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witticasterThis was an exercise from The 3 A.M. Epiphany (which I am going to buy sometime, because I really liked the book but didn't get to try most of the stuff in it). The idea was to write every sentence as an imperative (that's the command verb mood thing, right?). The tone isn't very consistent, but I like this one better than yesterday's. I dunno--it's something, anyway. I haven't bothered to edit it beyond fixing typos and omitting the parts where I stopped writing the story and just talked to myself. XD
Carry a knife in a leather jacket and walk the streets of New York City as if expecting them to prove something. Stalk through the shadows where necessary. Walk like a tourist in the glow of neon, but avoid the sticky fingers of pickpockets. Occasionally finger the hilt of the blade, but not so often that anyone catches onto its existence.
Head towards the nice part of town--one of them, anyway--toward the Upper East Side. Take the subway; don't sit down despite an array of open seats; ignore, but not pointedly, the half-drunk buskers singing old R&B hits and shaking a cup for change as they pass through the car. Ride and ride and ride and look through everyone else as though the place is empty. Get off at the right stop, at just the last minute, and head up the steps with purpose--not too fast, but definitely with the speed of someone who's going somewhere.
Arrive topside, on a fairly busy sidewalk (but nothing like Times Square), and glance momentarily at the large buildings—for orientation purposes, of course. Continue to deny that, after a lifetime of living in trailers and crumbling tenement buildings on the ass-end of nowhere, the sight of skyscrapers are even a little bit awing.
Start off toward a particularly stately building, one that has an especial elegance to it amidst the others, despite the fact that they all look about equally grand over here. Figure that this particular observation has more to do with the occupants than the building itself. Don't pause in front of it; there's news, and it's important. Nod tersely at the doorman, who might accept a new regular visitor of the complex's most ethereally graceful resident but doesn't feel that he has to acknowledge said said visitor.
Take the way up to the correct apartment without getting stopped for anything. Consider for a fraction of a second using the elevator. Note the clump of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen waiting for it and decide that waiting a few extra minutes is not an option, especially when they would be spent being stared down well-powdered noses at.
Go for the stairs instead and know that big brother would be glad that all those forced runs through Central Park had paid off some--but don't think about family right now, not here. Take the stairs two at a time. Resist the urge to lean against the tasteful and elegant wallpaper to catch a breath. Keep going. Keep going.
Know that he would keep going without question if positions were reversed.
Reach the right floor--finally--and to hell with propriety. Dash down the plush carpeting, past identical doors, and reach the right one. Pound on it, despite the fact that the woman inside expects her visitor. Stop short of slamming a fist against the door yet again just as it opens, narrowly avoiding hitting her in the face. Realize, in a faint and quickly-discarded thought—more important things right now—that with her reflexes, she easily would've been able to avoid getting smashed by a twenty one year old guy's hand, anyway.
Pant. Attempt to speak. Know that everything there is to say won't ameliorate the brittle line her mouth has become, won't part the clouds of worry from her violet eyes.
Try anyway. Don't play anything down, but leave out anything unnecessary. Take in her nod, realize that she's already dressed for a fight (leather, crossbow, hard expression), and turn to go together.
Carry a knife in a leather jacket and walk the streets of New York City as if expecting them to prove something. Stalk through the shadows where necessary. Walk like a tourist in the glow of neon, but avoid the sticky fingers of pickpockets. Occasionally finger the hilt of the blade, but not so often that anyone catches onto its existence.
Head towards the nice part of town--one of them, anyway--toward the Upper East Side. Take the subway; don't sit down despite an array of open seats; ignore, but not pointedly, the half-drunk buskers singing old R&B hits and shaking a cup for change as they pass through the car. Ride and ride and ride and look through everyone else as though the place is empty. Get off at the right stop, at just the last minute, and head up the steps with purpose--not too fast, but definitely with the speed of someone who's going somewhere.
Arrive topside, on a fairly busy sidewalk (but nothing like Times Square), and glance momentarily at the large buildings—for orientation purposes, of course. Continue to deny that, after a lifetime of living in trailers and crumbling tenement buildings on the ass-end of nowhere, the sight of skyscrapers are even a little bit awing.
Start off toward a particularly stately building, one that has an especial elegance to it amidst the others, despite the fact that they all look about equally grand over here. Figure that this particular observation has more to do with the occupants than the building itself. Don't pause in front of it; there's news, and it's important. Nod tersely at the doorman, who might accept a new regular visitor of the complex's most ethereally graceful resident but doesn't feel that he has to acknowledge said said visitor.
Take the way up to the correct apartment without getting stopped for anything. Consider for a fraction of a second using the elevator. Note the clump of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen waiting for it and decide that waiting a few extra minutes is not an option, especially when they would be spent being stared down well-powdered noses at.
Go for the stairs instead and know that big brother would be glad that all those forced runs through Central Park had paid off some--but don't think about family right now, not here. Take the stairs two at a time. Resist the urge to lean against the tasteful and elegant wallpaper to catch a breath. Keep going. Keep going.
Know that he would keep going without question if positions were reversed.
Reach the right floor--finally--and to hell with propriety. Dash down the plush carpeting, past identical doors, and reach the right one. Pound on it, despite the fact that the woman inside expects her visitor. Stop short of slamming a fist against the door yet again just as it opens, narrowly avoiding hitting her in the face. Realize, in a faint and quickly-discarded thought—more important things right now—that with her reflexes, she easily would've been able to avoid getting smashed by a twenty one year old guy's hand, anyway.
Pant. Attempt to speak. Know that everything there is to say won't ameliorate the brittle line her mouth has become, won't part the clouds of worry from her violet eyes.
Try anyway. Don't play anything down, but leave out anything unnecessary. Take in her nod, realize that she's already dressed for a fight (leather, crossbow, hard expression), and turn to go together.
