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Wrote this a few weeks ago, not even sure if I like it anymore and I may well have been half-drunk when I did it, can't remember.
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You can’t miss him, he says, He’s got a sporty walk. I say What do you mean a sporty walk and he says, You know, a skip in his step, a sprightly walk, surprising given his line of work, he says. I can hardly recognise him by the way he walks, I say, and he tells me not to be sarcastic. Shut it, he says, I wasn’t finished. Dark brown hair he says, making meaningless hair gestures with his hands, With blue eyes and rosy cheeks. What kind of clothes will he be wearing, I say, and he says he doesn’t know because he’s not his f*****g stylist. I say I can hardly stop every man in the street with dark brown hair and blue eyes and rosy cheeks and a sporty walk because I’m likely to get my head smashed in, and I’m told that if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in now if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in right now. I sense a slight change in tone when he tells me not to act the clown and I say sorry, and I say that I’ll pay attention and I say I don’t want to get my head smashed in. He’s got a look, he says, a look that will tell you he’s the man you’re looking for and I start to wonder just what kind of look that’ll be and my mind starts to wander and people in the street start to look at me and I wonder if perhaps the looks that I’m getting now will be the same kind of look that the man that I’m waiting for will give me to let me know he’s the man that I’m waiting for. He’s been talking for a few minutes now, and I say Yes, and I say Uh-huh and I say Okay, but I’m still looking down the street to try and figure out what kind of look the sporty walker is going to give me. You paying attention he says, and slaps me and says F*****g listen because this is important and on autopilot I say Yes it is and that I will pay attention. He says if I mess this one up then I might as well say goodbye to the rest of my life because I won’t have anything else to live for, and I nod and smile, though I’m not quite sure why, although he’s probably right. He mumbles a few more vague threats to me before he leaves down a nearby alley, and I’m left standing on a street corner next to a train station and there’s dozens and dozens of people walking past, none of which have a walk I’d call sporty but plenty of which are walking fast enough that if I was to see them in isolation, I might find other issues with their walk to take up with them but I don’t because I’m looking for the man with the sporty walk. I didn’t reckon on hats either, and for every five people that walk past with dark brown hair, seven walk past wearing hats, though given the part of London I’m in, I doubt the man I’m looking for will be wearing the kind of hats people here are wearing, the kind of man I’m waiting for will probably not want to draw any attention to him at all, although I start to wonder about the sporty walk again and if it really is that noticeable. What if I was looking for too heavy a sporty walk, like an exaggerated limp and while I was looking for such a man I missed a more subtle walker who passed me by, and I miss my chance and fall at the first hurdle and ruin it all and this sends a cold shiver up my spine so I fasten my coat and lean against the wall. After ten minutes or so I really start to worry and start thinking about a back-up plan, as if something as ridiculous as a back-up plan would do any help given my current position, when a man walks through the crowd, through the heaving throng, straight towards me and against the flow of traffic, and he walks up to me and says I believe I’m the man you’re looking for. You didn’t have a sporty walk I say, and he looks angry and punches me in the side of the head and I fall to the floor. And it’s only Monday morning.
