Some random little piece of prose writing I did last year on a teens writing website, hope you like it.:)
They are everywhere, these birds. They hobble, strut, and flutter around the town, weaving in and out of the shoppers, darting in between clumping feet to snatch crumbs and bits of crisps among the blobs of chewing gum and cigarette ends on the wet cobblestones. The people don’t care. The pigeons don’t care. Both species living their separate lives in a man-made environment where man and bird are equal. They are the colours of the town; grey, dull brown occasionally, dappled with factory-steam white, and the people dress the same; all strangers to one another, no identity or personality. They carry their shopping bags, dragging them into a stoop as if filled with all the burdens of their lives, while the empty discarded carrier bags float around them like ghosts of people who lived here, died here, with no meaning or destiny to their lives, just like the street pigeons, forever to be tossed by the wind or to cling to privet hedges.
I hated this place. It symbolized all that I hated about mankind; the mess, the pollution, the way everything was always busy and changing, everyone always trapped in the same old rat-race of life. I was a recluse by nature; I hated noise and wasn’t too fond of people either-I am still very much like that today. Even today I am aware that I do not fit in-and you have to fit in, to some extent, in the town. You can’t simply avoid people like I did so often in the country; however much you do not want to you rely on people, to buy things from, to rent a flat from, to email business documents on a computer to, and all that pointless stuff that people do every day. I’d much rather be in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, where I could run outside and shout and yell as loud as I wanted to and no-one would hear me. You saw things differently; everything was beautiful to you, you loved everybody and everything you saw. There was no room in your heart for hate. You loved the town; loved the bright lights, the ceaseless chatter-indeed many of the things I only loved to hate. You even loved the pigeons-I remember on the day we parted there was that bird with the one foot and we fed it a whole jumbo doughnut even though we were going to eat it ourselves. When it perched on your head-how you laughed!-and I laughed with you, because when you were around it was impossible not to laugh and be happy, such was your infectious innocence.
People don’t like pigeons, the townsfolk don’t anyway. They call them ‘flying rats’ and put spikes on all the windowsills to stop them messing all over the place, but the spikes look far uglier. Myself, I don’t really care-they’re just birds to me, just as the townsfolk are just people. As always, you always saw something wonderful in them, just as you saw wonder in every beast-you said that pigeons were like purer forms of people, because they live in the streets like people do, they love and kiss like people do, but they don’t care about race or colour or status or religion-they just go their own lives peacefully. I’m not so sure about that last remark-I’ve seen pigeons fight like any other man or bird. But I must admit the other bits, about them not caring about the things that men fight about, they are true. And they do love and kiss each other-yes, they do actually kiss-much like people do. And they make that cooing sound, every pigeon does, and it is quite a nice sound if you listen to it. They often have deformed feet, because they inbreed with one another, yet they don’t seem to care, just carry on eating and drinking and breeding and living. Such meaningless lives, they seem to serve no other purpose than to be fodder for predators…and yet, I wonder, are humans any different? Is there any real purpose for human beings? We don’t even get eaten by other animals. So what is there to make us feel so much greater than other living beasts?
The voice on the speaker overhead jerks me out of my thoughts and I join the crowd of people on the platform. The sun is rising above the power station in the distance. I hear the deafening rattle of the train approaching the station and the even more deafening noise of the people as they move forwards, picking up their various bags and suitcases, the anxiety and tension crackling in the air, the sound of a child crying and parents hushing with whispered promises, anything to bribe their beloved to behave. I see your face in my mind, and once more I feel a stab of grief; the journey I make now is not the one that leads back home to you. The other people have similar problems; they too are leaving their homes, their families, all trying to flee the danger, the death, the worry that now haunts their homeland, taking their children and themselves to somewhere safer. Foolish people, all of us, for nowhere is truly safe, it’s always there, always around us. We are all together in this, yet all so alone, wrapped up in our own thoughts and worries. I board this train to be met with possibly even more danger on the other side.
But then, maybe we aren’t so special after all. People are born, people live, people die, like any other animal. We have worries, we have dreams, we have ambitions; and many say that is what makes us human. But in the end we are all just pigeons really; living our lives, dying our deaths, and our wings are tucked up inside us, hidden away until the day when we spread our wings and fly.
They are everywhere, these birds. They hobble, strut, and flutter around the town, weaving in and out of the shoppers, darting in between clumping feet to snatch crumbs and bits of crisps among the blobs of chewing gum and cigarette ends on the wet cobblestones. The people don’t care. The pigeons don’t care. Both species living their separate lives in a man-made environment where man and bird are equal. They are the colours of the town; grey, dull brown occasionally, dappled with factory-steam white, and the people dress the same; all strangers to one another, no identity or personality. They carry their shopping bags, dragging them into a stoop as if filled with all the burdens of their lives, while the empty discarded carrier bags float around them like ghosts of people who lived here, died here, with no meaning or destiny to their lives, just like the street pigeons, forever to be tossed by the wind or to cling to privet hedges.
