Mike: Glimpses of A Man - Parts I and II

I'm currently writing short entries revolving around the same character. He's basically my experimental way of getting back into creative writing. I'll update here as I write.

Part I
Fragile-

That's the word I'd use to describe him. Not in the sense that he was a cripple, or he'd break if he fell or some shit like that. The kid was broke...like broke in the head. You know, up here...

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The flow of the street was manic. 9:30am. Strange mix of people. Strange. Half the people running like dogs trying to get to work, not realizin' they're already late and that extra five minutes won't buy their bosses affection- or respect. Runnin' ain't worth shit at this point. Late.

Then you got the other half, the lazy fucks. The one's with nowhere to go. Walkin' around with their heads half up their asses proud of themselves for staying one-step away...or maybe ahead of convention. No job. Nowhere to go.

Look at this one. Nicely pressed suit, mirror in one hand, lipstick in the other. Red. Her pace, accellerated beyond the norm. Two inch heels clinging to fleeing feet, until one snaps - caught in the sewer grate. She walks a fine line. I could touch her as she pauses and curses under her breath clutching for the absent heel shaved clean off the torn sole. She's so close. I taste her frustratingly heaving breath, as she lopsidedly - yet hurridly - saunters away. She smells... like roses.

*************

Locked down-

He ain't heard shit in years. I mean, he listened. He listened real good. His eyes could pierce you like a knife. He'd stare, and listen, real close, so you could feel his breath climb up your nostrils. But, like i said, he ain't really heard shit in years.



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Part II

A realist calm swept over him.
He stepped backwards with a slight stutter, carefully avoiding the line of ants weaving their way through the perilous cracks in the pavement.

A pause-
He lifted his foot and rested the sole softly on the leader. A slight crunch as he shifted his weight from left to right, lips twisting slightly as his eyes trained on the ensuing scurry around the murderous obstacle. They disappeared into the cracks. His cigarette was burned to a nub. He threw it toward the insect’s remains
after salvaging a last breath, stomping on both a little harder this time – charring the body as the smoke wisped away. He let off another smile as he turned his back and started away.


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Grizzled – it’s such a cliché to describe a man that way. Half the time they aren’t, and the other half they’re only halfway there. Grizzled, usually connotes imagery of rough looking celebrities- the one’s that walk down the street and get two looks from every girl that passes – first there’s the “eh not bad” look, then the “on second thought dot-dot-dot, double-take.” This faux-grizzled man walks nonchalantly by knowing what transpires behind him as he callously walks away.


He isn’t that, he’s grizzled– in full. His cheek bones, high, meet facial hair, not a beard. Beards require shape and thought. He didn’t have time to think about beards. He shaved when he remembered; at this point it was 4 days. He didn’t get any single takes, or double takes. He blended in, as need be.

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He watched his feet as they paced the pavement, one foot over the other – repetition in a dizzying fashion. He walked quickly, as to avoid falling into pace with another, no need for unnecessary awkward moments. A group approaching in the opposite direction caught his attention and he refocused his eyes. They walked with a maddening pace, all of them probably in their early twenties. He jammed his hand into his coat pocket as they past. Their varying scents challenged his nostrils as his fingers grasped for a cigarette.

“You got a light?” he turned toward the group as the words ejected from his lips. His voice– unsurprisingly hoarse from under use. The group paused in unison, as if instantly confronted with the edge of a cliff. A necessary awkward moment. The shorter of two girls turned, digging through her purse and after a few moments retrieved a small box of matches. It was one of those boxes found, and often taken from a hotel, inside the drawer of the bedside table.

A harsh flame ignited as she focused on the cigarette perched between his lips, being careful to burn only the end. He inhaled softly as a few bits of charred paper and tobacco fell on his hand. He inhaled. She smiled. She flicked the match with precision into a puddle, trapped between the curb and the street.

“Hiss,” she pursed her lips and walked back to the group, and in unison they resumed.