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You can’t miss him, he says, He’s got a sporty walk. I say What do you mean a sporty walk and he says, You know, a skip in his step, a sprightly walk, surprising given his line of work, he says. I can hardly recognise him by the way he walks, I say, and he tells me not to be sarcastic. Shut it, he says, I wasn’t finished. Dark brown hair he says, making meaningless hair gestures with his hands, With blue eyes and rosy cheeks. What kind of clothes will he be wearing, I say, and he says he doesn’t know because he’s not his f*****g stylist. I say I can hardly stop every man in the street with dark brown hair and blue eyes and rosy cheeks and a sporty walk because I’m likely to get my head smashed in, and I’m told that if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in now if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in right now. I sense a slight change in tone when he tells me not to act the clown and I say sorry, and I say that I’ll pay attention and I say I don’t want to get my head smashed in. He’s got a look, he says, a look that will tell you he’s the man you’re looking for and I start to wonder just what kind of look that’ll be and my mind starts to wander and people in the street start to look at me and I wonder if perhaps the looks that I’m getting now will be the same kind of look that the man that I’m waiting for will give me to let me know he’s the man that I’m waiting for. He’s been talking for a few minutes now, and I say Yes, and I say Uh-huh and I say Okay, but I’m still looking down the street to try and figure out what kind of look the sporty walker is going to give me. You paying attention he says, and slaps me and says F*****g listen because this is important and on autopilot I say Yes it is and that I will pay attention. He says if I mess this one up then I might as well say goodbye to the rest of my life because I won’t have anything else to live for, and I nod and smile, though I’m not quite sure why, although he’s probably right. He mumbles a few more vague threats to me before he leaves down a nearby alley, and I’m left standing on a street corner next to a train station and there’s dozens and dozens of people walking past, none of which have a walk I’d call sporty but plenty of which are walking fast enough that if I was to see them in isolation, I might find other issues with their walk to take up with them but I don’t because I’m looking for the man with the sporty walk. I didn’t reckon on hats either, and for every five people that walk past with dark brown hair, seven walk past wearing hats, though given the part of London I’m in, I doubt the man I’m looking for will be wearing the kind of hats people here are wearing, the kind of man I’m waiting for will probably not want to draw any attention to him at all, although I start to wonder about the sporty walk again and if it really is that noticeable. What if I was looking for too heavy a sporty walk, like an exaggerated limp and while I was looking for such a man I missed a more subtle walker who passed me by, and I miss my chance and fall at the first hurdle and ruin it all and this sends a cold shiver up my spine so I fasten my coat and lean against the wall. After ten minutes or so I really start to worry and start thinking about a back-up plan, as if something as ridiculous as a back-up plan would do any help given my current position, when a man walks through the crowd, through the heaving throng, straight towards me and against the flow of traffic, and he walks up to me and says I believe I’m the man you’re looking for. You didn’t have a sporty walk I say, and he looks angry and punches me in the side of the head and I fall to the floor. And it’s only Monday morning.
Say what?
And stop using the space bar too.
Good though. Oddly compelling.
Good though. Oddly compelling.
Write the entire story like it. Make each chapter one huge near impossibe to read paragraph.
If Requiem for a Dream doesn't need speech marks, you don't need paragraphs.
If Requiem for a Dream doesn't need speech marks, you don't need paragraphs.
Mate - you been smoking 'something'?
:-O
:-O
There's not meant to be any paragraphs, it sounds pretentious but it's meant to be a big block of thought, and thought doesn't have paragraphs (maaaan).
There is no more either, that's it - I just plucked a random situation from a random chapter from a book that doesn't exist featuring characters that I don't know and don't understand. Maaan.
There is no more either, that's it - I just plucked a random situation from a random chapter from a book that doesn't exist featuring characters that I don't know and don't understand. Maaan.
Yeah, it's good Snuggly.
Roll on more
:-D
Roll on more
:-D
I liked it but hard to read without paragraphs etc.
More please
More please
Wrote this a few weeks ago, not even sure if I like it anymore and I may well have been half-drunk when I did it, can't remember.
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You can’t miss him, he says, He’s got a sporty walk. I say What do you mean a sporty walk and he says, You know, a skip in his step, a sprightly walk, surprising given his line of work, he says. I can hardly recognise him by the way he walks, I say, and he tells me not to be sarcastic. Shut it, he says, I wasn’t finished. Dark brown hair he says, making meaningless hair gestures with his hands, With blue eyes and rosy cheeks. What kind of clothes will he be wearing, I say, and he says he doesn’t know because he’s not his f*****g stylist. I say I can hardly stop every man in the street with dark brown hair and blue eyes and rosy cheeks and a sporty walk because I’m likely to get my head smashed in, and I’m told that if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in now if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in right now. I sense a slight change in tone when he tells me not to act the clown and I say sorry, and I say that I’ll pay attention and I say I don’t want to get my head smashed in. He’s got a look, he says, a look that will tell you he’s the man you’re looking for and I start to wonder just what kind of look that’ll be and my mind starts to wander and people in the