Leigh :) Stark
followed the yellow brick road and found
Posts Tagged ‘Fiction’
Coffee Stained Seats
Saturday, December 20th, 2008
I board the carriage, the rush of the train hitting me as I carry my heavy Santa-esque load on my back and through the hoards and throngs.
These random individuals most of whom haven't had great years and have no doubt taken it on others all vie for the first available seat on the train. Their eyes scout the room, quickly darting about as if they were a cat stalking its prey. A tongue juts out quickly and VOOM!- a seat is stolen and the person is reacquainting themselves with some estranged element of comfort gone missing in a world of hustle & bustle.
I board with my oversized luggage: I swear it weighs a ton. At least a metric ton, that much I am sure of!
In this time and in this season, the droves are dwindling and becoming dampened by the decaying sense of job morality. With the decline of an industry, more and more are coming less and less, starting their vacations early while their workplace starts to leak blood without the chance for an infusion.
"Get the kids," shouts the fifty-something investment banker, a man unsure about even his own investments at present time. He'll take his little boy and two half-grown up women, his wife, pet rock, & the dog and then just go. Away. Away from this, the mess; away from anything resembling anything that doesn't resemble Christmas.
As I push my way into the carriage, the loads of thoughts, dreams, distant memories once thought shattered but found again one listless cold morning, as I make my way into the train I see all of this in the glint of an eye.
I push my way in and sit on the last bite-sized chunk of a seat left over, my pants barely finding their way into a crevice left by the cruel bastard next to me sitting smug and cool with his classic sunglasses and pretentious smile.
As my backside settles in, a cardboard coffee cup shuffles it's way out from the side spreading good will & cheer on a message on the cup and spreading cheap milky brown liquid burned from some cheap espresso joint all over my freshly dry-cleaned red velvet lined pants.
I look down at the cup, now hitting the floor and staining my sackbackpack.
"Fuck," I grumble. The noise startled even the iPod earbud passenger dressed in a small sense of naivety with but a hint of Christmas cheer in the shape of a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Rei deer resting against her collar bone with a thin gold chain passed through it.
I smile the sort of smile that warns people off, looking at the messy residue all over my delicate fabric.
Right. That's the last time Santa ever takes public transport.
Tags: Fiction, short stories, sydney transport
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His shirt sticky
Wednesday, September 24th, 2008
His shirt sticky from the morning run, he boarded the train. He barely had time to shower, to dress, to change into some clothes that made his random run-of-the-mill salesman job seem presentable.
“Look like a car salesman,” the recruiters had told him a week before he had been accepted as one of ten official sales reps for TeleDreamCo, another fledgling phone sales company where the staff knew nothing about phones and everything about charm and a cheap smile.
His shirt sticky, he looked around the train at the other people riding. One man on a computer looked worried, his jacket on his lap and his hands typing furiously. Another in a suit looked calm and relaxed, an easy Monday morning and he was flicking through his Blackberry looking at emails from the girlfriend, the wife, and the secretary all itching for the next time they’d see him.
A girl in her mid-thirties stared into space. Nothing was going on in that mind of hers and yet everything was going on in that mind of hers. She could not escape the work day and yet she so wanted to. She wanted to be that person who didn’t have to work, who didn’t have to struggle, who didn’t have to come home tired and bored and exhausted and lifeless only to have to do it the next day.
His shirt sticky, he saw all of this among the otherwise empty cabin.
It was 8:00 AM. Where was everybody?
Tags: Fiction, short stories
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Words As Weapons
Sunday, August 19th, 2007
I had a strange thought on Sunday morning.
As I woke up, I pondered what would be the case if people were to wield words as weapons instead of something like a gun, a knife, or something torturous like a Mariah Carey CD.
So I developed this thought for about ten minutes before I came up with the following. It's pretty much a half-thought-up tiny-ass skit that could be done on some sort of a comedy show with a high tolerance for profanity. If such a show exists, you might want to consider hiring me, or at the very least offering me a drink… maybe some sex… who the fuck knows, really.
We're at a lovely gala ball. People are dancing, everyone's dressed nice. It's fancy. A little too fancy. Something must be done to break up the pleasantness of the ball.
Perfect timing because all of a sudden, the doors bust open and in walks a tall man, his face covered in the sweat and agony of a world unkind to us all, but even more so for him.
"Freeze motherfuckers!" he yells at the top of his lungs, walking straight through the crowds of dancers with a sack. The music gets cut off as this man intrudes upon this fancy shindig.
"In case you haven't heard, this right here is a robbery. I plan to rob all of ya'll, so get out all of your motherfucking cash, cards, wallets, purses, jewelery and dump them in an orderly fashion inside this sack that myself and my cohorts are walking around to you with."
At this point, in walk a few more men dressed like this original fellow carrying sacks and walking around getting the bounty of this evening. The leader starts pacing the floor as people obey.
By now, a man — a rather small man at that — who's been steadily trying to pick up a cheap blonde for most of the nights picks up on one interesting observation that no one else seems to see despite the people already giving away their prized assets: these people have no weapons.
"Err, excuse me–" the small man pipes in. "You don't have any weapons. How are supposed to be threatening?"
The gang leader stops his pacing and looks at the individual. He puts his fingers up to his lips and then smiles.
"Bitch, I don't need weapons. I've got words as my motherfucking weapons," he yells out, making sure everyone has heard him.
Okay now hold on. This is obviously very confusing. This guy is a crackpot. How can you have words as a weapon. Words are just… well, words. They're spoken and written, but hardly tangible objects that can beat you senseless with physical depth. Still, he goes on.
"See what you don't understand is that words are very powerful. Words can make you listen or just knock the wind right out of you," he says to the confused looks of the people slowly giving their goods to the team of individuals sent to do this nutjob's bidding.
Not getting anywhere, the leader takes a different approach."
Okay, fuck this. If you want something you can understand then here me on this one, bitches," he begins. "I will reign down fury on your motherfucking homes. I will incite violence and pound into the ground with my bare fists. But do not make me mad for I will bring out my arsenal at that point. I command adverbs, adjective, particles and articles. And shit, don't make me get out my punctuations. I will slap a period down on you so hard it'll make you bleed!"
And next to the little man who spoke out earlier is the cute blonde he was trying to nail all night. She speaks out this time.
"I already have one," she says.
Yes, I know. It's not very good. Seriously, what the hell did you expect from me.
I'll try better next time.
Tags: Fiction, short stories
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