Style No. 46: Clumsy

Standard

Well, it isn’t really my thing — writing and all that. Though I have updated my Facebook status semi-frequently. Does that count as literary experience? Surely it’s worth something. But my god! Here I am, boring you all. Status updates may not be such a credential after all. Can’t even get to the point.

But that’s just it. I need to get to the point, to commit this tale to the screen. Or should I still say the page? More of a classic expression. Is that what people still go in for, though — classic expressions? Either way, I’ve seen something, and it demands immortalization in letters. It all began with a young boy in orange.

Oh no. I’ve led you on. The pressure’s mounting in my throat, I can feel it. Choking me like a crumpled page of clichés stuffed down my gullet by an angry reader. How can I follow up on that suspenseful opening? I’m not sure I know how to manage the transition. I see the limitations of status updates now. You never do get to the transition there.

Well then I’ll just say it. The boy in orange blew his whistle. And he had a friend who, arm slung around him, eyed the distant crowd. (Actually, this paragraph isn’t getting off to a bad start. I’m quite pleased. But what about this parenthetical, is it an intrusion or a pleasant detour? How to know? Damn it, I’d better just go on.)

Subsequent to this observation, I saw a wrinkled grandmother perspiring like a horse tongue — if you’ll permit the metaphor. I hope it doesn’t strike you as bizarre, and if so I apologize. But perhaps the apology is doing more harm than repair. Maybe I should move on.

Right. So beneath a shawl on this old woman’s head sat, perfectly balanced, a secret object. What could it have been? Of which nefarious scheme might it have formed a part? Well, I’m sorry but I don’t really know. I suppose I haven’t the imagination to invent something. I’m not some grand novelist, after all. You can’t expect too much. As a matter of fact, if you keep pressuring me like this I won’t continue at all.

Where was I? Goodness, I’m flustered now. My fingers tremble on the keys. Maybe it’s because we’re at the ending. How am I supposed to wrap it all up? Well, you can’t expect me to know — status updates never need wrapping up, do they? I suppose I’ll just spit it out, then. There was a man. He was strange. He was knowing. And he was looking the other way.

THE END.

I quite like the way that turned out. Maybe I’m more of a writer than I thought. But why was it again I needed to write this story? Hmm. I forgot. Well, goodbye.

Montmartre at night. Or should I say something more interesting? Something like 'The blood of Montmartre's glowing establishments spilling forth into the darkness of its cobbled lanes'? Or is that a bit too much? Well, either way I clicked this in Paris in 2011.

Montmartre at night. Or should I say something more interesting? Something like ‘The blood of Montmartre’s glowing establishments spilling forth into the darkness of its cobbled lanes’? Or is that a bit too much? Well, either way, I clicked this in Paris in 2011.

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