Category Archives: Prose

He Sat At His Desk…

…surrounded by stacks of files and listening to the ever jolly holiday tunes on the radio. The files of people’™s lives meant nothing to him. He loathed his job. He despised the stupidity and slap-dashedness of colleagues and those who worked in the organizations that were used for other aspects of the process of which he was at the arse-end of.

And added to it all was the fact that today was payday, yet here he sat, looking at the computer monitor in front of him. The bank’s website showed him the truth, though there were occasions where even they would lie to him, drawing him deeper into the smothering feeling of poverty and self-loathing.

“Fifty-eight dollars and change”, he thought.

He clicked the “Log Out” button and hung his head, letting out a short, raspy, life-weary sigh.

His hands lifted and cupped his head. His wearisome, fatigued and stressed head. His throat now felt like someone was gently choking him, the same kind of throttling that he last experienced when his doctor checked his glands. His eyes felt like they were bulging dams, ready to release the salty streamlets of sorrow that his soul, or at least what was left of it, wanted to free for all eternity.

He raised his head and looked to the ceiling, all the while his hands stayed on his face; masks of impenetrable grief and anger. His hands slipped over his head and back to his face several time and a growl built up in him until it was released between the clenched teeth of societal censorship, issuing forth as a guttural hiss, barely perceptible by those around him.

His hand now fell to the desk, his right hand finding its way to the headphones lying there. He put them on, grabbed the mouse and clicked the button that set off the more favored Holiday tunes; the one of a dream dashed yet still held onto; the one of the reality of growing up. Despite their realistic and bleak words, they eased the melancholy.

“Something’ll work out. It always does”, he thought, remembering that Christmas meant a little extra cash, in the way of much appreciated presents from generous relatives.

His mood lifted.

They would just have to careful, that’s all. After all, they would usually have to stretch such a trifling amount to the next semi-monthly wage.

He hated this lifestyle: scrimping and saving; robbing Peter to pay Paul; paying a token to the creditors in the hopes that it kept them from releasing the financial hounds on them.

He did have a plan. He just needed the grace or good fortune to find himself a new job. He didn’t care whether or not it was one he would like, as long as it meant that the take-home was enough that it meant bills could be paid fully and on time, groceries and gas could be bought and they would still have enough for treat, luxuries and the non-essentials that makes one feel like more than a workhorse.

The Entertainer

You enter the establishment and the cacophonous, almost disjointed, audible assault that hits you ensures that you know that The Entertainer is here, at your regular bookshop haunt, holding court in the coffee shop. You resolve yourself to make it through the experience, steeling your determination with every step you take towards the source of such auditory displeasure.

Finally, you are there at the counter, but today there is no time or inclination for any observant dealings with The Barista. Your transaction is impatient and rapid, as if one is a thief, stealing from a teller’s window.

Whilst waiting for your Arabica brew, you instinctively turn to watch him.

He stands there, looking all the part of the aging bachelor hippie. His hair, long and straight, hangs past his shoulders, lank and lifeless as if the strings of a well-used old mop have been teased to single strands and fashioned into a hairpiece. His graying, aged sneakers – old school plimsolls, of course – are proudly showing their age, though they are, undoubtedly, as comfortable as a pair of slippers to the wearer. His jeans and t-shirt also show signs of their stereotypical bachelor neglect, grungy and a little thin in places with a motif on the t-shirt that is twenty-something years old. But his eyes sparkle and his voice rings with the youthful exuberance of one who is enjoying and losing themselves as they indulge in a passion of their heart….

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This is (part of) an original piece. Please seek permission before reproducing in any way.

The Barista

There she stands, in all of her vernal glory. Her beauty brightening up an already well-illuminated evening. Her eyes draw in even the happily married, making them momentarily and silently wistful for the singularity of their youth, once more.

She smiles as she welcomes you and asks for your beverage of choice, her eyes twinkling with a happy sadness that you know comes from her thoughts that she would rather be out doing those things that twenty-something’s do on a Friday night.

She studies your face, as you contemplate the menu on the wall. She plays her little game. The same game she plays with all of them: studying; criticizing; commending.

Choices made, you turn the tables, amazed by how much you can take in and process in a couple of seconds. You like her youthful complexion, but not how her hair looks; her dark, sparkling eyes, but not the slight sneer of her lips….

To enjoy the rest of this piece of creative writing, and more, please purchase Morning Meeting and other works (In My Words Vol. 1), available only on Amazon Kindle, for just $0.99!

This is (part of) an original piece. Please seek permission before reproducing in any way.