𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐲 • 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊. × 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞

Words: 2,854

The Present, March, 1900

The Montmartre Flat, The Writer's Point of View

"The Moulin Rouge," he typed, "a nightclub. Known as a dance hall - or bordello. Produced by Monsieur Laurant, or at least that's what he went by. It was a fortress of nighttime fantasies. Where the rich and powerful would come to entertain themselves with the extravagant creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of them, the woman I loved, was a courtesan. They called her The Sparkling Diamond," his hands placed themselves on the worn desk beneath him, breathing in, then out, reconciling with the story he was about to tell.

He placed his hands back on the typewriter's squeaky keys, "But," he took another deep breath, "the woman I love... is..." the writer clenched his jaw and swallowed his spit.

He clicked the four damned keys, "dead."

The Present, March, 1900

The Owner of The Bistros Point of View

"There was a boy," he spoke while standing outside of his foyer, cigarette in hand. He took a long drag, and blew out, "he was a very strange - almost, enchanted boy,"

He looked down at the parisian streets beneath his balcony, and watched passers-by pass by the newly renovated Moulin Rouge. It was no longer a theater, since the fire that lit that idea was put out, it was now a Burlesque.

"They said he wandered very far, over all the lands and seas," he spoke out to the air of Paris around him, "a little shy, and sad of eye, he was. But very wise was he..."

The man walked back inside of his apartment, grabbing a long suit jacket and opening his door to leave. Once he did, he entered the long hallway of his landlord's building.

"And then one day, he passed my way,"

He spoke roughly, walking out of the complex and down the damp stone streets. He looked at the world around him, shops closing and now the dim lights of gentlemen's clubs turning on. Heels clicked around him, as he saw top hats, and women wearing long dresses with suffocating bustiers underneath.

"And while we'd spoken of many things, fools, kings,"

He had made it to where he'd look up every night. A window lit by a lusterless candle, the window of the great writer who wrote Spectacular, Spectacular!

"But this, he'd said to me," he looked up at the worn down Montmartre Flat the writer never left, "the greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return."

The Present, March, 1900

The Montmartre Flat, The Writer's Point of View.

"I first came to Paris one year ago," he said as he typed, "It was October 1899, I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Monsieur Laurant or The Sparkling Diamond. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian Revolution," he wrote, the ink staining the thin paper in its holster, "and I traveled from London to be a part of it. On a hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. And it was nothing of what my father had said."

The writer typed, "'A village of sin!' He would say. Ridiculous of him to think of it in such a way as he'd never been here. However, it was the center of the Bohemian world with musicians, painters, and writers. They were known as the 'Children of the Revolution', And yes, I had come to Paris to live a penniless existence - I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom and at which I believe in above all things love." The writer relaxed in his seat - the mere thought of love made his heart flutter, "but love was a passion of mine my father hated."