They beat him hard hauling him out of St Paul’s after he crapped in front of the High Altar, but he barely felt it through the hockey pads and the exhilaration. Light rain was falling in London, and it cooled his face as they kicked him to the curb. One of them spit on him as they walked away, dusting their hands. He was alive and unhurt and shaking as the adrenalin ebbed.

The first skirmish had ended in success. His war on god was underway.

[Sometimes entire paragraphs just appear in my brain, right before I fall asleep. It happens a lot. I’m going to try and start remembering them. So, this.]

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Me|dia, Uncategorizable Crap
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Join the conversation! 6 Comments

  1. Awww. I read it to Venus and she said “what, he’s not going to write it?”
    Alternatively, self-contained paragraphs make great songwriting material đŸ˜‰

  2. paragraphs make great songwriting material
    This one is either hardcore or delta blues.

  3. They call me Blind Lemon McWonderchicken…

  4. (well, OK, no, they don’t, actually)

  5. I really like dis paragraph here:
    “I’m not Christian by any stretch of the imagination, but I reckon one of the downsides of the deChristianization of most of the modern world is that people seem to have thrown away the concept of a soul along with all the rest of the old claptrap, forgetting that some metaphors are just that, and useful in living a life and cultivating a mind that isn’t hipdeep in the muck.”
    –not song lyric or short-story- or indie-film-dialog, maybe, just an observation that rings true. Thanks.

  6. Thanks, John.
    (He’s referring to this comment of mine at Metafilter, for those playing along at home…)

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