we all know, but in New York, nobody cares!”, and with that, I knew just the kind of town this place was.


After a heavy day of gallivanting around the various roads and plazas of the town, I was just about to head off home when one of the women, whose name escapes me, spoke up: “That rather extravagant fella’, oh what’s his name… Gatsby, that’s the one, anyway, he’s having anotha’ party tonight, maybe we should go and spend the evening there?”. Before I even got the chance to state that fatigue had overwhelmed me, the coupé we were in had sped off again.


It was not before long that we arrived at Gatsby’s palace: two large, golden gates stood between us and a plethora of different people. The gates were open and already the party inside was alive and thriving, people were dancing, prancing, drinking and, although it was only half past eight, sticking their tongues in each-others throats. There was a large pool with what seemed to be a bandstand of sorts in the centre, that night’s live performance was from a band which called themselves, ‘The Roaring Twenties’. They played some smooth jazz and the lead singer was a pretty woman of around 25, she wore a colourful hat and a long, cream dress.


Around the pool, there were more people, many of them had ‘that look‘, the look of someone who made more than triple the average wage and nearly all of them had a glass or beverage in their hand. There were multiple bars dotted around the pool and around the outside of the manor and I presumed that there were probably more inside the house itself.


The house was majestic, much wider than any I had seen in my life and certainly a lot taller than many others on this stretch of Long Island. There were many windows, presumably one for each room, possible more. Some were lit, some were not but I guessed that they cannot have been occupied as it seemed the life of the party was outside. My party and I sat down at a table on the upper terrace, the table itself wasn’t overwhelming, it was littered with candles and drinks and tissues and drinks, not the most pleasing sight. We were sat there, talking about this and that, for the best part of an hour before I offered to dance with one of the women we were sitting with, she was roughly the same age as me, about 28 but had a young face. She had long blonde hair and a smile that could cheer up even the darkest of days.


We danced for about 20 minutes, the music had an addictive, pulsating vibe to it and I am afraid I got rather caught up in it all. Before I knew it, I had had a bit too much to drink and I cannot remember much more from that evening. All I can remember though is the man who said Goodnight to me at the end of the evening. Jay Gatsby.



So this marks my return to writing properly, I’d like to say a big thank you to everyone who has supported me and kept reading over the last few months. I’d like to give a big shout out to the WeHateMovies Podcast (You can find them here), they’re utterly hilarious and worth a listen if you enjoy my film reviews.


Anyway, hope you enjoyed




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