I write short stories, I know it's a bit sad but I like it. I'm looking for someone to co write that with me, you know we could make kind of a 'letters story' thread. It could become a book one of these days....
There's two characters. A guy called Warren Blane, and a woman called Tara Greenway. Of course, I'd write Warren letters and my co-writter, if I find her, would write Tara's letters. Needless to say, I'm only looking for a woman to co-write that. No need to be a talented writer to do that. This is just for fun. However I would like someone who can write at least one letter/month. Pm me if interested.
Warren Blane turned to his left on Jensen street. His legs were heavy and his balance precarious. He staggered continuously, making large variations from left to right. A black veil was darkening his mind regularly. He suddenly felt too weak to walk and collapsed. He grabbed a large metal dustbin to stop his fall, but his body continued to rock forward. A thick cataract of vomit gushed out the bushy depths of his beard. Warren looked at the puddle that he had just formed, felt his forces abandon him, and fell down impotent his head in his puke.
He woke up a few hours later, opened his eyes and realized that he was laying between two large metal dustbins. His squared shirt was covered with filth. His long hair presented a strange sort of dandruff which could probably be compared with small meat pellets releasing a fetid stench. He sat up straight. Once he leaned against a dustbin, he let his glance travel across the street. He could hear the traffic, and by that he figured that it was approximately five in the afternoon, time for a good part of the New York population to return to their home. He had come at around eleven in the morning to the interior court of the Jebson & Co shopping center hoping that the Jack Fries backdoor would be half-open. The employees let it that way most of the time, probably to fight the frie odors. Anyway, it was a good occasion for him to go inside and put his hands in the vat of fries. Warren had already done it several times. He removed his large shirt with the squares, and used it as a bag. When he was sure the employees were dispersed in the main room which was usually empty by this hour of the day, he went inside and got himself a good greasy stack of fries. Today however, things were a bit more difficult as one of the cooks was constantly around the vat. He ended up eating remainders found in the bottom of various trashcans, and then moved toward the residence of Allen Gardens which was about to be demolished, yet still very busy. Warren had gone there to find providence. He met certain people in his condition, the majority knew of him, with whom he briefly chatted before continuing his way to the heights of the building. On the seventh floor he saw a silhouette curled up above a toilet. Beside it were various things like knives, plastic bags, and a bottle of red wine, which he took away. It is after having drank the content of that bottle while sauntering on Forsner Boulevard that he felt his stomach start to produce a nauseating feeling. He continued to walk for a little while to finally find himself between two dustbins on Jensen street. Nothing in this day seemed to give any hope of a possible re-integration of Warren Blane. He let his mind sink into deep limbs of depression. After the most fatalistic thoughts came to him, he made this habitual gesture : carried his hand to the satchel tied with his belt. His letters were still there. He opened the first of the stack, and started to read as his eyes were already filled with tears.
It is still quite difficult for me to find any logic in this long and timeless dream which is my life......(the rest would be writen by my co-writer) pm me if you don't get the right statistics actions
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