Category : Books-Fiction

Sub Category : Adventure

Once Paris was filled with the floods, it took time for her to heal. She was in pain and was filled to the eyes with cold water that constantly rushed in every building. The flowing of the fog, and the water, hid the City from view. The lights that once shone most beautifuly were covered by the creeping mist, and as this happened it felt that Paris could never have been seen again.
Outside of Paris the world had forgotten that she ever existed, so everyday as the sun rose and settled in her bed, the land was growing decrepit due to leaving the foundations in the icey waters.  Each night the water housed creatures that fed on the rusting of the ancient metals and the market stalls way below and long forgotten. 
After time, she collapsed from the heart and showed her suffering. The life in her organs were seeping out into the river banks. The light from the sun no longer reflected as simply as it once did, it no longer bounced on the bronzes and no longer showed its character. Paris was dying and no one was there to help save her. 
At the dawn of her death, few travellers dared to cross paths with her once again. Some of these men and women had met her before, others took their curiosity (or stupidity) to the next level. I am fond of these travellers, as they took her last days as a gift. Using balloons to cross the city, as the waters were either to thick of materials that could pierce the boats or injure the people on board, and soar above to the main attraction: The Eiffel Tower.
Men and women, women and women, men and men, men women and men would meet at the Eiffel Tower on the evenings that the Sun took most surprisingly. When the clouds would rest and the birds would sing, the sun would fall gently on the canvas sky shoulders. At that time, it was right to peek from the highest tower in the city, for no one was judging or caring if you'd happen to fall in love with the danger of her beauty. 
Once, I visited her. I sat on a bench that was placed in the tower, and ate whilst she showed her true beauty. Watching the birds as they nested and left, the old book shops that housed Tolkein and Hemingway and Steinbeck, as they spent their lives under the water. The old bakery that had no bread, the old convenience store that had nothing of convenience; this was Paris now and it was more welcoming than ever.
Often she was still, not much rainfall or storms. Sometimes they would happen. But mostly not. 
On one other ocassion, I met a lady as she docked her balloon and balanced the ropes near the opening of the City. The waters were still that day, fish sometimes held up their shoulders up to surface to taste the sun, I remember seeing them and being pleased by how usually vacant they had been. When I spoke to the lady, I had noticed the floral dress and tied up hair, they complimented each other nicely.
The dress was worn and torn in a few places. She turned to me and asked what I was doing there. I said that after a while, the beauty of Paris had gotten to me and that I simply enoyed staying there. She said the same, but I suspected she was new at the feeling since I had not seen her before. After an evening of talking, she was on her way and left a newspaper on the bench for me to read. She let her balloon drift off whilst she was in it, into the sunset. I never saw her again.
The dehabilitating feeling that I had made a new friend was strange, especially as she left so soon without a return. I sat there every day and every night waiting for someone new.
One time I met a child, a young boy that seemed rather intelligent. This was much later than the lady I told you about, but still as significant. He said he was fed up of life on the shores and said he borrowed his fathers Balloon. I chuckled at this, but told him to assure me that he wouldn't get in trouble. He would. 
His age didn't match his mind though. With a few remarks to the central idea of Paris leaving the world, he commented that it would be sad to see it go. I was pleased by this as I felt fewer people every day cared less about her. It showed I might have been slightly wrong. Silly me, I thought then. 
But once like before, the boy left and he left a newspaper on the bench for me to read. He said his mother usually does the same in good reason for people to not get out of grasp with society. I thanked him and wished him well. A nice boy, I thought.