I awoke, my mouth dry and filled with the tang of morning film. With a groan, I pushed myself to a sitting position, my feet touching a discarded outfit instead of the carpet. I pushed the clothes aside with my foot, standing fully, a shiver running up my spine as the blanked slipped away from my skin, letting cool air settle upon me. I dress myself, idly staring at the sky, a passenger plane drifting slowly and leaving clouds in its wake.
Dress pants. Cheap button-up. Black socks. Cramped shoes. I slip out the door, the cool air hitting me again. Shoes clop on pavement with each step. Minutes pass. I bang three times on a door, feeling a vague disconnect from my actions, mind drifting to days long past, yearning for freedom from whatever I was now a part of. Beauty, grass, trees. None of that now, just dull grey metal and concrete, blue and red lights, skin bulging where just underneath there was metal and wiring. It seemed there were never such times, free of steel and corporations, greed and a lack of colour.
Something whirred. My mind snapped back to the task at hand, augmented vision showing the image of an old man, or one who looked old in the least. He was in his late 30s, and the years had not been kind.
Words flashed beneath his name, alleged crimes and the order to terminate. I scratched at my shoulder a moment before realizing that no nerves were left there; the itch was my mind playing tricks on me.
"Who the hell're you?"
I looked up again.
"You some kinna clown or somethin'?" His accent was vaguely southern.
"May I come in?"
"No." The door slammed shut. For a moment I just stood, and then a metallic fist slammed through the door frame. Shoving it open, I saw the old man running, and gave chase, augmented legs easily catching him and roughly slamming into the ground atop him. Blood flooded his mouth and he spat some at me. A steel hand closed around his throat, tears and blood running along his face, melding together.
My mind drifted to a field of flowers.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Creative writing class; a short story in 10 minutes
I wrote this in 10 minutes or so in Creative Writing class. I'm not pleased with it overall, but the concept is fun and I might tighten up the language someday.