The Lonely Street Short Story Analysis

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Creative Writing Competition Entry magazine entries x
Zahra Sasuke <zrizvisasuke@gmail.com> AttachmentsSep 29 (10 days ago) to me
Hello ma'am!
These are my entries for the Magazine Society Creative Writing Competition. Both are on the topic 'The Lonely Street'. One is a short story and the other is a poem.
Hope you and the judges enjoy reading it.
Thanks
Zahra Rizvi
Eng 2A
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The Lonely Street by Zahra Rizvi (short story).docx
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The Lonely Street

By Zahra Rizvi, English (H) 2nd

year Section A

Zoya Muzaffarpuri looked at her new painting with a slight frown. Over her eighteen year- long successful and famous career she had never encountered what she felt right now.

The painting was perfect. It was the street outside her house. She had chosen a rainy night

because there was something so very new and yet so very old about painting rain. The angles

were just right. The rays from the dim street lights painted with extreme precision. The sky

was navy blue and black just how it always looked. Everything was in place. It would be a

masterpiece, she knew. It would be displayed as its predecessors had been-with great praise

in the hall of fame. There would be high bidders and it would be sold to someone with a bank

account that was several times the money they bid. She would smile as the audience would

clap and hide the twinge of sadness at watching what she had made go into foreign
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She

stopped in the middle of the street and tried to see what she had missed. The lights, the road,

the sky, the angles, the colours-she had painted everything to perfection.
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Nobody stopped and asked the strange woman what she was doing, standing all alone in the

middle of a lonely street because nobody passed her by. She could feel the loneliness and was

happy to know that she had chosen well. This street, busy and bustling in the day, was quiet

and lonely at night and she was there to see it.

It struck her then. What she had missed. She didn’t stop lest the thought would run away as

softly as it had appeared. She ran back, picked up the drying brush and with her practiced

hand she painted what the painting had lacked.

Having completed her masterpiece she could now stand back and look. She put the brush and

palette down and smiled. The painting was the same as before except for her...that woman

who now stood in the street. Her clothes were neither striking nor great. Her hair was askew

and her feet barefoot. Her back was turned towards Zoya Muzaffarpuri, the renowned

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