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I don’t care for him. I’m not really interested in the details of his life — his past, his name, his dreams. But look at him … the body of a stick insect, the face of a melting moon, the spirit of a squashed sandwich. He doesn’t yet know it, but he’s doomed. Doomed-&-damned. Hey you! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
Running. He’s running — to catch a bus. Don’t bother, you nitwit. You’re too far away. You’re going to miss it. Anyone can see that. (The bus stops: he boards it) — Oh well, I can’t be right about everything.
So what’s his name? Not his real name, his spiritual name … Harry. He looks like a Harry to me. Harry what? … Hollow. Harry Hollow. That fits. Hollow by name, hollow by nature. Harry Hollow it is.
Hey Harry! Mr Hollow! You don’t yet know it, but you are doomed. (The bus pulls away) Doomed-&-damned. (He sits on the left-hand side near the back) Are you listening to me, Harry Hollow?!
So Harry’s going into town. Dear oh dear. You don’t want to go there. That’s the last place on this planet you want to go. If you go there you’ll be sorry. Mark my words, Harry.
(The bus stops) and yes, I can see him standing, moving to the front. (He exits) Oh Harry. One stop earlier or one stop later and you'll be perfectly fine. But you just had to get off there, didn’t you. Deary me. Fate is such an obstinate witch. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, go home. Do it now! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I know where he’s going even if he doesn’t himself. He’ll stop at the key-cutters’ shop window and tut-tut to himself remembering that he has forgotten to bring along the garage key that needs a spare. Yes, there he is, standing at the window, silently annoyed.
Next he’ll wander into the newsagents — there he goes — where he’ll purchase a notepad and a set of coloured pens. Harry’s a writer. He’s currently 30,000 words into his first novel. And rather good it is too. It’s a shame he’ll never get the chance to finish it.
Lastly, or should I say finally, he’ll stroll across the plaza. Don’t do it, Harry. Don’t go there. Turn around now. Harry. Hey Harry! Don‘t go there! Turn around! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
A little girl in a red duffelcoat … what an angel of doom. She’s playing with a silver bauble. Her mother let her keep it after New Years Day as a plaything. Oh what an unintentionally cruel twist of fate!
The girl is throwing it into the air then catching it … sometimes dropping it and running after its hollow bounce. What a sweet little angel of doom.
Oh no, here comes Harry, right on queue ... body of a stick insect, face of a melting moon, the spirit of a squashed sandwich. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, turn around now! For god's sake leave this place! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I knew he’d do that, stride towards the centre of the plaza. Dear oh dear. The red duffelcoat moves past him (now in front of him): the little girl is chasing her silver ball. She stops and throws it high, too high. It descends at an oblique angle. She jumps to catch it. She fails. It bounces off her mittens and rolls towards Harry, who is striding striding striding … For god's sake watch out, Harry!
It’s pointless.
As fate will have it, the bauble bobbles with an eldritch urge right under Harry’s landing foot and … Oh good god. Dear oh dear oh dear. Just as I expected. Yes, indeed, exactly as foretold. It couldn’t have been any other way. That little girl in that red duffelcoat playing with that silver bauble … what an angel of doom.
I don’t care for him. I’m not really interested in the details of his life — his past, his name, his dreams … Yet just this minute (after slipping on the bauble) Harry lost his balance and plunged into Mrs Winters’s portable coffee stall. Dear oh dear. What a way to start the New Year. All that percolating boiling scolding water splashed all over that poor, unfortunate man …
Harry. Harry? Are you all right, Harry? …… I don’t think he can hear me.
Running. He’s running — to catch a bus. Don’t bother, you nitwit. You’re too far away. You’re going to miss it. Anyone can see that. (The bus stops: he boards it) — Oh well, I can’t be right about everything.
So what’s his name? Not his real name, his spiritual name … Harry. He looks like a Harry to me. Harry what? … Hollow. Harry Hollow. That fits. Hollow by name, hollow by nature. Harry Hollow it is.
Hey Harry! Mr Hollow! You don’t yet know it, but you are doomed. (The bus pulls away) Doomed-&-damned. (He sits on the left-hand side near the back) Are you listening to me, Harry Hollow?!
So Harry’s going into town. Dear oh dear. You don’t want to go there. That’s the last place on this planet you want to go. If you go there you’ll be sorry. Mark my words, Harry.
(The bus stops) and yes, I can see him standing, moving to the front. (He exits) Oh Harry. One stop earlier or one stop later and you'll be perfectly fine. But you just had to get off there, didn’t you. Deary me. Fate is such an obstinate witch. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, go home. Do it now! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I know where he’s going even if he doesn’t himself. He’ll stop at the key-cutters’ shop window and tut-tut to himself remembering that he has forgotten to bring along the garage key that needs a spare. Yes, there he is, standing at the window, silently annoyed.
Next he’ll wander into the newsagents — there he goes — where he’ll purchase a notepad and a set of coloured pens. Harry’s a writer. He’s currently 30,000 words into his first novel. And rather good it is too. It’s a shame he’ll never get the chance to finish it.
