The man was walking down the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. He wasn’t returning from an exciting rendezvous. He was just filling his day in a meaning less sort of way.
The man didn’t walk slowly but he didn’t walk fast. He kinda meandered along, his steps evenly spaced. Sometimes his feet straddled the pavement cracks, sometimes firmly striding up from their centres.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t look down. He didn’t look left. He didn’t look right. He just stared straight ahead.
But seeing.
He manoeuvred around the obstacles of the street.
He manoeuvred around lamp posts; Council rubbish bins; empty Tesco carrier bags; discarded KFC boxes; cyclists; dog poo and people.
He manoeuvred around men and women and dogs and cats.
He manoeuvred past children walking, running, cycling, on skate boards and screaming.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t acknowledge them.
He just kept his regular strides past them down the street.
He strode on.
The man was called Brian.
DiH
2 comments:
I like the repetition in this it kinda mirrors the footsteps on pavement.
Hey I had never thought of that - it is strange how somethings happen when you start writing. Strange but good.
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