Walking to work on Thursday last week.
Thinking all the way in sympathy of thought with my main character through much of my writings - Lyndsey. My alter-ego in some, many ways.
These were her words that spilled out of my head when I arrived in work. I usually begin my 'other work' at 9. This day I started my other work at 9.30... It was impossible to start earlier, I had so much inside that needed to come out.
A soft grey morning. An insular feel to my routine today. I woke amidst a dream to the shrill sound of my alarm clock. Outside it was damp, dull grey and unprepossessing. I’m not a creature who is fond of artificial light; even on the darkest winter night I prefer to be surrounded by candle light. One of the miserable aspects of working life to which I have to give in to subjugation, is my unwillingness of acceptance of artificial light.
So I showered, dressed, tidied and made breakfast in half light. I brushed through my hair guessing where the tangles where. Where my fringe should end, and where it rests and plays happily over my ears. I made my toast and sat with the window open listening to the rain pattering onto the broad leaves of the so-called mid summer.
It was quiet outside, no birds did sing. Occasional displacement of puddles and oodles of water as cars pulled close to the kerb. I did hear the sound of tapping feet, walking quickly – hastily into this morning. I listened, I breathed into silence. I looked through the part misted window, and I brushed toast crumbs from my chin. Plate into sink, into water, into grey plate and cup bath to await my return later. Bag, last nights made sandwiches, jacket.
To walk toward work unfortunately takes me along a broad long road. I suppose an alternative path could take me across the broad flank of the hill to the back of my wee shack, but road is best for placing one’s feet in unimaginative rhythm. Unimaginative rhythm leads conversely to imaginative thought routine. And so with my hood over my head, my rain-jacket buttoned up tight, my speakers over my ears jarring out the sounds of approaching and receding cars, and, especially, with my black umbrella pulled down low over my head I proceeded along my way.
My entire vision down inside my umbrella and hood world was the narrow vista of wet, puddled, running, grey black road. Path. Grass verge. Occasional lifting of the edge of my umbrella to check my progress and route, but never so much as to shatter my semi-deprivation of sensory stimuli – light, touch, vision, feeling…
My morning contained so much, but it didn’t contain the latter to any great extent.
How does it feel to feel?
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Written by TwistedTales (548 comments posted) 12th July 2008 |
I liked this. Some of the words, I felt were too flowery and came between me and the story, not much of a s.story, but more of a chapter out of a novel. Imagery is great, and relatable as well, as the weather is the same in Australia currently. Good job.
Regards,
TT |
Written by Nick (167 comments posted) 13th July 2008 |
As with TT - I liked the imagery you produced in this story, it sucks you in and lets you vividly see the horrible weather and the trudge to work.
Also I think it would work well as a chapter in a book opposed to a short story.
Anyway good work.
Nick |
Written by Jamie (4 comments posted) 14th July 2008 |
Thanks very much for the comments and thoughts.
The character I write in the guise of is someone whom I have already written a full length piece about. I'm currently publishing chapters of this story in the 'Extended' section - the story is entitled 'Drifting'. The above chapter though, is not part of that story.
This is probably why this reads as a chapter in a story - I'm already, in my head, aware of her other character traits - I 'know her', so after years of 'living with her' I know how she would react to certain situations and events - the above morning was a morning I just knew she would have a lot to say and think about!
Thanks again for taking the time to read and to pass on your comments. |
Written by Leigh (263 comments posted) 14th July 2008 |
This is a very poetic description of a very mundane part of morning routine which most of us do not so much as think about. I have to say I love writing that makes the ordinary extraordinary, and really enjoyed the piece.
I love your use of language. Some highlights for me:
"Occasional displacement of puddles and oodles of water as cars pulled close to the kerb."
"Unimaginative rhythm leads conversely to imaginative thought routine."
"My entire vision down inside my umbrella and hood world was the narrow vista of wet, puddled, running, grey black road. Path."
Agree with the others about it working well within the context of a novel. This would induce me to read on and find out about the rest of Lyndsey's day. |
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