literature

The White City

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Literature Text

We take great pride in our city. The buildings are scrubbed a gleaming white and on the streets everyday we sweep the blemishes away. Our women are prim and ladylike; our men the picture of chivalry. Trading roads pass by our city, bringing us great riches. Our clean, proper way of life is the envy of our neighbors. We are truly the jewel of the desert.

That is not to say that we don’t have hearts. When the poor vagabonds come to us through the dusty roads and stop in our public squares, begging for food through plucked strings and sorrowful tales, we generally oblige them a few scraps before we ask them to move on. And if they do not go willingly, the scimitars of our police force will persuade them back to the desert paths. It isn’t that we don’t care for the unfortunates, we do very much, you must understand—it is just that we have to keep up our city’s respectable image.

There is one man, though, that does not respond to our law-men’s persuasion. He is truly an odd character, and no one even quite knows where he came from. It is popular rumor that places his birthplace far beyond the northern mountain range, but others whisper that he is of the lineage of sand-pirates, or gypsies.

Regardless, he still stays in our fair city, refusing to do even so little as to hold a job. Personally, I do not know why he stays, as long ago the officials decreed that we were not to feed him. I suspect that the children—bless their innocent hearts—are providing for him. Such a lazy creature wouldn’t even be notable if it were not for his one, inexplicable quirk.

He asks “why”.

His way of asking, of course, is not of the tongue. He writes his query on the walls of our noble city with sticks of soft charcoal and an insatiable zeal. His mark, a simple “WHY?” has cropped up on our white walls like cloverwart grass in springtime orchards. His words are erased, we do take very much pride in our city—but that is not to say that the scribbled messages are not preserved in ironic smugness by shopkeepers in The Districts That We Do Not Take Foreign Dignitaries To.

While the priests are busy scrubbing accusing questions of “WHY?” from the foreheads of marble statues of their deities, the upper crust of our society has taken to discussing this phenomenon. We sit in cafés in our leisure, sipping fine imported teas as those among us present their theories about the question. Some have suggested the beggar is alluding to the fundamental questions of our universe with his vandalism—“Who are we,” “Why are we here,” those sorts of things. Others insist that he means nothing more than “Why haven’t I been put in jail yet?” Or that the man is simply delirious, or has failed to learn our intricate language and now bastardizes it upon the walls.

These conflicted opinions have sparked many a rollicking debate, often ending in heated tempers and tea-stained tablecloths. After a particularly lively argument ended in the accidental soiling of a fine lady of noble repute’s delicate white dress, it was deiced to end this questioning once and for all by asking the old beggar about his motives.

Our troupe of truth-seekers found him on a side-street near the markets, soiling a clean, white wall with his peculiarity.  

“Sir, please answer a question from us!” called out a young man from our ranks. So the beggar turned around to face us; his hair grey, his face scruffy with old age, his smile broken.

“Why, pray tell, good sir,” continued our young man, “Do you write ‘WHY’ everywhere in our fair city?”

The old man smiled a wide, snaggle-toothed grin.

“Because I have a question.”

“What is the question, then?”

“Why,” the unfortunate beggar continued, “Do you do nothing about ‘why’?”

We stared back at him in silent awe, as the old vagabond began to laugh a manic, disjointed laugh—the kind of laugh that drives men and gods insane.

As the guffaws issued from his throat, the old man ran down the road from us, hooting and hollering into the bloody sun, mocking the very hearts that beat in our breasts.

And we did nothing.
Despite the fact that this story has won me numerous awards, trophies and honours (read more: [link] ) I still want to PUNCH THE NARRATOR IN THE FACE.
© 2006 - 2024 skeletonzoo
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RetakeThisWorld's avatar
The writing is very smooth and lush. You have created a very unique and believable setting with the first four paragraphs. My only critique is that the ending moves very fast and leaves the reader feeling a little confused. Good job.