Gallant wrote: |
The city was dark. It wasn’t just the darkness of the night, there was an aura. Or rather an emptiness where an aura once lingered.
A man walked down the empty streets, sirens could be heard in the distance and bits of newspaper blustered about on a wet road. His boot crunched on a bit of glass as he approached a statue. A gust came in from behind; he pulled his coat around him tighter. The collar and hat hid his features, but a sorrow that ran deep, set in his bones. He looked up to the statue, copper stained green on its shoulders like a growing mantle. A crown glittered aloft the statues head, and a golden key hung around its neck. The mans eyes were brought back down to a plaque which he felt hardly befitted the deserved grandeur. It read, ‘In memory of our king.’ A sheet of newspaper landed open on the plaque. The long coated man went to remove it but a name caught his eye. ‘Young, handsome philanthropist leaves fortune and luxury in search of enlightenment.’ He read further, most of it was flattery and uninformative but what he did learn is the ‘philanthropist’ was indeed an unlikely candidate. Chinaren. He searched around the article for any other information and found a small smudged name at the bottom. It seems Nene’s journalist aspirations came to fruit. The damp page crumpled easily in the strangers hand. His hands looked gnarled and leathery, they were grey and had sparse, black freckles on the back. He held himself as if he wanted to sigh, however the effort of breath was pointless to him. He trod off into the night, shoulders high and head hanging low. The city had definitely went down hill since he was away. The king was dead and the streets emanated a gloom so intense it chained the spirit like an anchor. This place used to be so familiar, now it was nearly unrecognisable. He saw ghosts of old roads smeared over by shabby, cheap infrastructure. |
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