every so often i re-discover a half written novel i wrote in primary school about a girl who dreams of being a spy and spends her time watching the most mundane people she can find. she finds the beauty in them. odd i know. she also has a brother named elvis, but that's a whole other chapter.
here's a snippet
I cautiously followed him. Behind the corner he’d taken was a door. It said “Janitor’s Closet”. I was not disappointed. I started to fantasize about what his life must be like as a janitor. Cleaning away all day in his toilets. You see, he was very protective of his toilets. They had to be spotless. If you took too many hand towels while he was cleaning he would glare at you until you whimpered with fear and put some back up the slot. His eyes would follow you out of the bathroom. “I’ll be good.” Would run through your mind.At 6.45pm he would slowly, and contently, make his way to the newsagents just as they were closing and buy his lottery ticket, and a scratch-it. Sometimes he’d win – four dollars, eight dollars. At night he would make his frozen dinner and sit in his single bed with the quilt his mum had knitted him while she was still alive over him and watch the small TV at the end of his bed, read for fifteen minutes and fall asleep thinking of Urma - the library lady who kept him going back for more; more books that is. Just to spend that half a minute on Saturdays silently with Urma as she beeped his books and swiped his card. “Have a nice day”, she’d say as he carried them out in his enviro-bag. He was always too shy to respond. He would simply wobble his moustache and then wobble himself out. His life was beautiful in my mind. This was all a fantasy though. As I was about to find out something much more sinister…
oh dear, that was odd.