Sunrises and Dewdrops: Setting Imitation of F Scott Fitzgerald

       A youthful lad sat upon the hillside, gazing at the quicksilver luminescence of the water under the dusty moon, the stars scattered like crumbs against the black silken expanse of the night sky and the silent mansions lining the shore. The light of the moon cast a silver glaze on the picturesque land and sea, and the soft whispering wind tousled the boy's hair gently, its soft fingers teasing and light.

      Twilight tipped the horizon, brushing tentative brushstrokes of color into the sky. Pale blue and sherbet orange touched the horizon, the stars hanging above them. It seemed to the youth that once the dark fell everything had a strange way of changing form, even if only for a little while, just until the sun was once again high in the sky and life began again.

     The grand, bustling country manors turned to silent mountains, grim and foreboding, their happy disguises pulled away with the fading of the light, for once the partygoers left the manors, much like the sun from the sky, all of the beauty seemed to fade from their immense walls. The glistening yellow light that spilled like liquid gold across the lawns flickered out like a guttering candle.

     A hush fell upon empty halls, hills and lawns like a thick velvet curtain, the world turned muffled and soft. Even the birdsong changed when the moon pulled its velvet shroud over the sky. Silence reigned for a time, the loud, chattering birds quieted, hushed in unacknowledged reverence to the nighttime world, the soft cooing doves singing their gentle song in turn at dawn, their song quiet, a mere twittering among the dewdrops, a melody infinitely more beautiful than the garish cawing of the crow.

     Oftentimes the lad saw the partygoers leave the mansions with downcast faces, their only joy seemingly found in the social gatherings, parties, and crowds, and he had not once seen one stop to look at the brilliant starlit sky, halt to smell the lilac tipped in dew, watch the moonflowers bloom or listen for the morning dove when the sun began to rise once again in the sky.

     It is ironic, he thought, that the night was feared and the daytime revered, the sunset admired but the dawn ignored. There is beauty in all things, dewdrops make gems on rose petals and leaves alike, and the night sky will show its diamonds and silver dusted jewels to those who choose to look up. Oh, what beauty they passed by without knowing it, what wonders they never even acknowledged.

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Thank you so much for reading! The short setting above is an attempt to imitate F. Scott Fitzgerald's style of description.  I hope you liked it! Please feel free to have constructive criticism on this,  I know it's not the best. Please let me know in the comments if there's anything that I need to work on.

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Happy Reading!

-Annabeth