A Story

I like doing snapshot descriptions like this, with the implication of a story but no explanation of it. I find it can be poignant in a different way from character development.

A cool breeze whispers in through the open window, moving the curtains ethereally in the dark. They are white, and sheer, all the way down from the ceiling to the floor, billowing softly towards the quiet room. It is high up, this window, and through it can be seen the twinkling lights of the city, an almost endless expanse of them, spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see. They don't look like lights but stars, from this window. They look as if someone has lain a galaxy down upon the ground and left it there to grow and change. It is undeniably a living light that floats above this city- a presence. And no wonder. Through the window there can be glimpsed the river, lazily snaking its way through the urban streets, out of place, wide and smooth, with smudged reflections of the buildings and neon lights in a smear of color and depth across its surface. Here and there the water has a sickly sheen to it, shifting red to green to blue to purple-black all in an instant. It is like a peacock's feather one second, and a raven's the next. Perhaps it is oil leaked into this river, but it is as beautiful as it is ugly. Sometimes, twisted trees cling to the decaying stonework of the bank, reaching out over the water and casting great long shadows to interrupt the lights spilled there. Scratches and gouges decorate the wood of their trunks in scarred patterns, and their limbs contort to fit between the old buildings beside them. It is a strange, hypnotic beauty that this place has. Low, almost, but undeniably appealing. There is something still proud about this view, that clashes so much with the room it is seen from. Inside, the wind rustles the fine paper on the desk, tugging a beautifully scripted note from its sparkling glass paperweight and floating it to the floor. "Someone's thinking about you." scrawled artfully beside a drawn heart. Carpeted in white, the room is expansive, with long, elegant windows spanning floor to ceiling every few feet on three walls, each with its French doors wide open, each with an equally stunning view of the sparkling night far below. In one, cars pulse along a long avenue with flowering trees and lovely streetlights glowing at its center, above quaint benches in which couples sit and talk; right across from a window in which the slums on the other side are perfectly visible, with that strangely compelling river reflecting the seedy mystery and harsh fluorescent lights that spill out from the various shops. In one, there are only rooftops- all kinds, stretching like a pathway to the moon hung high and brilliant above them, just beside a huge tower with a grand clock. In another is the side of a building down which black iron fire escapes zigzag dizzyingly, leading all the way to the inevitable street below, where a paunchy man sits behind his fruit stand, puffing on a cigar and resting his booted feet upon a three legged stool. All of these doorways to the city are wide open, curtained with the same ethereal fabric- like fine white smoke flowing in the breeze. A long white suede couch stretches across the only remaining wall, strewn artfully with black lacy pillows and an uncomfortable looking but beautifully made black lace throw. There are no lights here, only the long, deep blue shadows created by the diffused light that creeps in from outside. On the polished coffee table, the candles are a creamy off white color, tall and sleek in delicately filigreed silver candleholders, smoke still rising in sultry curls and twists from their blackened wicks. The bottle of wine leaves a ring on the table, beads of water glittering on its glass surface, and one glass is untouched beside it. The world outside infringes with a particularly strong gust of wind, and the curtains on a nearby window reach forward. Their edge comes away a deep maroon color: Wine from the other glass, which lays on its side, cushioned by the plush carpet, is seeping into the white perfection in a dark expanding stain. Her hand is still resting upon it, almost the same creamy white color as the rest of the room. Her alabaster cheek rests on the carpet and her long dark hair has fallen in waves over her shoulders to pool on the floor, blending strangely with the wine soaking the white surface. She doesn't look dead. Her face is not pallid or cadaverous, but achingly lovely with high cheekbones and full lips darkened with wine colored lipstick. Her eyes, rimmed with thick lashes, are almost black, but...vacant now. Hollow. She is utterly still. It is like looking at a wax figure. Why, with the city, the world, stretched beneath her in all its life and glory and ugliness and perfection, did she go still and cold, choosing that over solitude? To truly be alone, I suppose, is something that very few know. When your heart is alone. When you watch the world go by- the good and the bad- and wish desperately to be a part of some of it, any of it... And now her beauty is just a shell, and the person behind it who loved and wept and smiled, and watched that lovely gruesome city, and wrote that note is gone forever. Perhaps she’s seeped into her white rug, alone with that ugly stain that spreads ever wider as the cool breeze from outside trims the edges of the curtains in red.

Author's Note

Any grammatical mistakes are stylistic choices. Thank you for your time. :)

Reviews

[Epipsychologist]

Wow. Beautiful. I like the snapshot that implies a story too. I think you should mention the woman sooner in the story to balance the heavy ambiguity in the beginning with the fact of her death.