Writer, Publisher, Retired

Category: Fragmentary Writing

Hope

1970s

Tony was someone I knew at school. He was not what you may describe as a friend; he was not what you may describe as an enemy or even worse a nonentity. He was someone who was maybe friends of others in the group in which I mixed. He was someone who was always on the edges of what was going on. Tony was a quiet, and quite sensitive boy who mostly struggled in class and so meandered into the lower grades without being good at any of the sports the school concentrated on. He was also not one of the bullies or bullied, in fact he hated fights and violence. He was just Tony.

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Lita

… there she was again. Maybe thirty meters in front and about to round the corner.

Sudden surge forward. I couldn’t miss her this time. And yet there she was at the next corner about to take a right still thirty meters ahead. I was determined this time I would get level. A sprint and quick right, and where was she? Hold on, maybe to the left just the bottom of her long flowing coat. Another sprint and a left, and yes there thirty meters in front she was. I must be catching her as now; I could again see her. And another sprint but still after the next left, well twenty-five meters maybe. I was going to make it after all. Then she took a right. OK another sprint and this time only twenty meters away. I wanted to call out to her but…

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