By Julian Faustini


Mark Johnson

3 December 01:41


I can’t help but think about the old man I see every morning, struggling to walk across the road. At 6:55 am, he waits for the light to turn green. The two sides of the intersection teem with broad-chested businessmen; slender students; trotting school kids. Car engines growl, their windshields reflect cumulus clouds. I stand behind the glass door of my shop. The 15-second timer goes off, and I say to my customers to wait for their coffee. “Where is he going?” some say. 15. 14. 13. I hold my breath: He may fall; he may not make it. He has a hunchback. He laces his fingers behind his back. A leather briefcase dangles down on his butt. 11. 10. 9. The neck falls almost horizontal, his eyes are locked down on his feet. His pointed shoes never get too far from one another. The white scarf twirls in the wind, depending on where it blows. 7. 6. 5. We lose sight of him, when he meets the crowd. He seems to be a man who spent his life with his head bowed on a typewriter; on a microscope; on rare postal stamps. He remains alone on the zebra a little further down the middle. “He seems faster now!” we say. “He feels the pressure.” 3. 2. 1. Then the cars honk, driving toward him, and I get angry. This must come to an end.


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Mariah I thought he was my grandpa. Then I remembered he’s dead

Matthew go home, man LOL old farts always causing a traffic jam

Layla Have you talked to him?


Mark Johnson

4 December  09:41


Overnight, someone trashed the pedestrian traffic light that dictated the old man’s crossing. It was pouring out there, at 7am, when he arrived. He had an I❤ MY WIFE cap. The drenched coat that reached his knees made him even slower. “I’ll help,” I said. “We can wait,” the customers said. I stood beside him with an umbrella. He must have felt no more rain on his head; he turned his neck to look back. His eyes were gray. He breathed in and out with his open mouth. Then the crowd began to cross the road, and so we did. “Take your time,” I said. We were already behind all the businessmen and the students and the kids. “Where are you going?” I asked him twice. “Far from home,” he said. “Why?” “Time goes by too quickly. There, I feel I’m dying.” He picked up the pace. “I’ll start a petition to demand a 30-second timer for you,” I said.

“That would give no meaning to my walk.”

I froze. Cars honked at me.


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Jeff he’d have slapped your face, if he had had some strength

Julia ahhhhh old men ❤

Chris you wanted to help, uh?

Julian is the debut writer for the new fiction section of the Writers Initiative!

Julian Faustini is a writter working and leaving in London, but originally from Italy. He has recently completed his first novel and will be publishing this soon. For further updates and news, from Julian, please see his Facebook link here