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The City of Lone

by lindzwrites

As the night dawns over the streets, flooding the corridors and winding cobblestone paths, and the homes of petite women and their children go dark, a sad song hums in the ears of the restless -- those subject to the siren of the stars. A scholar scribbles the ink of his new ideas into a crowded notebook, desperate to explain their lengths. A widow, with raven hair and coal eyes, weeps for her beloved, long gone in the wisps of life and its unpredictable losses. A stargazer, small for the crowd, moves a bulky telescope through his parent’s flat, struggling to avoid waking the neighbors and the rest of the unit. A saxophonist, after playing without end, for some change or some attention, now sits on his case, dozing off against a brick wall. But there is a woman, shy of 20, with long limbs and watery eyes, that strikes the streets with her small shoes in the absence of sunlight. She passes the boulangerie with its fading scent of pastries and breads sold at high demand in the mornings, and slows against a wall, breathless and drained of tears. The “Le Navigator” sign is glowing above a glass window, in which she spots her reflection. Her scarlett pout is low, like the trees in the park by Tour Eiffel, and her eyes glossy with the tears of feeling lost in the midst of life. She wipes the black running from her large lids, catching her breath and holding her chest, and moves now towards the window, a portal into her own. She slowly traces the outline of her nose in the glass, moving to her pronounced jaw, followed by her brow and mouth, and ponders everything frustrating about the City of Lights at 3 am. Loneliness creeps into her heart -- a blanket made with the softest and yet harshest of seams. The twilight now looms over her lost soul, along with the rest of the restless, and those with the gift of sleep, and those falling in and out of consciousness -- a gateway into the truth of the solitary mind. In the wee hours, when no one is watching and there is no obligation to be awake and active, the people alive, like our crying mademoiselle, are defined by the craving of the acts that can’t wait for morning. Men and women are making love, studying, crying, staring, running away, singing, and smiling. They make up a population of the sane, yet for centuries, those awake for the moon were declared lunatics, people of lowest ethos. The whirlwind of ideas and pure authenticity thrives like it can not during the day in the City of Lights.

Our mademoiselle now strolls past the streetlights hanging onto the last of their yellow bulbs and breathes in the scent of her fellow lunatics, finding comfort in the now-clear boulevard, much like the clear mind she desired. Her face is pale, drained, and waterless, but her heart is pumping with the rhythm of her heels. She is lonely, but the darkness wraps her arms around her and begins to guide her back home, away from the glass window of the boulangerie, and towards her wee flat, in the City of Lone, where she will find subtle peace in reflecting till the sun rises.

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91 Reviews

Points: 2125
Reviews: 91

Sat Oct 26, 2019 11:43 pm
dahlia58 wrote a review...

This is amazing! I could practically see the characters and the "mademoiselle" going about their daily lives right in front of me. The imagery and descriptive vocabulary used in this work are also wonderful. Personally, I can relate to the scholar scribbling his ideas before he forgets them, which is what I do all the time.^^ I can also sympathize with the lady's preference for solitude. Society tends to label quiet, solitary people as sociopaths or lunatics, like you said. But some people really just prefer being alone, and actually have time to themselves.

I loved this narrative. Please do write more.

User avatar
380 Reviews

Points: 17473
Reviews: 380

Wed Oct 16, 2019 5:15 pm
Dreamy wrote a review...

Hello there, lindzwrites! Dreamy here to give a short review.

This is wonderfully written. I got really into it. It was interesting and made me very curious about this Mademoiselle. I wanted to know more about the city and about her.

There was this one thing that bothered me though, you say her eyes are dry from crying and yet she cries and she wipes them away. I thought it was not consistent narration there. And the below quoted sentence:

She slowly traces the outline of her nose in the glass, moving to her pronounced jaw, followed by her brow and mouth, and ponders everything frustrating about the City of Lights at 3 am.

This is just a suggestion, you can either use it or decide not to. It's all up to you. I just thought it would be weird if she actually traced her outline since she's obviously under some pain that we are unaware of. I'd suggest you to instead write it as if she's looking at herself and noticing the particular features of her face. I feel it will give out same emotions and impact the readers the same.

Otherwise, this was a good read. Keep up the good work!

Keep writing!

Cheers! :D

The reason a boat sinks isn't the water around it. It sinks when water gets into it. Don't let what's happening around you weigh you down.
— dalisay