Lastly, or should I say finally, he’ll stroll across the plaza. Don’t do it, Harry. Don’t go there. Turn around now. Harry. Hey Harry! Don‘t go there! Turn around! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
A little girl in a red duffelcoat … what an angel of doom. She’s playing with a silver bauble. Her mother let her keep it after New Years Day as a plaything. Oh what an unintentionally cruel twist of fate!
The girl is throwing it into the air then catching it … sometimes dropping it and running after its hollow bounce. What a sweet little angel of doom.
Oh no, here comes Harry, right on queue ... body of a stick insect, face of a melting moon, the spirit of a squashed sandwich. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, turn around now! For god's sake leave this place! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I knew he’d do that, stride towards the centre of the plaza. Dear oh dear. The red duffelcoat moves past him (now in front of him): the little girl is chasing her silver ball. She stops and throws it high, too high. It descends at an oblique angle. She jumps to catch it. She fails. It bounces off her mittens and rolls towards Harry, who is striding striding striding … For god's sake watch out, Harry!
It’s pointless.
As fate will have it, the bauble bobbles with an eldritch urge right under Harry’s landing foot and … Oh good god. Dear oh dear oh dear. Just as I expected. Yes, indeed, exactly as foretold. It couldn’t have been any other way. That little girl in that red duffelcoat playing with that silver bauble … what an angel of doom.
I don’t care for him. I’m not really interested in the details of his life — his past, his name, his dreams … Yet just this minute (after slipping on the bauble) Harry lost his balance and plunged into Mrs Winters’s portable coffee stall. Dear oh dear. What a way to start the New Year. All that percolating boiling scolding water splashed all over that poor, unfortunate man …
Harry. Harry? Are you all right, Harry? …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I don’t care for him. I’m not really interested in the details of his life — his past, his name, his dreams. But look at him … the body of a stick insect, the face of a melting moon, the spirit of a squashed sandwich. He doesn’t yet know it, but he’s doomed. Doomed-&-damned. Hey you! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
Running. He’s running — to catch a bus. Don’t bother, you nitwit. You’re too far away. You’re going to miss it. Anyone can see that. (The bus stops: he boards it) — Oh well, I can’t be right about everything.
So what’s his name? Not his real name, his spiritual name … Harry. He looks like a Harry to me. Harry what? … Hollow. Harry Hollow. That fits. Hollow by name, hollow by nature. Harry Hollow it is.
Hey Harry! Mr Hollow! You don’t yet know it, but you are doomed. (The bus pulls away) Doomed-&-damned. (He sits on the left-hand side near the back) Are you listening to me, Harry Hollow?!
So Harry’s going into town. Dear oh dear. You don’t want to go there. That’s the last place on this planet you want to go. If you go there you’ll be sorry. Mark my words, Harry.
(The bus stops) and yes, I can see him standing, moving to the front. (He exits) Oh Harry. One stop earlier or one stop later and you'll be perfectly fine. But you just had to get off there, didn’t you. Deary me. Fate is such an obstinate witch. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, go home. Do it now! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I know where he’s going even if he doesn’t himself. He’ll stop at the key-cutters’ shop window and tut-tut to himself remembering that he has forgotten to bring along the garage key that needs a spare. Yes, there he is, standing at the window, silently annoyed.
Next he’ll wander into the newsagents — there he goes — where he’ll purchase a notepad and a set of coloured pens. Harry’s a writer. He’s currently 30,000 words into his first novel. And rather good it is too. It’s a shame he’ll never get the chance to finish it.
Lastly, or should I say finally, he’ll stroll across the plaza. Don’t do it, Harry. Don’t go there. Turn around now. Harry. Hey Harry! Don‘t go there! Turn around! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
A little girl in a red duffelcoat … what an angel of doom. She’s playing with a silver bauble. Her mother let her keep it after New Years Day as a plaything. Oh what an unintentionally cruel twist of fate!
The girl is throwing it into the air then catching it … sometimes dropping it and running after its hollow bounce. What a sweet little angel of doom.
Oh no, here comes Harry, right on queue ... body of a stick insect, face of a melting moon, the spirit of a squashed sandwich. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, turn around now! For god's sake leave this place! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I knew he’d do that, stride towards the centre of the plaza. Dear oh dear. The red duffelcoat moves past him (now in front of him): the little girl is chasing her silver ball. She stops and throws it high, too high. It descends at an oblique angle. She jumps to catch it. She fails. It bounces off her mittens and rolls towards Harry, who is striding striding striding … For god's sake watch out, Harry!
It’s pointless.
As fate will have it, the bauble bobbles with an eldritch urge right under Harry’s landing foot and … Oh good god. Dear oh dear oh dear. Just as I expected. Yes, indeed, exactly as foretold. It couldn’t have been any other way. That little girl in that red duffelcoat playing with that silver bauble … what an angel of doom.
I don’t care for him. I’m not really interested in the details of his life — his past, his name, his dreams … Yet just this minute (after slipping on the bauble) Harry lost his balance and plunged into Mrs Winters’s portable coffee stall. Dear oh dear. What a way to start the New Year. All that percolating boiling scolding water splashed all over that poor, unfortunate man …
Harry. Harry? Are you all right, Harry? …… I don’t think he can hear me.
