This is a piece I started a while back and dusted off the other day. I may add more to it at some point, but I also like it as a short mood piece for the questions it raises about beauty and our perception of it.
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This is a love story. There is a girl. There is a boy. It is traditional.
I should warn you though, you have already been lied to.
She is twenty-one and she is beautiful. This is necessary.
Eighteen is no good, it's too young, twenty-five is a bit too old.
She could be twenty-three, and things would probably end the same,
but even then, she would be less than perfectly prepared for what will happen to her.
She is unnoticed.
I said that she is beautiful, and that is true. She is fairy tale beautiful.
She is pale and thin with soft dark eyes, and her black hair falls in what no poet would fail to call "raven tresses".
How could she be so beautiful and go unnoticed, you ask? A good question.
Ask the city. Ask the world. Ask yourself.
There are girls more beautiful than she in your own town.
Her apartment is tiny. Her walls are white and bare. She lives alone - no pets, no friends.
She calls her mother once a week and leaves a message on her answering machine. Her father is dead.
She has not cried since she was ten.
She has one pleasure in her life. She reads. Classics mainly, but contemporary works as well. She goes to the library every day at lunch, and most days after work.
She sits in an empty alcove and reads until closing time. She goes home. She falls asleep with a book on her chest.
Her story begins here, written in flaming letters and spoken with a tongue of fire.
What happens next. Where goes the tale?
Ask the city. Ask the world. Ask yourself.
There are girls more beautiful than she in your own town.
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gymbrall
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- gymbrall (
gymbrall) wrote,