I’m making this post because I feel bad not having done one in a while. The next one coming up will be my review of the book, “A Teen’s Guide to Getting Published” (2nd edition) by Jessica & Danielle Dunn. In the meantime, I thought it’d be fun to put up one of my old descriptive fiction pieces. Enjoy!
Décolor a Noir
Just outside of Paris an old priest trudges up the muddy path from his house to the church, his true home. A large brown splash accompanies every footstep. Rain pellets his exposed neck, drenches his robes. His little brother died that morning, flea bite, sick, gone.
The torch-lit avenue stands abnormally quiet, even for a rainy day. The rows upon rows of buildings on the usually busy street show no sign of life. The town mourns. Citizens leave their windowsill gardens out in the downpour to commemorate the passing of the town apothecary, Mr. Alexandre Vasseur. The weather mercilessly accepts its sacrifices, takes them down to the streets and the sewers.
Sheet upon sheet of rain scurries along the grey cobbled street, not stopping to admire the stunning beauty of the fashion district. Healing waters attempting to cleanse the town of its silent invaders.
Water pours off roofs of the brown buildings arranged single file. Everything appears darker, saturated with precipitation. All the shutters shut the weather away, locked tight. Gutters groan, struggle to hold on before overflow.
Trickling down anxiously, the droplets join the river flowing to the sewers. They wipe the grey cobbled street clean and leave leaves in their tracks. The sidewalks sit safely above the curb, below overhanging roofs.
Breaking its way through a roof of soggy autumn leaves, a rat dives beneath an overhanging roof for shelter. The first of many. The baker that usually kicks her out isn’t there. No one knows.
Just up the road the ancient cathedral, rundown, home to flees as well as patrons almost bursts at the seems, barely holding the whole town in. The guardian statues have the only emotionless faces.
Everyone knows. Those that can’t get in stand outside the door in silence, shoulders drooping, tears falling with the rain. A patchwork tarp made from one hundred black umbrellas.
Everyone knows. Through the cherry wood double doors an oversized congregation cries in unison. Monsignor Jean-Claude’s robes resemble pepper, crows, midnight. His sullen dark eyes are like high walls, blocking out the flood. What cruelty brought him leading his own brother’s funeral? No one knows.
The pearly white casket stands at the front of the altar––waiting for God. He knows. He knows before everyone else.
Clouds break. The stain glass window scenes come to life and reflect their story on the blank coffin’s surface. The last bit of light before the future turns horribly, miserably black.