Running. He’s running — to catch a bus. Don’t bother, you nitwit. You’re too far away. You’re going to miss it. Anyone can see that. (The bus stops: he boards it) — Oh well, I can’t be right about everything.
So what’s his name? Not his real name, his spiritual name … Harry. He looks like a Harry to me. Harry what? … Hollow. Harry Hollow. That fits. Hollow by name, hollow by nature. Harry Hollow it is.
Hey Harry! Mr Hollow! You don’t yet know it, but you are doomed. (The bus pulls away) Doomed-&-damned. (He sits on the left-hand side near the back) Are you listening to me, Harry Hollow?!
So Harry’s going into town. Dear oh dear. You don’t want to go there. That’s the last place on this planet you want to go. If you go there you’ll be sorry. Mark my words, Harry.
(The bus stops) and yes, I can see him standing, moving to the front. (He exits) Oh Harry. One stop earlier or one stop later and you'll be perfectly fine. But you just had to get off there, didn’t you. Deary me. Fate is such an obstinate witch. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, go home. Do it now! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I know where he’s going even if he doesn’t himself. He’ll stop at the key-cutters’ shop window and tut-tut to himself remembering that he has forgotten to bring along the garage key that needs a spare. Yes, there he is, standing at the window, silently annoyed.
Next he’ll wander into the newsagents — there he goes — where he’ll purchase a notepad and a set of coloured pens. Harry’s a writer. He’s currently 30,000 words into his first novel. And rather good it is too. It’s a shame he’ll never get the chance to finish it.
Lastly, or should I say finally, he’ll stroll across the plaza. Don’t do it, Harry. Don’t go there. Turn around now. Harry. Hey Harry! Don‘t go there! Turn around! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
A little girl in a red duffelcoat … what an angel of doom. She’s playing with a silver bauble. Her mother let her keep it after New Years Day as a plaything. Oh what an unintentionally cruel twist of fate!
The girl is throwing it into the air then catching it … sometimes dropping it and running after its hollow bounce. What a sweet little angel of doom.
Oh no, here comes Harry, right on queue ... body of a stick insect, face of a melting moon, the spirit of a squashed sandwich. Hey Harry, Mr Hollow, turn around, turn around now! For god's sake leave this place! …… I don’t think he can hear me.
I knew he’d do that, stride towards the centre of the plaza. Dear oh dear. The red duffelcoat moves past him (now in front of him): the little girl is chasing her silver ball. She stops and throws it high, too high. It descends at an oblique angle. She jumps to catch it. She fails. It bounces off her mittens and rolls towards Harry, who is striding striding striding … For god's sake watch out, Harry!
It’s pointless.
As fate will have it, the bauble bobbles with an eldritch urge right under Harry’s landing foot and … Oh good god. Dear oh dear oh dear. Just as I expected. Yes, indeed, exactly as foretold. It couldn’t have been any other way. That little girl in that red duffelcoat playing with that silver bauble … what an angel of doom.
I don’t care for him. I’m not really interested in the details of his life — his past, his name, his dreams … Yet just this minute (after slipping on the bauble) Harry lost his balance and plunged into Mrs Winters’s portable coffee stall. Dear oh dear. What a way to start the New Year. All that percolating boiling scolding water splashed all over that poor, unfortunate man …
Harry. Harry? Are you all right, Harry? …… I don’t think he can hear me.
Very different, I liked it, it had an almost abstract feel to it, as if told by an old lady whose mental faculties were failing her...
pb wrote:
> as if told by an old lady whose mental faculties were failing
> her...
I hadn't thought of it that way, but now you mention it, I suppose it could be that.
I tried to mix up the Point of View and the Tense - in that it's written in 1st person about somebody else (which kinda makes it 3rd person), and its in present tense and yet the narrator knows what's going to happen (which kinda makes it past tense)..
> as if told by an old lady whose mental faculties were failing
> her...
I hadn't thought of it that way, but now you mention it, I suppose it could be that.
I tried to mix up the Point of View and the Tense - in that it's written in 1st person about somebody else (which kinda makes it 3rd person), and its in present tense and yet the narrator knows what's going to happen (which kinda makes it past tense)..
GAD. It's a miracle!
Just popping it because it slipped right down
Just popping it because it slipped right down
Sibelius wrote:
> GAD. It's a miracle!
>
> Just popping it because it slipped right down
No, it's a good story. They do win sometimes :D
> GAD. It's a miracle!
>
> Just popping it because it slipped right down
No, it's a good story. They do win sometimes :D
For some reason every time I came across the remark 'I don't think he can hear me' I had to urge to say SHOUT LOUDER!!!
and it won a GAD - congrats :D
and it won a GAD - congrats :D
Congrats on the GAD
I won a GAD once, true story.
I won a GAD once, true story.
Good stuff, that.
Easy to read, short and sharp and a worthy winner in two respects.
Easy to read, short and sharp and a worthy winner in two respects.