Morrison at Midnight

 

The air in Paris was thick with mystery and fate as Mark walked its cobblestone streets, the city of lights was now cloaked in dark shadows. The clock tower struck midnight, and he felt an ominous chill run down his spine. Paris has secrets that only reveal themselves after dark.

 

As Mark strolled the deserted street, the sound of his footsteps reverberated off the ancient buildings. The city was a great source of inspiration that he had visited once before to overcome his writer's block. But tonight was going to be different, as something extraordinary was about to occur. 

 

Mark turned a dark corner close to the renowned Père Lachaise Cemetery, he saw a mysterious figure propped up against a lamppost. The man possessed long, wavy hair and donned a black leather jacket, much like Jim Morrison, the iconic lead vocalist of the rock band, The Doors. Mark squinted hard, thinking it must be a trick of the dimly lit street, but when he looked again, he could not deny the striking resemblance to the deceased rock legend.

 

Mark couldn't resist approaching him. "Excuse me," he said tentatively, "but you look remarkably like Jim Morrison." The man slowly turned his gaze toward Mark, his eyes deep and enigmatic as if they held secrets that could never be revealed. "That's because I am Jim Morrison," he replied with a sly grin.

 

Mark's heart raced. It could not be true. Jim Morrison died in 1971, and yet there he stood, seemingly unchanged by the passage of time. "But... how?" Jim Morrison's grin widened. "Some people believe that legends never truly die, that they live on in the hearts of those who remember them, and I've returned to Paris to inspire a new generation."

 

As they continued to talk, Mark found himself drawn into Jim's strange world. They discussed music, poetry, and the magic of Paris at midnight. Jim spoke of the unique creative energy that flowed through the city, the same energy that had fueled some of his own artistic endeavors.

 

Hours passed, and Mark felt a strange kinship with the man who claimed to be Jim Morrison. It was as if they were kindred spirits sharing a deep connection through their love of music, poetry, and Paris’s mystique late at night.

 

Eventually, Jim stood up and gestured toward the cemetery. "It's time for me to go," he said. "But remember, Mark, the Paris night is when and where dreams come alive, and legends are reborn."

 

With these cryptic words, Jim Morrison walked away into the darkness, disappearing among the ancient graves of Père Lachaise Cemetery. Mark stood there, his mind swirling with wonder and new inspiration.

​

He knew that he had just experienced something extraordinary, something that would forever change the way he viewed things and his creative potential. He had been in Paris at midnight, and the city had revealed one of its secrets to him. Now he couldn't wait to put pen to paper and capture the magic of that night in a story. He hoped that his tale would leave others wondering if some legends could truly return to life. 

​

________________________________________________

 

​

It had been a year since Mark's encounter with the ghostly Jim Morrison on the streets of Paris. The memory of that fateful night had never left him. He had spent the past year writing feverishly, pouring his soul into a novel inspired by the mysterious encounter.

 

As the anniversary of that night approached, Mark felt a deep urge to return to Paris. He needed to see if there was truth to Jim's claim of a legend returning to inspire a new generation. So, once again, he found himself wandering the dimly lit streets of the city, his footsteps softly tapping in the silence of the night.

 

As the clock tower struck midnight, Mark reached the same spot near Père Lachaise Cemetery, where he had met Jim Morrison a year ago. His heart pounded with anticipation as he hoped to see the shadowy figure once more, hear his cryptic wisdom, and draw even more inspiration for his future writing.

 

To his astonishment, there he was, the man who looked exactly like Jim Morrison, leaning against the same lamppost. Mark approached him, his voice trembling with excitement. "It's you," he said. "I've come back to see you and I want to learn more."

 

Jim Morrison's eyes glittered in the darkness, and he nodded. "I knew you would return," he said confidently. "But this time, our meeting I'm afraid will be different."

 

Before Mark could ask what Jim meant, a strange dark sensation washed over him. It was as if time itself suddenly slowed down, and he felt a pull, a compelling force drawing him closer to Jim. Mark panicked as he realized he could not move away or break free from the invisible hold.

 

Jim's voice took on an eerie, hypnotic quality. "I do inspire those who seek me out Mark, but I take something precious in return." With those words, Jim reached out and touched Mark's chest and in an instant Mark’s life force began to drain away. Mark gasped for air, his vision darkened, and he collapsed to the ground.

 

The last thing Mark heard before he slipped into oblivion was Jim's haunting whisper. "Your inspiration will live on in the book you wrote Mark, just as mine does in the music and poetry I left behind. Some legends never die."

 

As the clock tower chimed once more, Mark lay lifeless on the cold cobblestone street holding the lone copy of his unpublished, recently finished novel. Jim Morrison, or whatever he truly was, had vanished into the starless night, leaving behind a writer's legacy and a chilling mystery that would haunt Paris for many years to come.

 

-Mark Gammill

​

​

​