Tuesday's Ten Minute Tale - the result!
Jul. 29th, 2008 09:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martinlivingsOkay, here we go. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
1phish2phish for "Schadenfreude", ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
battersblog for "zither", and benpeek for "genre: psychogeography" (???).
"Newborn"
(c) Martin Livings 29-7-2008
On Tuesday, July 29th 2008 at 7:54am, on his way to work, Alvan Roy turned left instead of right, and his world changed forever.
He'd taken the train into Perth from his tiny townhouse in Subiaco, as he did every working day of his life. From there, he'd crossed Wellington Street and headed into the city. Usually, once he reached Murray Street, he'd turn right and head up to QV1, the building best known for the bright red rubber-band-style sculpture out the front. From there, he'd use his electronic key to gain entry, take the elevator to the 9th floor, and go to work at Wilson and Co Insurance Underwriters. It had been his routine for over a decade.
But on Tuesday, July 29th 2008 at 7:54am, instead of turning right, Alvan turned left.
He couldn't explain why he did it. It was as if the city itself had urged him, had always urged him, but until that day he'd ignored the subtle signs, listened to his head instead of his heart. The angles of the buildings, the slopes of the kerbs and windowsills, the varying colours of the business signs, all encouraged him to turn left. And he did, walking away from his place of employment, the place he'd spent 8.5 hours a day five days a week forty-eight weeks a year for twelve years. It was his comfort zone, the place he felt safe, alone in his cubicle, a spindly headset dangling on his ear. It was more than a home away from home, it was a womb away from womb.
On Tuesday, July 29th 2008 at 7:54am, Alvan Roy was finally born.
He looked around himself as he walked in a daze, distantly aware that he was getting further and further from work. He knew he was due at his desk at 8am sharp, and his supervisor, Mr Edwards, would never tolerate tardiness. He knew that, if he didn't turn around right now, he'd possibly be out of a job, though most likely he'd just get a caution, his first in twelve years.
Somehow, he didn't care.
He could have walked forever. The city's signals carried him forward, as if he was caught in an invisible current generated by architecture and civic planning. He felt light-headed and light-footed, free for the first time in his ordinary, grey life. The shops and businesses he passed seemed vibrant, beautiful.
Then he stopped, unable to take another step. He was caught, breathless, in front of a tiny shop, its display window filled with mystical objects of brass and wood.
A music store.
One object in the window caught his eye, a vaguely rectangular instrument covered in countless strings. He recognised it, called up a long-forgotten childhood memory...
...it's called a zither, Alvan... here, have a go... just strum your fingers across the strings, and...
He stepped into the store. The shop keeper turned from the television behind him, unsurprised.
"You made it," he said.
Alvan nodded.
"I've been expecting you for twelve years now."
Alvan nodded again.
"The zither is eighty three dollars ninety five."
"Do you take Visa?"
The transaction took less than a minute. Then Alvan's attention was caught by a news report on the television behind the shop keeper.
"Could you turn that up please?"
The shop keeper shrugged, turned the knob on the old TV.
"...fire broke out on the ninth floor of QV1 this morning, just after eight. The sprinkler system failed to deploy, and the fire escapes were jammed. Eighteen people died. The police are launching an investigation to..."
A satisfied smile spread across Alvan's lips, as he cradled the shiny zither in his arms like a newborn.
1phish2phish for "Schadenfreude", battersblog for "zither", and benpeek for "genre: psychogeography" (???). "Newborn"
(c) Martin Livings 29-7-2008
On Tuesday, July 29th 2008 at 7:54am, on his way to work, Alvan Roy turned left instead of right, and his world changed forever.
He'd taken the train into Perth from his tiny townhouse in Subiaco, as he did every working day of his life. From there, he'd crossed Wellington Street and headed into the city. Usually, once he reached Murray Street, he'd turn right and head up to QV1, the building best known for the bright red rubber-band-style sculpture out the front. From there, he'd use his electronic key to gain entry, take the elevator to the 9th floor, and go to work at Wilson and Co Insurance Underwriters. It had been his routine for over a decade.
But on Tuesday, July 29th 2008 at 7:54am, instead of turning right, Alvan turned left.
He couldn't explain why he did it. It was as if the city itself had urged him, had always urged him, but until that day he'd ignored the subtle signs, listened to his head instead of his heart. The angles of the buildings, the slopes of the kerbs and windowsills, the varying colours of the business signs, all encouraged him to turn left. And he did, walking away from his place of employment, the place he'd spent 8.5 hours a day five days a week forty-eight weeks a year for twelve years. It was his comfort zone, the place he felt safe, alone in his cubicle, a spindly headset dangling on his ear. It was more than a home away from home, it was a womb away from womb.
On Tuesday, July 29th 2008 at 7:54am, Alvan Roy was finally born.
He looked around himself as he walked in a daze, distantly aware that he was getting further and further from work. He knew he was due at his desk at 8am sharp, and his supervisor, Mr Edwards, would never tolerate tardiness. He knew that, if he didn't turn around right now, he'd possibly be out of a job, though most likely he'd just get a caution, his first in twelve years.
Somehow, he didn't care.
He could have walked forever. The city's signals carried him forward, as if he was caught in an invisible current generated by architecture and civic planning. He felt light-headed and light-footed, free for the first time in his ordinary, grey life. The shops and businesses he passed seemed vibrant, beautiful.
Then he stopped, unable to take another step. He was caught, breathless, in front of a tiny shop, its display window filled with mystical objects of brass and wood.
A music store.
One object in the window caught his eye, a vaguely rectangular instrument covered in countless strings. He recognised it, called up a long-forgotten childhood memory...
...it's called a zither, Alvan... here, have a go... just strum your fingers across the strings, and...
He stepped into the store. The shop keeper turned from the television behind him, unsurprised.
"You made it," he said.
Alvan nodded.
"I've been expecting you for twelve years now."
Alvan nodded again.
"The zither is eighty three dollars ninety five."
"Do you take Visa?"
The transaction took less than a minute. Then Alvan's attention was caught by a news report on the television behind the shop keeper.
"Could you turn that up please?"
The shop keeper shrugged, turned the knob on the old TV.
"...fire broke out on the ninth floor of QV1 this morning, just after eight. The sprinkler system failed to deploy, and the fire escapes were jammed. Eighteen people died. The police are launching an investigation to..."
A satisfied smile spread across Alvan's lips, as he cradled the shiny zither in his arms like a newborn.