I hated this place. It symbolized all that I hated about mankind; the mess, the pollution, the way everything was always busy and changing, everyone always trapped in the same old rat-race of life. I was a recluse by nature; I hated noise and wasn’t too fond of people either-I am still very much like that today. Even today I am aware that I do not fit in-and you have to fit in, to some extent, in the town. You can’t simply avoid people like I did so often in the country; however much you do not want to you rely on people, to buy things from, to rent a flat from, to email business documents on a computer to, and all that pointless stuff that people do every day. I’d much rather be in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, where I could run outside and shout and yell as loud as I wanted to and no-one would hear me. You saw things differently; everything was beautiful to you, you loved everybody and everything you saw. There was no room in your heart for hate. You loved the town; loved the bright lights, the ceaseless chatter-indeed many of the things I only loved to hate. You even loved the pigeons-I remember on the day we parted there was that bird with the one foot and we fed it a whole jumbo doughnut even though we were going to eat it ourselves. When it perched on your head-how you laughed!-and I laughed with you, because when you were around it was impossible not to laugh and be happy, such was your infectious innocence.
People don’t like pigeons, the townsfolk don’t anyway. They call them ‘flying rats’ and put spikes on all the windowsills to stop them messing all over the place, but the spikes look far uglier. Myself, I don’t really care-they’re just birds to me, just as the townsfolk are just people. As always, you always saw something wonderful in them, just as you saw wonder in every beast-you said that pigeons were like purer forms of people, because they live in the streets like people do, they love and kiss like people do, but they don’t care about race or colour or status or religion-they just go their own lives peacefully. I’m not so sure about that last remark-I’ve seen pigeons fight like any other man or bird. But I must admit the other bits, about them not caring about the things that men fight about, they are true. And they do love and kiss each other-yes, they do actually kiss-much like people do. And they make that cooing sound, every pigeon does, and it is quite a nice sound if you listen to it. They often have deformed feet, because they inbreed with one another, yet they don’t seem to care, just carry on eating and drinking and breeding and living. Such meaningless lives, they seem to serve no other purpose than to be fodder for predators…and yet, I wonder, are humans any different? Is there any real purpose for human beings? We don’t even get eaten by other animals. So what is there to make us feel so much greater than other living beasts?
The voice on the speaker overhead jerks me out of my thoughts and I join the crowd of people on the platform. The sun is rising above the power station in the distance. I hear the deafening rattle of the train approaching the station and the even more deafening noise of the people as they move forwards, picking up their various bags and suitcases, the anxiety and tension crackling in the air, the sound of a child crying and parents hushing with whispered promises, anything to bribe their beloved to behave. I see your face in my mind, and once more I feel a stab of grief; the journey I make now is not the one that leads back home to you. The other people have similar problems; they too are leaving their homes, their families, all trying to flee the danger, the death, the worry that now haunts their homeland, taking their children and themselves to somewhere safer. Foolish people, all of us, for nowhere is truly safe, it’s always there, always around us. We are all together in this, yet all so alone, wrapped up in our own thoughts and worries. I board this train to be met with possibly even more danger on the other side.
But then, maybe we aren’t so special after all. People are born, people live, people die, like any other animal. We have worries, we have dreams, we have ambitions; and many say that is what makes us human. But in the end we are all just pigeons really; living our lives, dying our deaths, and our wings are tucked up inside us, hidden away until the day when we spread our wings and fly.
We are your saviors.
We are your protectors.
We are your heroes.
If you join us,you pledge yourself worthy.Worthy to protect every single living species.Even if it costs your life.
Once your in your in ...and there's no gettig out. Our secrets are sacred,our discoveries valuable. We hold the key to things that,to the human eye are unreal. But to us their not because we know the truth. And so will you.
It is your choice, take it or leave it. If you are a true protector you will pass the test.
We welcome all, to the Protection. Choose your path correctly and then let it be.
We are your protectors.
We are your heroes.
If you join us,you pledge yourself worthy.Worthy to protect every single living species.Even if it costs your life.
Once your in your in ...and there's no gettig out. Our secrets are sacred,our discoveries valuable. We hold the key to things that,to the human eye are unreal. But to us their not because we know the truth. And so will you.
It is your choice, take it or leave it. If you are a true protector you will pass the test.
We welcome all, to the Protection. Choose your path correctly and then let it be.
I never understood my hometown. It's always changing. Crime is high, pigeons fly, and it's basically impossible to not pass something that's been vandalized.
One sad thing is, I never met my father. My mother always told me he ran off when I was an infant. I never got all that good of an education, because my teachers never teach. My mother isn't around much anymore. She doesn't even call me. I wish everything would change. Before my father ever ran off.
I wonder what he's doing right now. He probably also does vandalism. Maybe he's found a hobby. Maybe he's going through therapy. You can never know what someone is doing when you don't have sight of them.
Right now I'm in a pharmacy, and I always wonder: what people have when they walk in here. It could be anything from a cold, to rare and chronic diseases.
One sad thing is, I never met my father. My mother always told me he ran off when I was an infant. I never got all that good of an education, because my teachers never teach. My mother isn't around much anymore. She doesn't even call me. I wish everything would change. Before my father ever ran off.
I wonder what he's doing right now. He probably also does vandalism. Maybe he's found a hobby. Maybe he's going through therapy. You can never know what someone is doing when you don't have sight of them.
Right now I'm in a pharmacy, and I always wonder: what people have when they walk in here. It could be anything from a cold, to rare and chronic diseases.