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deathpixie) wrote2008-11-01 06:48 pm
deathpixie) wrote2008-11-01 06:48 pm
Entry tags:
NanoWrimo - 30 short stories
Here we go.
Ever wonder what happens between times, in those spaces between an inhale and an exhale? The brief second of darkness during an eyeblink? Does the world exist only in those times of awareness, only to vanish when our conscious awareness does? And what happens if we never come to? Is that the end?
Sam wondered about that a lot. Sometimes he would almost convince himself of his own non-existance. Sam had a good imagination.
He needed it. Dishwashing was a long, boring and messy task, one which left him sweaty and wet by the end of the shift, his shoes squelching slightly with spilled water. He smelled of body odour and second-hand food and harsh industrial-grade detergents - he'd get on the train to go home and people would move seats to avoid him. His wrists were raw and itching from dermititus caused by the gloves and the chemicals and his fingers were almost permanently pruny. But at least it was a job, or so everyone told him. Shut up and be grateful you aren't on the dole.
The train jerked, breaking him out of his contemplation of nothing, the sightless staring out of the window. They were coming into a station - Sam leaned back against the window with a sigh. Then he frowned. There was no stop here. Flagstaff was closed, always was on the weekends. Always. And yet, here they were, sliding smoothly into the platform, plain white letters on the wall informing him that the impossible had happened: FLAGSTAFF STATION. He glanced around to see if anyone else was wondering what was going on, but no-one seemed to be paying attention. They were all in their own little worlds, reading, talking, dozing with headphones on, playing on their Blackberries.
The doors slid open. Just the ones opposite him, an invitation. He stood, moving as slowly as a man underwater, and paused at the open doorway. Just a platform, empty and deserted, echoing slightly. If he got off here, he was likely to get stuck, and have to wait until someone, a security guard probably, decided to let him out. Maybe even a cops would get involved. What sort of charge would there be? Trespassing?
The doors remained open. Silence fell, a moment between breaths, the darkness of closed eyelids. Sam's foot moved forward, took a tentative step. Battered, soggy sneaker touched the platform, followed by the other and ahead of him, out of the echoing expanses of stairs and corridors, he heard a chime. Not the train, the electronic alerts they used, but one pure tone, clear as crystal. He never even noticed the doors closing behind him, the train pulling away. All that mattered was walking forward, moving into the labyrinth and seeking out the prize.
Sam walked forward and darkness closed around him.
Ever wonder what happens between times, in those spaces between an inhale and an exhale? The brief second of darkness during an eyeblink? Does the world exist only in those times of awareness, only to vanish when our conscious awareness does? And what happens if we never come to? Is that the end?
Sam wondered about that a lot. Sometimes he would almost convince himself of his own non-existance. Sam had a good imagination.
He needed it. Dishwashing was a long, boring and messy task, one which left him sweaty and wet by the end of the shift, his shoes squelching slightly with spilled water. He smelled of body odour and second-hand food and harsh industrial-grade detergents - he'd get on the train to go home and people would move seats to avoid him. His wrists were raw and itching from dermititus caused by the gloves and the chemicals and his fingers were almost permanently pruny. But at least it was a job, or so everyone told him. Shut up and be grateful you aren't on the dole.
The train jerked, breaking him out of his contemplation of nothing, the sightless staring out of the window. They were coming into a station - Sam leaned back against the window with a sigh. Then he frowned. There was no stop here. Flagstaff was closed, always was on the weekends. Always. And yet, here they were, sliding smoothly into the platform, plain white letters on the wall informing him that the impossible had happened: FLAGSTAFF STATION. He glanced around to see if anyone else was wondering what was going on, but no-one seemed to be paying attention. They were all in their own little worlds, reading, talking, dozing with headphones on, playing on their Blackberries.
The doors slid open. Just the ones opposite him, an invitation. He stood, moving as slowly as a man underwater, and paused at the open doorway. Just a platform, empty and deserted, echoing slightly. If he got off here, he was likely to get stuck, and have to wait until someone, a security guard probably, decided to let him out. Maybe even a cops would get involved. What sort of charge would there be? Trespassing?
The doors remained open. Silence fell, a moment between breaths, the darkness of closed eyelids. Sam's foot moved forward, took a tentative step. Battered, soggy sneaker touched the platform, followed by the other and ahead of him, out of the echoing expanses of stairs and corridors, he heard a chime. Not the train, the electronic alerts they used, but one pure tone, clear as crystal. He never even noticed the doors closing behind him, the train pulling away. All that mattered was walking forward, moving into the labyrinth and seeking out the prize.
Sam walked forward and darkness closed around him.