Introduction To Short Stories.
Posted: 24 May 2005
Word Count: 864
Summary: This needs work I know, but it is an idea I wanted to play with as an intro for a collection of shot stories, (that I havn't written yet...). Needs tightening. x
Wanting to tell you a story, yearning to, as if a pair of claws resided in my belly waiting to grab you and haul you in. About faces and smiles, smiles and faces that have spoken of other mouths and faces and smiles that they liked. The claws are twitching, their talons glimmering like a night stalkerís knife, as he prowls in the trees at night. They are waiting for you, waiting for the moment to entice you, lure you in, like a goldfish to the sharkís mouth. Do you find that an absurd image? Oh? Really? Frustrated? Ah. I see,
lollypop sir? Or perhaps some pink candy-floss and some nice cold beer or an egg sandwich made with white bread? That would be nice wouldnít it? No? Yes. Youíre quite right, food. Not now. Not ever! Ever I said, damn! I meant never! I never want to eat again, Iím anorexic. Err, love donít think youíre meant announce it like that. Be a bit more subtle is all Iím saying. Donít mean to offend, you being in a slightly precarious emotional situation as it is, but
excuse me Madam do you know where I am, see the problem is I started out with a clear picture and now I find that I have meandered quite dreadfully from my original path, and seeing as I have always been rather dismal at giving directions, it would appear that my whole party is lost as well. Yes, I quite agree, I am a buffling-muffling old fool. Oh really? You think so? Well I do try to look after myself, I always say
Gi-sus! Did you see that me man! Did you see the speed on that one? Oi! Where do you think youíre going? Went to a lot of effort to make this right yíknow? All bloody day been thinking about it and now yuz just getting up and buggering off like nufiní matters but what keeps you entertained and even though I asked you to
please stay. The little hand pulled on the corner of the blue velvet jacket, the white fingers like ripples of the moon on a midnight cloaked pond. But something is shaking these fingers and the image is fading, dying. Youíre leaving for good now. Dusting yourself off and heading for a more satisfactory terrain, or perhaps a more exciting view, the top of the ladder not good enough. The wall too close, blocking your view. But don't worry somewhere,
soon, there will be words and pages written with the hope that they might grabcatch&entice you. That you will read them and think of no others, as they shyly present themselves to you, smaller words blushing perhaps, behind the grandiose shoulders of larger, more impressive ones. Timid metaphors ducking their heads, so that you almost miss them. But you donít, you read on and a story unfurls, many stories, stories within stories, of people and their smiles on faces that seem ugly or just wise. Faces that you would like to curl up with or the ones you'd like to take photographs of and then hang them above the fire, (or in the hall, by the guest loo). So sit back, lie back dear face, that these eyes on this face, that first read the words you now read have not seen, or perhaps I have, how are you my friend? Well. Luxuriously well I hope. Hope. Dope. No, hope, lets run with hope. Swill that word around in the boiling pot of your imagination, watch it. It's bubbling, bubbling over
the pot and cascading over your pink jumper that you left lying on the floor, (that would so irritate your m other), but back to the hope, that is flowing towards the door, over the carpets and your antique Persian rug, tiptoeing down your wooden steps and gliding over your stone floor, where it rests for a second, catching its breath by the door that will open and let it spill out gleefully onto the pavement where two Goths stand smoking cheap cigarettes with pale white hands with chipped black nail polish that they stole from the Pharmacy, where that little stream of hope has just flowed by, dodging rushing impatient footsteps and foul smelling bins, placed on the corners of the pavement that our little babbling brook is traveling over. But it has stopped again. Tired my willful friend? Tired and wanting a place to sit awhile and ponder all that you have just seen? And think, think of the plans that had been made for you! Think of those frozen peas you were intended to warm and make edible for the little boy who had been so rude and thoughtless to your cousins the other day in the bath. Just think! But the babbling brook does not want to think, and nor should we. Oh look! Look at this babbling broke looking up. Looking up at me. Look at how she ripples her beautiful cloak of pale aquamarine expectantly.
Ah, I see.
A story dear friend, is that what you desire?
And she ripples again, a little annoyed.
But of course she replies.
Donít we all?
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