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Anonymous
A short story just because 2017-02-19 11:25:02 Post No. 9128704
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A short story just because 2017-02-19 11:25:02 Post No. 9128704
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He closed the door softly with a single smooth movement and set off down the road at a brisk but consistently steady pace. It was a mild night and wisps of grey cloud began to perturb the face of the moon, dulling the sparkles of it's light that were reflected on the wet cobblestones below. Muffled music could be heard emanating from the open door of a crowded pub alive with voices, the light from within exposing a pool of vomit quickly accumulating under a girl leaning against the wall outside, while the shopkeeper across the road looked on with narrowed eyes. The young man with a red beard who, as we have said, was walking at a brisk but consistent pace, neither seen nor heard any of this. He was in fact preoccupied with thoughts he deemed to be of a lofty nature, rendering him insensible to his external surroundings. He marched stoically on, compulsively rotating a pen between his fingers in his coat pocket, uninterested in the street and its denizens. As he turned a corner his train of thought was briefly interrupted by a clear and cheerful voice singing in fluent French. He responded to this burst of song with a shadow of a frown before promptly submerging himself again in his machinations, which must have been very important indeed. It seemed no length of time at all before he was blinking uncomfortably in the fluorescent light over the shop counter where the attendant was, for the second time, telling him the price of the chicken fillet roll he held - a student delicacy par excellance that provided energy enough to fuel hours of industrious procrastination - all for a meagre three euros, which he clumsily counted out and handed to the attendant.
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>>9128704
welp
looks like i'm buying an iconograph
goddammit.
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>>9128704
Nice
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>>9128704
Having left the shop and resumed his musing, the young man unconsciously retraced his steps through the noisy streets. Upon reaching the corner where, as the reader knows (though he himself knew not), he had heard snatches of a French song, he was confronted by the sounds of a guitar, a drum, an accordion and a tin whistle. Reluctantly tearing himself from his thoughts, whose purpose and subject he could no longer remember, he focused his vision on the corner before him where a group of young men were playing music. As he passed he caught the eye of what appeared to be the youngest among them, who was sitting on the ground strumming a guitar. Framed by red hair which reached to the ears was a small, pale, well-proportioned face whose eyes shone with enjoyment and whose charming mouth was curled into a cheeky and endearing smile. He found himself smiling almost imperceptibly in return as he continued passed, hardly capable of preventing himself from trembling. It was as if he had been drenched in cold water; the surrounding street was brought sharply into focus as he became conscious of his breathing, which had increased in rate. Though he was at once tempted to turn around and strike up a conversation, he continued walking on. He began to reproach himself, firstly for his strange and inexplicable attraction to the musician, and secondly for refusing the opportunity to speak to him. Perhaps he would discover why those eyes and that smile held such a terrible fascination for him. Perhaps he would come to understand how they had made his heart, long accustomed to indifference, suddenly beat a little faster. He had only to say hello, or offer him a cigarette. But to do this would risk destroying the transient image that had so captivated him. The eyes would become dull, the mouth capricious, and the music unbearable.
He carelessly swung open the door and banged it behind him, thinking now only of what he would write.
End.
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pretentious solipsistic drivel
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>He was in fact preoccupied with thoughts he deemed to be of a lofty nature, rendering him insensible to his external surroundings. He marched stoically on, compulsively rotating a pen between his fingers in his coat pocket, uninterested in the street and its denizens.
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>>9128969
I was trying to subtly make fun of the protagonist for being pretentious, hence the irony employed here
>before promptly submerging himself again in his machinations, which must have been very important indeed
In the second part he forgets what he was supposedly so focused on. He's a pretentious self-important coward, to afraid to admit he's a homo and too afraid to talk to someone he's attracted to. A pathetic figure.
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>>9128704
The first sentence was so artificial and disgusting that I couldn't read past it.
SAGE
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>>9129008
so when are you coming out?
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>>9129018
Never, I'm too cowardly desu
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How would it be to be a bee…
I would fly around and pollinate all the flowers. I would go in a pink flower and rub my ass in it and then fly to another yellow flower and rub my ass in that one too. And I would eat all the pollen and go back to the hive and vomit it up so I could go eat more pollen. And in the winter, everyone could eat my vomit and it would be great.
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