Emma Kittle had come up with an interesting writing task for us all to complete. It involved comparing notes on our working environments. Once we had a clear setting in mind, we had to create a story based on a disgruntled employee working in one of those locations.
As always, I was quite inspired by the theme and produced a story, which I will share below. It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and I am already looking forward to the next meeting.
Here is my story. I must warn you that it is mildly sweary!
The Town Hall Crier
by Annie Bell
“I can't! I just can't!” I bellowed at my poor, long suffering
wife.
“What is it now, love?” she asked.
“Bloody work. I'm not going in.”
Her face stared through me. Bloody stupid cow. She had no idea what
I was going through. She could never, ever, not in a million years
imagine my pain. All she cared about was money – cold, hard cash,
strewn into our joint bank account for her own frivolous bloody use.
I gulped down the anaemic, vomit inducing cup of tea she had slopped
down in front of me, scowled at her miserable, unsatisfied, indeed
unsatisfiable face and marched – well – sloped off to the front
door, briefcase in hand and left.
As the door clunked behind me, I blinked back rays of depressing
monochrome sunlight, blinding my tired eyes – bastards. Where were
the grey clouds when you needed them? As I wandered down the road
towards the grotty bus stop, millions of daffodils danced happily in
the breeze. Bastards. Bloody piercing cheery yellow breaking my black
mood, rubbing it in my face that their happy-go-lucky world was so
much richer than my own. Bloody bastards. I kicked one of them
over, apologising immediately for my display of gratuitous violence
and tried to straighten its bruised and broken stem – like my soul.
Battered. Destroyed.
On I marched to catch the bus. A few moments later, I climbed onto
the lowered step of false security. I flashed my bus pass at the
driver, who growled a vague greeting. My usual seat was free but Mrs
Parsley – bloody busybody moved from her seat and sat behind me,
breathing down my neck from the moment I sat down. I could feel the
warm dampness of her breath chilling my neck, as the draught from the
window was cooled by the microscopic droplets of saliva beading in
the hairs on the back of my neck. I shivered, pulling my collar up,
hoping against unrealistic hope that she had not spotted me.
“My Smith,” her whiny voice scratched at my eardrums, a cloud of
parma violet horror clawing at my stomach lining. “What's
happening about those 'orrible teenagers who keep frightening Mitzy?”
Bloody Mrs Parsley. She could bugger off as well. Seemed to think I
was hers to pester 24/7. Can't even catch a sodding bus without them
moaning at me about their petty complaints. She made me sick. As if
I cared about her stupid chihuahua Mitzy and her ridiculous issues
with the youth of her estate. I reckoned the dog wanted skinning and
chucking in a lake, if I was honest but apparently, that sort of
attitude just doesn't win votes.
Grimacing, I turned around and smiled into her leathery face.
“Mrs Parsley. How delightful of you to distract me from my
ruminations. Now I have raised the issue with the council and it
will be addressed at today's meeting. Beyond that, there is precious
little I can do, beyond offering my sincerest and most profound
apologies for any inconvenience caused.” As I heard the insipid,
saccharin response fly from my tongue, I snarled at myself.
“Tell her to leave you alone!” my subconscious screamed. “Tell
her she's ridiculous. Tell her to get a blinkin' life.”
I shut her profane wittering out, as the bus ground to a shuddering
halt in the High Street. I dragged my carcass from the seat tugging
my trousers from the chewing gum, which had held me an unwilling
captive.
Escaping one Hell, I marched into another. The Town Hall loomed – a
deathly mausoleum – scowling at me. I shrugged my coat closer and
walked in through the front door.
To my left hung the roll of honour – all the victims of the World
Wars. I could no longer look at it. The freedoms those men died for
had vanished a long time ago. Only our facade of smoke and mirrors
now convinced the people of their false freedoms.
I no longer knew why I was doing this job. My ideals had been lost
in a sea of muddy political rubbish, which no longer resembled the
original purpose of democracy, which had driven me into this charade.
I would walk, as I did every day, through the corridors, into the
chamber. I would take my place, as I did every day, in the leather
horseshoe and I would gaze sleepily at the semi clothed ladies
painted into the ceiling. They would stare at me, as they did every
day – judgement marring their superficial perfection and inside, I
would die a little, as I did every day.
© Annie Bell 2013
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