So I'm going to bore you with more samples of my writing, since I figure I've whinged enough on this blog, and it's about time for a change. You can stop reading now if fiction bores you. Yeah.
Little Beautiful Things, Part whatever
It is one of those in-between times in the life of our hero, if hero can be used to describe someone of such unheroic proportions and propensities. He does a lot of sitting down, which he figures is better than standing around, looking aimless, something he still looks awkward doing, even with his studied air of nonchalance, practiced at countless parties where he knows nobody, or gatherings he feels out of place in. Direction, as opposed to bustle, is at a premium in society, our hero has decided. It is easy to keep busy; living is a constant stream of tedious little chores. Cleaning alone (your body, your living space, your neighbourhood, the puddles of muddy water your acquaintances track all over your tidy living room) is enough to keep you occupied for the vast majority of your waking hours. Our hero, however, decides to set off on his quest for purpose on a rather tangential path.
It starts on a rather torrid day, as he trudges along, looking for something small to lift his spirits. So many days can be turned around by something trivial; a phone call from an old friend, coming into easy money (even a stray dollar you pick up off the street can do wonders for your sense of well-being) or even a pretty girl, which is exactly what turns this day around for this particular man. He spies her out of the corner of his eye, then turns to take another look. Yes, she is pretty, or at least pretty enough for another look. Her hair falls just below her shoulders, she has those laughing eyes, that easy smile, those gentle curves which seem generous, yet not overly dramatic; her beauty is the culmination of all of these little pretty features. He gawks for a while; it doesn't matter since she's not looking. He likes gawking, sometimes with his mouth slightly ajar. He's just a gawking type of person. She turns and catches him. She notices that she has his rapt attention and, instead of turning away quickly, flashes him that same easy smile before continuing on her way, out of his life.
'Easy smiles are beautiful,' he says to himself. Then again, many things are. He would make a list of beautiful things, but lists are hard for him. His mind wanders far too often for such organizational feats. He decides, therefore, to keep a little book for capturing all these little beautiful things. This way, he will always have beauty with him, to keep his days beautiful. He feels good about this, and tells his friends.
'Who the hell would want to read a book about beauty?' a friend asks.
'I would. Beautiful things make me happy.'
'Yeah, but only when you see them. Reading about them only makes for shitty prose.'
'Yeah, I guess, but at least that way I'll remember them,' he replies.
'Well, as long as it makes you happy.'
Today, he has a project. He buys a little notebook, and wonders what he will write on its cover. Titles are always important. He can't really decide on a title. Names have to adhere to very strict guidelines, lest they spoil their content with their unwieldiness.
He opens the book and takes out a pen.
'Indecision,' he writes, 'is beautiful.'
He pauses, then starts writing again.
'I would write more, but brevity is beautiful as well.'
Little Beautiful Things, Part whatever
It is one of those in-between times in the life of our hero, if hero can be used to describe someone of such unheroic proportions and propensities. He does a lot of sitting down, which he figures is better than standing around, looking aimless, something he still looks awkward doing, even with his studied air of nonchalance, practiced at countless parties where he knows nobody, or gatherings he feels out of place in. Direction, as opposed to bustle, is at a premium in society, our hero has decided. It is easy to keep busy; living is a constant stream of tedious little chores. Cleaning alone (your body, your living space, your neighbourhood, the puddles of muddy water your acquaintances track all over your tidy living room) is enough to keep you occupied for the vast majority of your waking hours. Our hero, however, decides to set off on his quest for purpose on a rather tangential path.
It starts on a rather torrid day, as he trudges along, looking for something small to lift his spirits. So many days can be turned around by something trivial; a phone call from an old friend, coming into easy money (even a stray dollar you pick up off the street can do wonders for your sense of well-being) or even a pretty girl, which is exactly what turns this day around for this particular man. He spies her out of the corner of his eye, then turns to take another look. Yes, she is pretty, or at least pretty enough for another look. Her hair falls just below her shoulders, she has those laughing eyes, that easy smile, those gentle curves which seem generous, yet not overly dramatic; her beauty is the culmination of all of these little pretty features. He gawks for a while; it doesn't matter since she's not looking. He likes gawking, sometimes with his mouth slightly ajar. He's just a gawking type of person. She turns and catches him. She notices that she has his rapt attention and, instead of turning away quickly, flashes him that same easy smile before continuing on her way, out of his life.
'Easy smiles are beautiful,' he says to himself. Then again, many things are. He would make a list of beautiful things, but lists are hard for him. His mind wanders far too often for such organizational feats. He decides, therefore, to keep a little book for capturing all these little beautiful things. This way, he will always have beauty with him, to keep his days beautiful. He feels good about this, and tells his friends.
'Who the hell would want to read a book about beauty?' a friend asks.
'I would. Beautiful things make me happy.'
'Yeah, but only when you see them. Reading about them only makes for shitty prose.'
'Yeah, I guess, but at least that way I'll remember them,' he replies.
'Well, as long as it makes you happy.'
Today, he has a project. He buys a little notebook, and wonders what he will write on its cover. Titles are always important. He can't really decide on a title. Names have to adhere to very strict guidelines, lest they spoil their content with their unwieldiness.
He opens the book and takes out a pen.
'Indecision,' he writes, 'is beautiful.'
He pauses, then starts writing again.
'I would write more, but brevity is beautiful as well.'
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