This is the beginning of a longer piece - it's more the style of writing that I'm testing out, wondering whether or not it's a little too dense, whether it works as an opening, whether the character or the writing engages anyone. See what you think.
He stood atop the grand old monument, gazing all the way to the vista where the dazzling cityscape met the darkened evening sky. He was standing solitary and silent as a shy king, like one man raised high above the streets and rooftops as if to touch the face of the heavens.
A bracing October wind coursed through the thin, tranquil air. It was enough to ruffle the shock of copper hair on his crown and bless his cheeks with a rosy hint. But more than that, it sent a chill through his blood that cooled the broiling violence in his heart and fanned the burning fires that seemed never to be extinguished in his head.
He loved the autumn. He was a pale-faced boy who burned all too easily out in the Sun, and so had never made his peace with the summertime. And the winter was so cold that its chilly mornings and foggy nights would make him poorly. He was sensitive, all too easily hurt by what pains the world and its fatalities would heap upon him. He dressed darkly, and that evening he was wearing a thick black scarf around his neck.
And yet he remained standing straight, his aspect almost fearless. The strength there was about his mien was born of the weakness: his eyes were narrowed and his colourless lips were tightened not to seem tough, but only to stand against the cold of the twilight.
He was still, not for want of thought, but perhaps because he was subdued by it. His was a mind constantly absorbed in the reflection of something. His pastel blue eyes, always watching the world go by, always wandering from the earth and to the sky, gave testimony to that. When his thoughts were sad, they were terrible; when his thoughts were happy, they were blissful. Always he was searching for an answer, for a meaning. Always he was searching for the question. He would pass his every lonesome moment thinking, musing upon his world without and within. Never could the Sun rise and conquer and fall without that man’s eyes finding something new for his mind to question, something to wonder about, something for his heart to feel. And yet through it all, he remained silent. He could sit or stand or walk all day long in the most intense contemplation. And not once would he say a word.
What was he thinking about now?
He was not the only one standing there, raised high and proud, gazing over the scene that spread below. The viewing platform was flooded with tourists, shuffling mock-reverently from one side to the other, admiring the view with a communal quietness. Some of them were standing just as still as that solitary young man, only they were watching the same picture on the screen of a camera, grabbing photographs of the moment in case the memory were ever to fade. There was a young couple nearby, the girl’s head resting on her man’s shoulder, his arm round her back as together they looked across the town in loving peace. And then just beyond there was a pouting, brooding little boy slouched against the wall, sulking at his mother and father because they wouldn’t buy him an ice cream from the café up the road.
But that silent, solitary man still fixed his eyes upon the breadth of the scene, and marvelled at all he saw. He watched the unblinking red and white lights of the cars that circled below before they carried on up the twelve avenues that spread like veins out to the rest of the town. He watched the reddening and goldening leaves on the trees as they were set aglow by the lights of the shop fronts down each of the long roads. He watched as the sky slowly blackened and the curtain fell on another day. Still he gazed as far as the horizon, over the theatre of every house, and wondered what parts the actors across the town, the people of the city, might have played that day. He gazed with eyes content over the whole vastness of the city, over the sweet and still span of his dear, lamp-lit Paris, the place where our tale is set. And he smiled.
|
Written by Fledermaus (3286 comments posted) 12th October 2007 | Ah, the Eiffel tower. Funnily when you mentioned a 'grand old monument', I imagined the Arc de Triomphe, although it soon became clear he was at the Eiffel tower.
It's exactly the sort of thought which Paris triggers I think: What goes on in all those houses, behind all those windows... Somehow I had to think of the main character of 'Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain', who specifies it a litte more.
It's a nice introduction, and although you tell, rather than show a lot about the boy, you can get away with it here.
What you could change though, is the abundance of adjectives and metaphors. Some are nice, but too much of a nice thing isn't always good. |
Only registered users can rate and write comments.
Please login or register. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
Previous item