street start to look at me and I wonder if perhaps the looks that I’m getting now will be the same kind of look that the man that I’m waiting for will give me to let me know he’s the man that I’m waiting for. He’s been talking for a few minutes now, and I say Yes, and I say Uh-huh and I say Okay, but I’m still looking down the street to try and figure out what kind of look the sporty walker is going to give me. You paying attention he says, and slaps me and says F*****g listen because this is important and on autopilot I say Yes it is and that I will pay attention. He says if I mess this one up then I might as well say goodbye to the rest of my life because I won’t have anything else to live for, and I nod and smile, though I’m not quite sure why, although he’s probably right. He mumbles a few more vague threats to me before he leaves down a nearby alley, and I’m left standing on a street corner next to a train station and there’s dozens and dozens of people walking past, none of which have a walk I’d call sporty but plenty of which are walking fast enough that if I was to see them in isolation, I might find other issues with their walk to take up with them but I don’t because I’m looking for the man with the sporty walk. I didn’t reckon on hats either, and for every five people that walk past with dark brown hair, seven walk past wearing hats, though given the part of London I’m in, I doubt the man I’m looking for will be wearing the kind of hats people here are wearing, the kind of man I’m waiting for will probably not want to draw any attention to him at all, although I start to wonder about the sporty walk again and if it really is that noticeable. What if I was looking for too heavy a sporty walk, like an exaggerated limp and while I was looking for such a man I missed a more subtle walker who passed me by, and I miss my chance and fall at the first hurdle and ruin it all and this sends a cold shiver up my spine so I fasten my coat and lean against the wall. After ten minutes or so I really start to worry and start thinking about a back-up plan, as if something as ridiculous as a back-up plan would do any help given my current position, when a man walks through the crowd, through the heaving throng, straight towards me and against the flow of traffic, and he walks up to me and says I believe I’m the man you’re looking for. You didn’t have a sporty walk I say, and he looks angry and punches me in the side of the head and I fall to the floor. And it’s only Monday morning.
----------
You can’t miss him, he says, He’s got a sporty walk. I say What do you mean a sporty walk and he says, You know, a skip in his step, a sprightly walk, surprising given his line of work, he says. I can hardly recognise him by the way he walks, I say, and he tells me not to be sarcastic. Shut it, he says, I wasn’t finished. Dark brown hair he says, making meaningless hair gestures with his hands, With blue eyes and rosy cheeks. What kind of clothes will he be wearing, I say, and he says he doesn’t know because he’s not his f*****g stylist. I say I can hardly stop every man in the street with dark brown hair and blue eyes and rosy cheeks and a sporty walk because I’m likely to get my head smashed in, and I’m told that if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in now if I’m not careful, I’ll get my head smashed in right now. I sense a slight change in tone when he tells me not to act the clown and I say sorry, and I say that I’ll pay attention and I say I don’t want to get my head smashed in. He’s got a look, he says, a look that will tell you he’s the man you’re looking for and I start to wonder just what kind of look that’ll be and my mind starts to wander and people in the street start to look at me and I wonder if perhaps the looks that I’m getting now will be the same kind of look that the man that I’m waiting for will give me to let me know he’s the man that I’m waiting for. He’s been talking for a few minutes now, and I say Yes, and I say Uh-huh and I say Okay, but I’m still looking down the street to try and figure out what kind of look the sporty walker is going to give me. You paying attention he says, and slaps me and says F*****g listen because this is important and on autopilot I say Yes it is and that I will pay attention. He says if I mess this one up then I might as well say goodbye to the rest of my life because I won’t have anything else to live for, and I nod and smile, though I’m not quite sure why, although he’s probably right. He mumbles a few more vague threats to me before he leaves down a nearby alley, and I’m left standing on a street corner next to a train station and there’s dozens and dozens of people walking past, none of which have a walk I’d call sporty but plenty of which are walking fast enough that if I was to see them in isolation, I might find other issues with their walk to take up with them but I don’t because I’m looking for the man with the sporty walk. I didn’t reckon on hats either, and for every five people that walk past with dark brown hair, seven walk past wearing hats, though given the part of London I’m in, I doubt the man I’m looking for will be wearing the kind of hats people here are wearing, the kind of man I’m waiting for will probably not want to draw any attention to him at all, although I start to wonder about the sporty walk again and if it really is that noticeable. What if I was looking for too heavy a sporty walk, like an exaggerated limp and while I was looking for such a man I missed a more subtle walker who passed me by, and I miss my chance and fall at the first hurdle and ruin it all and this sends a cold shiver up my spine so I fasten my coat and lean against the wall. After ten minutes or so I really start to worry and start thinking about a back-up plan, as if something as ridiculous as a back-up plan would do any help given my current position, when a man walks through the crowd, through the heaving throng, straight towards me and against the flow of traffic, and he walks up to me and says I believe I’m the man you’re looking for. You didn’t have a sporty walk I say, and he looks angry and punches me in the side of the head and I fall to the floor. And it’s only Monday morning.