A riproaring rollercoaster of a journey through time, space and that side road just over there...

The Walker

The Walker

Written by:Chris of Arabia
Published on November 8th, 2009 @ 23:49:29 , using 735 words,

Stepping out through the front door,
The Walker emerges into the glare of sodium street lights.
Turning right, he heads for the outer wall,
where his pre-determined and sterile route awaits.

Clad in a garb of hooded top and jogging bottoms,
he struggles to free the headphone cable
that has become caught in his iPod case
and repeatedly dislodges the in-ear speaker as he moves.

At the wall he veers left to hit the walkway there.
With measured precision, the poured concrete slabs
guide the way out into to night, temperature lowered
by the clear late autumn skies above his head.

As his pace picks up, The Walker feels his last meal
rise from his stomach, burning its way into his oesophagus,
the bitter acidic taste of chilli and tomato reminding
him of older more serious discomfort, but not tonight, not tonight

The rhythm of The Walkers' stride settle to the beat
of the iPods' output; random play serving out tunes unknown
and leaving behind those to be instantly forgotten.
Roger Sanchez sets the tone for the next 6 minutes

Please enter your password:
Good morning Mr Sanchez
You have accessed your computabank
please select the track you wish to hear now...

With electronic precision, The Walker counts his way
past the monotonous regularity of the 2 meter slabs
wall right and dark, houses left and anonymous. The slabs
blur, the numbers blur, The Walker moves ever ahead.

Remembering events of the day, a wry grimace crosses his face
Insignificant victories scored, minor humiliations endured
"We'll have you next time, you bastard" he thinks
"your days are numbered...". The pace increases a touch

Ahead, two figures appear,
ghost like beneath the toxic orange light.
The first with a familiar outline, the second unknown
Heading towards him, his co-conspirators gain detail

Convinced, as he is, of the first's identity,
he raises a hand in friendly salute of a shared task.
The first looks mildly phased by the greeting, but
returns the wave. Not who The Walker thought it was...

Not wishing to repeat the same mistake, The Walker heads
towards the second impassively. As they pass, a glint
of puzzlement crosses the second's expression at the blank
stare. The wife of a work colleague passes to one side...

Reaching the halfway point, The Walker feels the prickle
of overheated skin on his back, the evening no longer cool,
but instead temperature rising uncomfortable, heat trapped against
his torso, the hoodie now an unnecessary burden to comfort.

Heading past a street light, The Walker sees his shadow extend
in front of him, fading all the while as the next is approached
knowing as he does that a shadow unseen shrinks and deepens on the
ground behind his back. The Sweetest Perfection keeps time...

Takes me completely
Touches so sweetly
Reaches so deeply
Nothing can stop me

Clip, clip, clip raps his ankle, stooping in recognition,
The Walker stoops to re-tie a loosened lace, and once more
he feels the burn rise above his stomach, sensation unwelcome,
unwanted and uncomfortable. No stopping now the race not yet run.

Passing the field, he feels the fine mist dispensed in darkness,
smells its past life, must trust the plant did its job. The path
now fully dark, trusting to where he knows it follows, aim for the
bright spot ahead, no oncoming train this one...

Into the open and the brightness again, road crossed and safe
from its users, The Walker passes by the supermarket loading
bay. A hive of industry by day, but not now. Dead to the sleeping
world, a new dawn awaits ahead, events to unfold

Taking the extra loop, urged on at the iPod's request,
The Walker cuts right out of sight of tarmac and into
the corridor, the bushes encroaching from either side
providing a claustrophobic cover for those who desire it.

Escaping the gap, bland and unremarkable dwellings feeding
away left of him, The Walker recalls names, names of the day,
names of toil, names of weight and import, never forgotten.
But not here, not now, not at night - "That's mine"

Turning towards home, exercise drawing to a close,
The Walker eases down slower, nearly done till another
day. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after, but soon
With the door in sight, a Friend of a Friend takes The Walker home...

When he plays
No-one speaks
No-one speaks
When he plays
No-one speaks


Comment from: ellie [Visitor]

Somehow lost your email; and can’t find it here.

Re: your photography … I couldn’t pick one or even a genre. They appear, to my untrained eye, uber professional. I would think you could it for a living, but appreciate the vagaries involved.

Drop me a line again and I’ll save it this time!

09 Nov 2009 @ 14:49
Comment from: Chris of Arabia [Member]

Cheers Ellie, will do.

09 Nov 2009 @ 15:02

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