One Shot Collection

Lily of the Valley (Les Misérables)

Montparnasse walked down the road one chilly April night. He pulled his hat down over his eyes so no passerby would notice him. After all, he had a criminal record to keep and he didn't want to get caught.

Down the road aways, there was a bench. A perfect spot for a criminal mastermind to rest. He sat down on the end of the seat, and closed his eyes. A voice startled him a few minutes later. Standing next to the bench was a young man, probably a little older than Montparnasse, say twenty-two or twenty-three. He looked like the kind of man who is intoxicated in love. He had flowers all around his face, a big dreamy smile, and pockets overflowing with papers and booklets.

"Hello, sir, do you mind if I sit here?" he sounded floaty, like someone who's had a few too many drinks. He seemed like the perfect person for Montparnasse to rob money from, but for some reason he couldn't make himself do it.

"Uh, sure, I guess," he mumbled, shifting slightly away from this strange man. Even he, who carried a knife on him at all times, was a bit disturbed. The strange man started humming softly and rocking back and forth.

"You good?" Montparnasse asked, getting a little concerned.

The man snapped to attention as if he'd been asleep. "Oh, yes! Thank you for asking!" he turned toward Montparnasse, and offered him a flower. "I'm Jehan Prouvaire."

Montparnasse took the flower awkwardly, because what else could he do? "I-- I'm Montparnasse."

"Oh, that's a pretty name! It's so poetic," Jehan's voice was twittering like a bird, and filling Montparnasse's head. He wasn't sure if he hated it or loved it.

"Not really," he responded, examining the flower that had been handed to him a few moments before. It was tiny and white, with several blooms up and down the stem.

"Oh, Lily of the Valley symbolizes the return of happiness. You seemed like the right person to give it to. I've been looking for someone all day," Jehan explained, gesturing to the flower.

"What, are you a poet or something?" Montparnasse asked him sarcastically, turning the flower over in his hand. It hardly felt like anything.

"Yes, actually," Jehan replied, "I do read and write poems. They're just so light and carefree."

"Ok...ay?" Montparnasse was getting confused at Jehan's willingness to talk to him. He pulled out his pipe and put it in his mouth. "Are there any that are dark and not-light?"

Jehan nodded, and started ruffling through his pockets. "I have a booklet of them somewhere-ah, here it is." he pulled out a small, worn, leather-bound book and opened it. "Alone, by Edgar Allan Poe."

"From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone
And all I loved, I loved alone
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still
From the torrent, or the fountain
From the red cliff of the mountain
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by
From the thunder and the storm
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. "

As he read, Montparnasse started feeling like he was floating away, into this story, feeling his whole being possessed in this one poem, away from this bench. Once the poem ended, Jehan broke the silence by saying, "Well, that wasn't really the most famous example. Poe did write some famous ones, though."
"Like what?" As hard as Montparnasse tried, he couldn't help getting pulled into this conversation. He was already floating away, like a boat that had been tied but now wasn't.
Jehan thumbed through the booklet again and read, "Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allan Poe."