Grind
By Casey Douglass
It was the kind of
morning that made his bones shake. The misty rain hung in the air
reflecting the state of his mind: gloomy, with a chance of
depression. It was still and quiet outside, until a lone bird began
to sing its morning ditty, ruining his description of quietude. A
bubble of frustration burst in his chest.
It was the kind of
morning in which a better writer would sit and create worlds,
mythologies and intricate plots, the kind that twist and tear their
way through the reader's expectations. All he could do was sit and
ruminate on the weather, which he noted was very British.
“Rain again!” the
man yelled from across the street as he rushed along in his large
stuffy coat.
“You know it friend!”
another bellowed from the dry space provided by the bus stop.
But of course, it
wouldn't go like that would it. This is Britain, a place that lost
its lustre years ago, about the same time it lost its status of being
the bully of the world. Now it was full of pale little people that walked
around grumbling about everything.
That might be a bit
harsh, it probably was, but he was master of this tale and so it
stayed. Better to be harsh or wrong in what you write than not write
anything at all.
“Fucking weather!”
“Shut it you moaning
cunt!”
That's how it would go,
no time for false pleasantries when you're late for the job you hate.
You might have to stay late and miss the latest instalment of
whichever asinine reality TV series you are watching.
He wondered if you
could purge and bottle bile. Not the literal kind, he was sure that
was possible. More the emotional kind. He certainly seemed to have
plenty to spare this morning. He listened. The bird outside was gone
now, or at the least, holding its tongue. Maybe it had realised that
the tune it was singing might be worth something so was busy
searching the web for a recording studio and a copyright lawyer.
The bus hissed to a
shuddering halt at the stop, the doors flinging open and releasing
the smell of wet clothes and vinegary chips. The shuffling hoard left
the chewing gum graveyard that was the pavement and climbed on. They
attempted to observe the usual bus passenger etiquette of sitting in
the most inappropriate places, the tallest sandwiched into seats with
no leg room, the most frail made to stand unsteadily in the aisle.
The doors snapped shut.
The floor lurched forward as the bus gained speed forcing a few of
the standees to white knuckle the hand rails. The sound of the engine
filled the confined space, everything else was otherwise silent, save
for the odd sniff or cough. Gloomy monks meditating on the day ahead
but God seemed to be elsewhere, maybe on his or her own commute.
A sound of twisted
auto-tuned birdsong flooded the bus, heads twisting and turning to
try and zero in on the cause. A sheepish looking teenager lifted a
smartphone from his pocket and set it to silent, mutters of “That
fucking song gets on my tits!” and “Jesus Christ turn that off!”
accompanying his movements.
The bus carried on. The
passengers stared blankly. Britain embraced them as they and the bus
vanished amongst the sprawl of pound shops and mega-banks, the garish
billboards lining the road promising them untold delights if they
just bought this particular phone or voted for this particular MP. It
was all bollocks and they knew it, but who had the courage to
acknowledge it? You could go mad thinking like that!
He sat back in his
chair and pondered. He wondered if you could bottle misery. Then he
smiled and realised that it really wasn't necessary, there are always
Mondays.
THE END
