These people. Squeezing. Shuffling. Huffing. Barely a thing bought. Nobody looks happy. They come because others come. Won’t leave till dusk. That’s when I get my street back. My thoughts back. Until then, these passing voices won’t leave me alone.
‘Hold on to my hand.’
‘I need the toilet.’
‘We’ll find somewhere.’
‘Je reconnais รงa du film.’
‘Je pense que la librairie est par lร -bas.’
‘I just want to go in here.’
‘I’ll wait over there.’
‘Sollen wir uns etwas zum Mittagessen suchen?’
‘I won’t pay it. They should be giving me a discount.’
‘This place is mental.’
‘Wait! I’ve seen something.’
‘Can you just stop tugging.’
‘You promised.’
‘And we’ll get one. We just need to find somewhere.’
‘They said they’d get back to me.’
‘That’s bullshit. They all say that.’
‘Tim, come look at this.’
‘Can’t believe he said that to you.’
‘I know. Wanker.’
‘Can we move onto the road.’
‘I told you Saturdays were like this.’
‘What time’s kick off?’
‘And I was like …’
‘Penso che la libreria sia qui vicino.’
‘Did he message back?’
‘I haven’t even watched the film.’
‘We’ve gotta get a picture.’
‘You think they’d make wider sidewalks.’
‘I’ll meet you outside in five minutes.’
‘He’s such a prick. She should have finished with him ages ago.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Can I get a light?’
‘It’s definitely down here …’
‘Bet there’s a queue.’
‘Told you we should have come earlier … you never listen.’
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
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