Daitrying
08-09-2008, 07:42 PM
I wrote this years ago, just found it now and would like some feedback on it. It's been so long that it's practically new to me, and if I had to comment I'd say it has some quite lyrical parts, but a hasty ending. What do you guys think?
Ordinary Boy walked down the street, his sleeve flapping in the ordinary wind that often makes appearances in these ordinary ****ty stories.
The night wasn’t that ordinary for where he lived. It was warm for one. The streetlights cast autumn colours onto the trees that over hung the shabby gardens crammed next to the road. The main road, who’s repeating white lines skimmed along to places Ordinary Boy hadn’t been, would never know and didn’t care about.
Where was this boy going? Does anyone really care? Probably not. For argument’s sake he was going back to his house. The streets are empty, which is good because it means Ordinary Boy won’t be seen doing something strange, like walking in an empty street at quarter to 11 at night. No one does that.
His rhythmic footsteps shrivelled in the silence of an empty street. He tries staring at the pavement, but it bores him. Oblivious to the world around him, he is only taking in the minimal amount of information from his surroundings. His senses are near non existent.
If a blind man hears a cry for help in an empty street what does he do? Does he run to the nearest house, pathetically bumping into walls and garden debris? Or would he ignore it, what use is a blind man, and how does he know the call is genuine?
Ordinary Boy is not blind. The last thing Ordinary Boy needs is another disadvantage. I wouldn’t say being blind means you are disabled because I don’t look at anything. What is there to see? I imagine being blind would mean you start life with a perfect mental image of existence. What happens from then on depends where you are, with who at what time, how and why.
Ordinary Boy is small. Life is short and his days drag on. If he could milk every minute for excitement, squeeze every instant to get those drops of pleasure people so rarely get in the right amounts, he would be a happy man, and neither he nor I can imagine why anyone else would not be.
Ordinary Boy doesn’t speak often, ask anyone. What he does say, can pretty much be ignored as dismal chat, the colour of memory that is first to fade. No one can fathom why he still talks, and most people wouldn’t remember what he said the last time he spoke anyway.
I can’t imagine why he still talks. He talks to empty rooms sometimes, empty like the street he is walking in. It doesn’t matter though really does it? You can’t connect with an empty room. The darkness can’t argue with you or love you or hate you, it jus takes in what you say and leaves you with what you started with; an empty room.
In theory Ordinary Boy could leave his mark in this street. He could paint his name on people’s windows and etch his name into the smooth tarmac he walks on. He could write his name on the sky. He could but he knows there is no point. Windows can be cleaned, roads dug up and the sun could set on changing winds.
He’s nearly home now. His particular lack of sense gives him thoughts to be going on with as he walks. No one needs the real world at times like this. The only real thing is the street. Not much else matters right now. If the street is there he can walk.
And he does, moving into the middle of an empty street. His empty street for now, who else would want it? There is nothing here at all worth having. He whispers, when the darkness is taken away from him and bright lights consume his vision.
The street is empty again. The road is red in some places, but that isn’t important until it dries. Someone is lying in the middle of the road, killed by the excitement and giddy adrenaline rush that some people have every day. Ordinary People. Adrenaline separates them from others. A mind filled with thoughts and dreams and imaginary worlds is what separates people from people. The unseen. The dark.
When the sun coats the street in light, another teenager would have been hit by joy riders. The thrill everyone will have, the curtains that will twitch so often windows will convulse. An article in the paper. A recycling bin and a apathetic policeman. A man who cleans. An end.
Ordinary Boy walked down the street, his sleeve flapping in the ordinary wind that often makes appearances in these ordinary ****ty stories.
The night wasn’t that ordinary for where he lived. It was warm for one. The streetlights cast autumn colours onto the trees that over hung the shabby gardens crammed next to the road. The main road, who’s repeating white lines skimmed along to places Ordinary Boy hadn’t been, would never know and didn’t care about.
Where was this boy going? Does anyone really care? Probably not. For argument’s sake he was going back to his house. The streets are empty, which is good because it means Ordinary Boy won’t be seen doing something strange, like walking in an empty street at quarter to 11 at night. No one does that.
His rhythmic footsteps shrivelled in the silence of an empty street. He tries staring at the pavement, but it bores him. Oblivious to the world around him, he is only taking in the minimal amount of information from his surroundings. His senses are near non existent.
If a blind man hears a cry for help in an empty street what does he do? Does he run to the nearest house, pathetically bumping into walls and garden debris? Or would he ignore it, what use is a blind man, and how does he know the call is genuine?
Ordinary Boy is not blind. The last thing Ordinary Boy needs is another disadvantage. I wouldn’t say being blind means you are disabled because I don’t look at anything. What is there to see? I imagine being blind would mean you start life with a perfect mental image of existence. What happens from then on depends where you are, with who at what time, how and why.
Ordinary Boy is small. Life is short and his days drag on. If he could milk every minute for excitement, squeeze every instant to get those drops of pleasure people so rarely get in the right amounts, he would be a happy man, and neither he nor I can imagine why anyone else would not be.
Ordinary Boy doesn’t speak often, ask anyone. What he does say, can pretty much be ignored as dismal chat, the colour of memory that is first to fade. No one can fathom why he still talks, and most people wouldn’t remember what he said the last time he spoke anyway.
I can’t imagine why he still talks. He talks to empty rooms sometimes, empty like the street he is walking in. It doesn’t matter though really does it? You can’t connect with an empty room. The darkness can’t argue with you or love you or hate you, it jus takes in what you say and leaves you with what you started with; an empty room.
In theory Ordinary Boy could leave his mark in this street. He could paint his name on people’s windows and etch his name into the smooth tarmac he walks on. He could write his name on the sky. He could but he knows there is no point. Windows can be cleaned, roads dug up and the sun could set on changing winds.
He’s nearly home now. His particular lack of sense gives him thoughts to be going on with as he walks. No one needs the real world at times like this. The only real thing is the street. Not much else matters right now. If the street is there he can walk.
And he does, moving into the middle of an empty street. His empty street for now, who else would want it? There is nothing here at all worth having. He whispers, when the darkness is taken away from him and bright lights consume his vision.
The street is empty again. The road is red in some places, but that isn’t important until it dries. Someone is lying in the middle of the road, killed by the excitement and giddy adrenaline rush that some people have every day. Ordinary People. Adrenaline separates them from others. A mind filled with thoughts and dreams and imaginary worlds is what separates people from people. The unseen. The dark.
When the sun coats the street in light, another teenager would have been hit by joy riders. The thrill everyone will have, the curtains that will twitch so often windows will convulse. An article in the paper. A recycling bin and a apathetic policeman. A man who cleans. An end.