The door opened and where the large oak panelled door had filled the frame it had been replaced with the equally solid figure of a man in his late thirties. All eyes turned to him; the women’s’ filled with desire, the men equally with jealousy. He strode with purpose towards a pale skinned, dark haired woman. She opened her mouth to speak but he raised a finger to her lip stopping her. He pulled her towards him and kissing her firmly. He then took her hand and led her from the room his dark and brooding demeanour producing silent awe from the people within it.
The door opened and where the large oak panelled door had filled the frame it had been replaced with the equally solid figure of a man in his late thirties. All eyes turned to him; the women’s’ filled with desire, the men equally with jealousy. He strode with purpose towards a pale skinned, dark haired woman. She opened her mouth to speak but he raised a finger to her lip stopping her. He pulled her towards him and kissing her firmly. He then took her hand and led her from the room his dark and brooding demeanour producing silent awe from the people within it.
For the sake of argument, let's say I'm a shop assistant.
He entered the shop tentatively. The bell let out a small "ding", and he paused, waiting for a follow-up sound.
Nothing.
He gazed around the bookshop, specks of dust illuminated in a beam of light piercing through the gap in the curtains.
"Hello?"
Again, nothing.
John paused, wondering where to start. Where do you find information regarding the effects of heavily processed meat on the temporal lobe, anyway?
To his right, a sign read "Popular Culture". To his left, a more dusty, yellow-tinged sign read "Anatomy". He stared at the "Popular Culture" sign. It was on white, laminated A4 paper, and printed in Comic Sans. He hated comic sans.
"**** this", he muttered, and turned to leave. He was reaching out for the door handle when he heard
"Can I help you?"
He froze. The voice sounded female. Albeit female with a 20-a-day habit. He turned around.
Behind the counter stood a tall, burly woman in a bright yellow hoodie.
"Can I help you?" she repeated, as though speaking to someone with learning difficulties.
"I.... I'm looking for something on the effects of GM food on the human brain" he blurted out. This woman was unlikely to know what a temporal lobe was.
The woman's eyebrows knitted together. They were dark and thin, and contrasted with her peroxide blonde, spiky hair. The kind his brother had in the mid-90s.
"Yeah, it'll rot your brains, apparently. I know because Jamie Oliver said so", she said dully, picking at her fingernails with a paperclip.
"You're a fan?" he enquired.
She gave a cynical laugh.
"No. The chap can't even stop his drool from spilling into whatever he's cooking, what would he know?"
He didn't know what to say. She rolled her eyes. They were large, almost perfectly round, and shark eyes; you couldn't see where the pupils ended and the irises began.
"So do you have any books about.... that?"
"If we do, they'll be in Popular Culture" she said, nodding towards the book case in question. "We're getting in more stuff about that though, we keep getting middle-class mummies coming in, whining about organic produce and stuff."
He shuddered at that stupid Comic Sans font.
"Yeah, I know. That was the manager's idea. Comic Sans makes things look more accessible or something because it's used on every PTA newsletter in the UK at the moment."
He turned around in surprise; the woman was now morosely picking at what appeared to be a cheese sandwich. She stared at him like he'd demanded she pull the book out of her rectum.
"Is there anything else?" she asked flatly.
".... no" he said. "Do you know anything about this, though? The virus?"
The woman sighed, put down the alleged cheese sandwich, and rubbed her eyes. She looked like she'd been awake for at least the last six months.
"I'm afraid not. Being a shop assistant in a shop selling books, I'm afraid I'm only trained to sell books. I don't get my health, safety and brain virus training for another six months."
I have to have a context for things, it would appear. Even if I don't know what the context is. Maybe it's a zombie uprising kinda novel.
Also, it's impossible to write me as a particularly sympathetic character.
Why was there always somebody already using the cashpoint when you were in a hurry? Thankfully he was just taking his money (no receipt thank goodness!) and she could get on with the task in hand.
"She was born to poor but honest parents, her father a humble farm worker with the manners of a gentleman and strangely taller than his less intelligent siblings. She inherited his love of books and learning and the village school mistress helped her get a place in grammar school.Far from being her deliverence it drove a wedge between her and the two people who slaved to support her with honest toil. She looked down on her humble origins yet felt inferior to her more better off school mates.
Fearfull of her leaving them her parents persuaded her not ot go to University only for Fate to take a hand when she met and somehow fell in love with an illiterate farmworker who she married in haste at the age of eighteen. Such is the workings of destiny"
The News of the World would portray me as three times married mother of three who was a bit of a slapper in her youth and had ideas above her station.
Comments
The door opened and where the large oak panelled door had filled the frame it had been replaced with the equally solid figure of a man in his late thirties. All eyes turned to him; the women’s’ filled with desire, the men equally with jealousy. He strode with purpose towards a pale skinned, dark haired woman. She opened her mouth to speak but he raised a finger to her lip stopping her. He pulled her towards him and kissing her firmly. He then took her hand and led her from the room his dark and brooding demeanour producing silent awe from the people within it.
Are you the man or the woman?
ha ha! I am the man.
Could you keep going please?
Mmm...I see.
I'm a dark version of Draco Malfoy!
Is it ok to just think that is the business?
I have to have a context for things, it would appear. Even if I don't know what the context is. Maybe it's a zombie uprising kinda novel.
Also, it's impossible to write me as a particularly sympathetic character.
"She was born to poor but honest parents, her father a humble farm worker with the manners of a gentleman and strangely taller than his less intelligent siblings. She inherited his love of books and learning and the village school mistress helped her get a place in grammar school.Far from being her deliverence it drove a wedge between her and the two people who slaved to support her with honest toil. She looked down on her humble origins yet felt inferior to her more better off school mates.
Fearfull of her leaving them her parents persuaded her not ot go to University only for Fate to take a hand when she met and somehow fell in love with an illiterate farmworker who she married in haste at the age of eighteen. Such is the workings of destiny"
The News of the World would portray me as three times married mother of three who was a bit of a slapper in her youth and had ideas above her station.