Once Upon A Tag is seriously one of the best short stories. I sort of feel like I’ll offend it if I call it
‘cute’ (I don’t have to)... A word I don't have to use! The point of mini-reviews is you can use your imaginative words without running out of them & repeating yourself, YAY!
I truly liked this as it did have a bit of depth to it. It’s not just any old train encounter & as much as it seemed like, from the word 'GO', an instalove-featuring tale it was really wasn't (a minute or so after you said 'GO' I realized). Maybe it’s set in Paris but is even Paris where lives collide harmoniously? David’s feelings on the street artist, Rita, are conflicting. He knows she’s one of those girls which are bad for you. If you inhale them too deeply you might fall in love & it’ll seem instant... Do we want him to fall in love with her? Or are we rooting for the graffiti-style Art (which he may not entirely hate)?
Even in such a compact ebook (is that punny?) there was a definite feel of character development & I’d happily hear more about them & see if their relationship, not just with each other, develops as I think it would! Yes, it may end on a slight cliffhanger but it’s not one where I’ve fallen off my chair or screamed; it’s satisfying.
To add length to this post here's an...
One a.m. Twenty minutes, forty-six seconds, in the Parisian subway.
That’s when David Leblanc saw her for the first time.
He was alone in the train, drifting off into a slumber, in that narrow moment when one is contentedly abandoning consciousness to fall into the awaiting arms of Morpheus.
The green sketchbook he treasured above all lay limply beside him on the vacant seat with his leather bag of utensils. The twenty-three-year-old artist had spent hours painting in the Louvre museum, copying from the greatest, inspired by his sleeping forefathers.
Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Delacroix. These were his masters, his revered deities.
And Hugo Boss, but that was for a different reason: he was a master in his own right in the clothing department, and David refused to ever wear anything else.
Graffiti-filled walls waltzed before his eyes in a blurry haze of color under his heavy, drooping eyelids.
What a shame, he thought as he fell asleep. What a shame to desecrate public property with such vile vandalism. If only I could . . .
David jumped up, startled, suddenly wide awake. He pressed his nose against the greasy window and squinted into the dark railway. A black-hooded figure was bombing the wall with bright red letters.
Those were the only letters he could make out before the train moved on, gliding with swift rapidity toward the Porte des Lilas station.
But he knew who the vandal was.