(no subject)
title : n/a ?
prompt : a sunset can't save you now
time : 34 min (gah overshot)
notes : A sunset can't save her now from the beauty of things... (the very end of this story-idea/novel/thing...)(Hope this didn't come off as Mary-Sueish. -_-'' )
The rain had stopped. Sylvie looked out of the window, where the memory of Simon, faintly transparent, wandered about the streets, helplessly walking into walls. The sun shone through him, and he hardly threw a shadow on the paved roads. The sun shone beautifully, in those few moments before sunset, spilling gold all over the white houses, the shards of broken windows. Simon took a turn, and vanished out of her sight. Sylvie sat at the window, and listened to the silence all around her; a smile wrought itself about her face, hardly defined.
She sat at the window for some time, and endless time - for what meaning had time to that which was eternal? - and left her slender fingers, like porcelain, dangle about the edge of the chair.
Then, she stood, making her dress of plain fabric look like the silken gown of a queen, and each of her gestures were a pencil study of Velasquez’s; it had become to her like an instinct. Sylvie was glad of her beauty, of her new-found perfection, and she stepped out of the little house: it fell to dust behind her, but she did not notice. She lifted towards the sky her eyes, insolent with glee, bluer, even more beautiful than the blue of the sky. Her feet picked up an effortless rhythm, and she began to dance through the lonely streets, on the white pavements, the broken pavements of destroyed memories; she danced the dance of solitary beings that took over only the bodies without a soul. She closed her eyes, and under her bare feet that did not feel the harshness of the stones the sand began to conceal the rocks. She danced along the main road, and under her feet it was a layer of white sand, white like snow and shrouds; and indeed everything in the world had begun to lose of its colour, like an animal lost its winter fur in April, a useless thing. The enormous sun devoured the sky whole, and the fine sand found its way inside the houses with their doors always opened, filled them, making the darkened windows bright. When the layer of sand reached up to her ankles, and she found it more and more difficult to heave her feet, Sylvie stopped dancing and watched the inevitable death of things. Then, after a while, the sand went up to her knees: she was afraid then, and tried to pull her legs out of the softly sinking ground, but at the same moment what had only been a nonchalant breeze roared up with the strength of tempests, and she was caught in the howl that deafened her so much it was just like silence. She was afraid, and fought her way to the gates of the town, hoping to open them and find respite at least in the endlessness of the desert, but found them already gaping wide, and all the sand blowing in from the opening. A flash of remembrance flared through her: it was Claude, who, upon flying away on his machine-wings, had forgotten to close the gates behind him as he stepped out; and she knew that all was lost.
Then she turned back towards the blazing sunset and the agony of the town and there was no more town, and, for a fraction of a second, she saw in front of her the infinite stretch of the desert, the desert of Lost Things, and one last time, she sighed with the burning heat of that first day of summer vacations; before being turned to stone, in all the splendour of her eternal youth, with her white clothes, her bare feet, her queenly smile; and the solitude of the sand and the sea all around her.
prompt : a sunset can't save you now
time : 34 min (gah overshot)
notes : A sunset can't save her now from the beauty of things... (the very end of this story-idea/novel/thing...)(Hope this didn't come off as Mary-Sueish. -_-'' )
The rain had stopped. Sylvie looked out of the window, where the memory of Simon, faintly transparent, wandered about the streets, helplessly walking into walls. The sun shone through him, and he hardly threw a shadow on the paved roads. The sun shone beautifully, in those few moments before sunset, spilling gold all over the white houses, the shards of broken windows. Simon took a turn, and vanished out of her sight. Sylvie sat at the window, and listened to the silence all around her; a smile wrought itself about her face, hardly defined.
She sat at the window for some time, and endless time - for what meaning had time to that which was eternal? - and left her slender fingers, like porcelain, dangle about the edge of the chair.
Then, she stood, making her dress of plain fabric look like the silken gown of a queen, and each of her gestures were a pencil study of Velasquez’s; it had become to her like an instinct. Sylvie was glad of her beauty, of her new-found perfection, and she stepped out of the little house: it fell to dust behind her, but she did not notice. She lifted towards the sky her eyes, insolent with glee, bluer, even more beautiful than the blue of the sky. Her feet picked up an effortless rhythm, and she began to dance through the lonely streets, on the white pavements, the broken pavements of destroyed memories; she danced the dance of solitary beings that took over only the bodies without a soul. She closed her eyes, and under her bare feet that did not feel the harshness of the stones the sand began to conceal the rocks. She danced along the main road, and under her feet it was a layer of white sand, white like snow and shrouds; and indeed everything in the world had begun to lose of its colour, like an animal lost its winter fur in April, a useless thing. The enormous sun devoured the sky whole, and the fine sand found its way inside the houses with their doors always opened, filled them, making the darkened windows bright. When the layer of sand reached up to her ankles, and she found it more and more difficult to heave her feet, Sylvie stopped dancing and watched the inevitable death of things. Then, after a while, the sand went up to her knees: she was afraid then, and tried to pull her legs out of the softly sinking ground, but at the same moment what had only been a nonchalant breeze roared up with the strength of tempests, and she was caught in the howl that deafened her so much it was just like silence. She was afraid, and fought her way to the gates of the town, hoping to open them and find respite at least in the endlessness of the desert, but found them already gaping wide, and all the sand blowing in from the opening. A flash of remembrance flared through her: it was Claude, who, upon flying away on his machine-wings, had forgotten to close the gates behind him as he stepped out; and she knew that all was lost.
Then she turned back towards the blazing sunset and the agony of the town and there was no more town, and, for a fraction of a second, she saw in front of her the infinite stretch of the desert, the desert of Lost Things, and one last time, she sighed with the burning heat of that first day of summer vacations; before being turned to stone, in all the splendour of her eternal youth, with her white clothes, her bare feet, her queenly smile; and the solitude of the sand and the sea all around her.