Post by Miss O'Jenny on Mar 20, 2008 12:06:48 GMT
Revised version followed Cat and Stewart's advice. Sorry that it's a bit like a block, I couldn't work out how to indent, and I hate missing a line.
I was sitting on a long metal rail when the man arrived. He walked right over to the edge, grasped the bar and leaned over until his body was perpendicular to his legs. He didn’t notice me for several minutes. He just stood there looking over. And there were a lot of them, looking over, but he was the only one on this roof and my first one of the night. Bells rang out from down below. It’s the evening service, but no one enters or leaves. It is time. I neatened myself and whistled, gaining his attention.
- It’s a long fall, he said. How many who have hit the ground have lived?
It was almost to himself. I was close enough to hear and to answer, but I had none for him. He turned away from the edge and sat on a cold concrete step.
- It’s a long fall.
He folded himself up into a thin ‘N’ shape, starved fingers wrapped around starved legs. He sniffles, coughs and cracks his fingers. The line of his eyes meets a non-distinctive area on the ground before him. He never looks at me.
It’s story time.
- Once upon a time, he said, but more to the wind than me, there was an island. There lived a boy upon that cold outcrop of land and he knew not that there was a world outside that harsh ocean. Seagulls sqawked at him wherever he went, with frozen feet and foodless mouths and soaked feathers.
You don’t know what it’s like there. Do I even remember what it was like there? Is like there? Do I want to remember? This concrete is very comfy, you know. Not that that matters. There was a boy and an island, yes, and gulls. Horrible screeching gulls. They outnumbered the islanders. And there was no place to hide, no trees, no bushes. ‘Twas a barren land. Barren is as barren does, and it ruined us. There was heather, an’ plenty of it. You’d think it pretty. Purple flowers and structured like mini-trees. Bonsai, that’s what they call them. Mini-trees, not heather. But it’s hard to walk on, scratchy and cutsy and other words that don’t end well. And people think it’s pretty. Covers the whole place. Head to toe, belly to back, palm to palm.
And the Ticks. Don’t let ‘em get a grip. They’ll suck you all away and get bigger an’ when you try and get ‘em off their heads gets stuck and then there’s nothing you can do. Tweezers’ll do it. But that’s a lesson for you. Don’t go rolling in the heather. You’ll get a bloodsucker attached to your balls.
He paused to rub his arms and wrap his coat further around himself. I tapped on the rail after a second when I realised that he had gone somewhere else.
- Obselete. That’s what it all is to you young folks. Don’t care about how other people live. All this comfy concrete and city lights blinds you to the world.
The boy left the place pretty quick when he could, ran as fast as his beat up legs could carry him. The city’s the place to be, they told him. It’s new and different there. God’s on every corner, or gods, if you’d rather, and the Devil, so make your choice, they said. And when I asked who ‘they’ were, they said they didn’t know.
But there’s no God around here, and no Devil. Your soul can’t be saved or damned by no one but yourself. And if you damn it, then it doesn’t matter ‘cause you’re probably already in Hell. The only thing on the street corners are rats and weeds that hurt just like those mean little bonsai trees from home. And on the streets, pigeons as bad as gulls. And the people, like ticks, they bite and don’t let go, and by the time you realise they’re there, they’re rich and fat. And no matter how hard you try, they’re head’ll always get stuck just under the skin. They’ll bleed you, take it from me.
It’s all the same. The jungle, the city, the rural wasteland. Just people put a new wrapper on it and expect you not to notice where it’s tearing.
The man produced a battered cigarette from his coat. His fingers were frozen and shaky. Even if they had the strength to work the lighter, there wasn’t enough of him to shield it from the wind. In mild frustration, he threw it and it landed somewhere near me, but I shook my head, and he shook his. He stood up after a second and grasped the metal bar again. He swung a thin leg over, and then another, and braced against the wind. He looked at me.
- I’ll just follow you, he said.
I jumped off my perch, embracing that same wind, and I was off towards to church spire.
I was sitting on a long metal rail when the man arrived. He walked right over to the edge, grasped the bar and leaned over until his body was perpendicular to his legs. He didn’t notice me for several minutes. He just stood there looking over. And there were a lot of them, looking over, but he was the only one on this roof and my first one of the night. Bells rang out from down below. It’s the evening service, but no one enters or leaves. It is time. I neatened myself and whistled, gaining his attention.
- It’s a long fall, he said. How many who have hit the ground have lived?
It was almost to himself. I was close enough to hear and to answer, but I had none for him. He turned away from the edge and sat on a cold concrete step.
- It’s a long fall.
He folded himself up into a thin ‘N’ shape, starved fingers wrapped around starved legs. He sniffles, coughs and cracks his fingers. The line of his eyes meets a non-distinctive area on the ground before him. He never looks at me.
It’s story time.
- Once upon a time, he said, but more to the wind than me, there was an island. There lived a boy upon that cold outcrop of land and he knew not that there was a world outside that harsh ocean. Seagulls sqawked at him wherever he went, with frozen feet and foodless mouths and soaked feathers.
You don’t know what it’s like there. Do I even remember what it was like there? Is like there? Do I want to remember? This concrete is very comfy, you know. Not that that matters. There was a boy and an island, yes, and gulls. Horrible screeching gulls. They outnumbered the islanders. And there was no place to hide, no trees, no bushes. ‘Twas a barren land. Barren is as barren does, and it ruined us. There was heather, an’ plenty of it. You’d think it pretty. Purple flowers and structured like mini-trees. Bonsai, that’s what they call them. Mini-trees, not heather. But it’s hard to walk on, scratchy and cutsy and other words that don’t end well. And people think it’s pretty. Covers the whole place. Head to toe, belly to back, palm to palm.
And the Ticks. Don’t let ‘em get a grip. They’ll suck you all away and get bigger an’ when you try and get ‘em off their heads gets stuck and then there’s nothing you can do. Tweezers’ll do it. But that’s a lesson for you. Don’t go rolling in the heather. You’ll get a bloodsucker attached to your balls.
He paused to rub his arms and wrap his coat further around himself. I tapped on the rail after a second when I realised that he had gone somewhere else.
- Obselete. That’s what it all is to you young folks. Don’t care about how other people live. All this comfy concrete and city lights blinds you to the world.
The boy left the place pretty quick when he could, ran as fast as his beat up legs could carry him. The city’s the place to be, they told him. It’s new and different there. God’s on every corner, or gods, if you’d rather, and the Devil, so make your choice, they said. And when I asked who ‘they’ were, they said they didn’t know.
But there’s no God around here, and no Devil. Your soul can’t be saved or damned by no one but yourself. And if you damn it, then it doesn’t matter ‘cause you’re probably already in Hell. The only thing on the street corners are rats and weeds that hurt just like those mean little bonsai trees from home. And on the streets, pigeons as bad as gulls. And the people, like ticks, they bite and don’t let go, and by the time you realise they’re there, they’re rich and fat. And no matter how hard you try, they’re head’ll always get stuck just under the skin. They’ll bleed you, take it from me.
It’s all the same. The jungle, the city, the rural wasteland. Just people put a new wrapper on it and expect you not to notice where it’s tearing.
The man produced a battered cigarette from his coat. His fingers were frozen and shaky. Even if they had the strength to work the lighter, there wasn’t enough of him to shield it from the wind. In mild frustration, he threw it and it landed somewhere near me, but I shook my head, and he shook his. He stood up after a second and grasped the metal bar again. He swung a thin leg over, and then another, and braced against the wind. He looked at me.
- I’ll just follow you, he said.
I jumped off my perch, embracing that same wind, and I was off towards to church spire.