Wk. 4 Jenniy

Janek's story, written to “Storch” by Trio Slicnation:

My name is Jenniy. With an "I" in the middle, and a "y" on the end. Yeah, that’s right, I got both, what of it? No one hears my name any more anyway, not under the cold wind and the cars and the sound of the streetlamps as they explode. The only thing about my name that’s important is who it used to be. Not me. No, it wasn’t always me, I wasn’t always Jenniy with an I and a Y. That great misfortune once was hampered upon another girl, but she’s gone now, and the name doesn’t mean anything to her either. But it means something to other people; to the people who knew her, to the people who felt close to her and her story, and I imagine, to the people who knew me, who felt close to my story. It meant something to a thousand other people who knew a thousand other Jenniy’s with Ys or Is or both, and who millions more who felt close to our stories. Maybe there was a Jenniy before the last one, maybe there were two or three or a million or a billion, I don’t know. But I spent three years as a Jenniy before Jenniy’s left me, and before that day I was happy and I was safe and I was amazingly, unbelievably, jaw-droppingly rich. Oh yes. But that day disappeared with Jenniy, and that life was gone and I was in the cold, in the wind, standing under exploding streetlamps, but there’s nothing out there that can make me regret what I did, nor anyone who can tell me that what I did was wrong, not with any sense of righteousness or justification; there’s nothing they can tell me that I haven’t heard before, and which I haven’t laughed off.

No editing done since it was first written.

I got a real neo-noir vibe from the music, and there was a kind of sound like wind going through it, which led to the atmosphere. The problem was, while I came up with plenty of atmospherics, pushing myself not to think meant that I couldn't plot out a story, and nothing naturally occurred to me, so I basically just kept going with atmosphere, and it doesn't go anywhere.

I really like repeating motifs, so the "I" and the "Y" became one, and the streetlights would have, I think, if I had more time. The "I" and the "Y" might have gotten out of control, again without the self-censoring thoughts, my worst excesses were allowed to shine through.