Post by cn on Aug 18, 2011 5:08:35 GMT -5
It was a Monday, at midday when Rick found himself edging into the leafy streets around he grand houses. He had chosen the day carefully, deciding that the weekend would see the streets crowded. He paused, leaning on the street-post and gazing out at what he hoped was a deserted street. The sunshine and a certain oppressive heat filled the air around him. What struck him most about these houses, oddly, was their windows, black and gaping, like eyes staring imperiously down on him from multi-storied houses. He got the distinct sensation of being being stared at down the nose.
He frowned, scratching at an ink-stain on the cuff of his second hand shirt, and combing his hair back with his fingers. He acted with a particular style, a kind of overly cultivated elegance and flourish of movements which suggested that he thought he was being watched; judged from any number of eyes staring out at him from the houses. Surely they would know he didn't belong here.
Words and sentences, half formed introductions and witticisms whirled about his head. How did these people introduce themselves, talk, what were their manners? He wished to talk with one of these people, to find some way of making himself belong. At the same time, he dreaded the sight of someone approaching. It would be the same with any of them; they would think him scum, surely.
He scratched at his nose, and continued peering down the street. He forced himself to continue walking down the street, adopting an easy, slow stride and forcing himself to hold his head high. Inside his pockets, he crossed his fingers so hard that it almost caused him pain.
He frowned, scratching at an ink-stain on the cuff of his second hand shirt, and combing his hair back with his fingers. He acted with a particular style, a kind of overly cultivated elegance and flourish of movements which suggested that he thought he was being watched; judged from any number of eyes staring out at him from the houses. Surely they would know he didn't belong here.
Words and sentences, half formed introductions and witticisms whirled about his head. How did these people introduce themselves, talk, what were their manners? He wished to talk with one of these people, to find some way of making himself belong. At the same time, he dreaded the sight of someone approaching. It would be the same with any of them; they would think him scum, surely.
He scratched at his nose, and continued peering down the street. He forced himself to continue walking down the street, adopting an easy, slow stride and forcing himself to hold his head high. Inside his pockets, he crossed his fingers so hard that it almost caused him pain.