Go here instead: Dead Flowers
A unique collection of short stories by Derec Jones.
What’s the point of this trudge around town? Why is the richest man in the world a miserable git?
The stories in this collection are both challenging and accessible, simply told yet illuminating.
Me? I’m just a walker, a walker and a watcher. I observe, I see things and I interpret them in my head. It used to be just a game, when I was younger, playing with people’s lives, my mind; but there’s a price to pay. Open yourself up; peel away the layers of self-justification and stare at the void. The price of being different, of being aware. So, I walk, and watch, and remember, storing away all the looks on your faces. I spend many a happy hour lying sleeplessly in my bed thinking of you, recalling those expressions.
Can you picture this?
A body walks down a street or in a shopping arcade – a market. It’s a man, could be a woman? Or maybe women are different. Does it have to be a man? This guy is walking. OK – you listening? He has his hands in his pockets, his head bowed, bent towards his feet – walking – he passes a shop window; you stare out from behind the counter. He lifts his head from the floor and turns it towards you. You expect an intelligent stare – an inner knowing glow – at least a mad look, something to make you shiver with unknowing. No, what you see is a blank frightened look – the face of a loser – a shambolic dirty-coated greasy-haired, pimply-skinned loser. He puts his head down and moves on, shuffling forlornly, in character, on the damp concrete floor. You sigh with relief and turn back to your life your own hope renewed.
I’m still walking and watching.