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Day One.
The new machines are coming in today. They will do most of our work for us. Management tells us that our time can be better spent on other tasks. Like perhaps staring at the flecks of paint that drift down from the walls when someone moves too enthusiastically. I can’t help but feel that we will become obsolete, sitting in our cubicles, moving through the motions of the day while our work is done for us and the paint peels away entirely. Dust drifts through my vision, obscuring the desk in front of me as I imagine the days to come. As the clock ticks over to 5pm, each worker reaches forward in unison to turn off the monitor, which has long since ceased to function. Then, after the requisite reach for our briefcases, we move as one to our feet, performing the half turn of our chair, followed by a heel to toe pivot to exit the cubicle. We blindly march in step to the front door, bidding Marge farewell, each of us awaiting her response before filing out and down the steps and turning onto the sidewalk to trudge home to our one bedroom apartments, to toss and turn in strictly regimented patterns while the city slowly crumbles beneath us. Slowly, slowly, there will be fewer people in the stream, until one day there will be only one worker, to exclaim in horror at the announcement every Tuesday at 10 o’clock exactly that there will be further salary cuts. To farewell Marge, sitting addlepated at her desk, and then stomp onto the sidewalk, and set off for home, though the walls that have hemmed us in our entire lives are crumbled, lying in ruins between our desks. To walk the clearly defined track through the dust and ash that coats the street. To make the lonely walk back to the office in the morning, after a night spent tossing and turning in the bed in the ruined room, turning precisely every seven minutes, tossing every fifteen minutes, startling awake with a giant snore at 1.18 am and 4.37 am on alternating mornings, then turning over to fall back asleep. Weekends are the first part of civilisation to go, so the routine is safe and unchanged for eternity, as one lone worker performs the ritual perpetually until the city lies flat around him and all that remains is a desk and chair, a hallway, a manager on Tuesdays, the front reception area, Marge, the small section of street, the steps leading up to the apartment, the bedroom and bed, and of course, the worker. But of course, this is just a dream, an idle fantasy, born of boredom and desperation. Day Two We encountered a few errors in the work provided yesterday by the new machines, which led to calls that the machines were faulty and needed to be replaced. The managers assured us that the issues would be resolved overnight and that we need not worry. Day Three The machines have not yet been fixed, and we are told that it will be sorted out within a few days. Until this time, we are to continue working as normal, and there will be chocolate biscuits with our morning tea supplies. Day Thirty The machines are finally working correctly. From my cubicle I can hear them whirring and clunking. As I walk to the kitchen at morning tea, I pass the new ‘Puter Room’ and imagine the lights flashing are little beetles, whose only job is to come into our offices and crawl into our eyes and ears while we sleep and eat our ideas and our dreams so that we will produce only what we are told to. Day Thirty One My dreams were filled with beetles that crawled over me and into me until the sun rose, but they took nothing from me because there was nothing to take. Day Thirty Two The machines have broken again. The managers have hired a technician to reside onsite and fix them when they break. He has been given an office with a window view, opposite the ‘Puter Room. His door is left open when he is called away, and I stare out of his window as I walk to morning tea. I imagine the world falling into the expanse of blue and find myself floating in among the clouds, trying to look down upon the world below me, but wherever I turn, there is only more sky. I am always aware of the world below me, but I can never turn fast enough to catch a glimpse of it. Day Thirty Three The machines have stopped output entirely. The technician has spent most of the day cursing at them and moving among the machines, tinkering and calling out to the managers as they pass that he has almost found the problem. The managers announced this morning that weekends were no longer obligatory, and we were expected to work through them while the machines were being fixed. Day Three Hundred and One I startled myself awake last night with a giant snore at 1.18am. As I drift through my day, the machines stand in their room still, mute and silent, the lights that once used to flash in coruscation now forever dimmed. Day Three Hundred and Two The managers came in this morning at 10 o’clock to tell us that due to budget cut-backs and increasing demand, our salaries were to be docked. There was a general outcry and much shouting ensued. Day Three Hundred and Three Marge was off work ill yesterday. I gave my customary farewell to her replacement at the door, but received no response from the young girl snapping her chewing gum at the desk. Day Three Hundred and Four I had a dream last night where I walked in a track in the dust and ash and the world had fallen to ruin beside me. All of a sudden, the girl from the reception desk stood beside me, chewing her gum and playing with her hair. She asked me what I was doing, and I panicked and began to run. I felt I was searching for something, a hidden treasure, buried within the ruins of my city, covered in dust and ash and rubble. I would know what I searched for only when I had found it. I had just spotted the corner of something silver and shiny poking out from beneath a collapsed building when I woke myself with a giant snore. The clock read 4.37 am. I thought about getting up and going for a walk, but it seemed like too much effort, so I rolled over and fell asleep to a dream of a lone worker marching through the ruins of a city in the dust.
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It was a quiet day at market. Ezekiel sat under the produce cart and wished for the rain. He could feel the parched earth pounding behind his eyes. No wonder no one wanted to shop. The city waited to die. Their only hope of salvation had just ridden towards the castle in one of their fascinating mechanical carriages, leaving behind a woman and a girl child around his age. The water mages had sent a delegation at long last. Perhaps the peace could be restored.
The girl stood in the centre of the square as the woman went to browse the stalls. She looked around at the stalls, at the cracked earth that made up their square. He wanted to defend it, to show her the beauty of the layered sediments and dormant life that created a mural under their feet, but without water, it was just dust and dirt. She looked up and for a moment their eyes caught. He was shocked to see that she was crying. She looked away and started to turn, stepping rhythmically in a circle. Tears were pouring down her face now, and as she danced, he thought the first drop was one of them hitting the ground. Then there was another. Ezekiel crawled out from under the cart, scarcely believing his eyes. There was not a cloud in the sky, and yet rain was falling in the square and on the buildings surrounding it. The water flowed over ground too parched to absorb it, and the dust turned to mud. The girl faltered on seeing it, slowing. Ezekiel panicked, somehow certain that if she stopped, the rain would too. He stepped forward, barely knowing what he was doing, and began the pattern of renewal. He had danced the square before, as part of the solstice rituals, and it flowed through him effortlessly. Cracks started to seal and the mud started to bubble. A turn brought them face to face, and both of them stopped. The steps left his mind and he stood unsure of how to go on. Then she smiled and offered her hands, palm outwards in the sign for peace and connection. He raised his palms towards her and as they met, a new rhythm joined the beat of the earth. Together they moved, bowing and turning. New steps came to him and they danced together now. Water flowed unseen through the ground, bringing life to hidden secrets. He lost himself in the experience, revelling in the feeling of sharing this new pattern with the girl. Stranger or not, he felt more connected to her than he had any other in his life. Finally the dance was done and they looked around as if freed from a spell. People lined the edges of the square, looking at them in awe. The market place glowed with light from the crystal veins, and all around them was an abundance of plant life. He stared in shock at the almost-forgotten sight of the murals in full splendour. Somehow they had woken all of the patterns, as if all of the seasons had come at once. He hadn’t known that was possible. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked toward the girl. She stepped towards him, her arm out in a sign of deep respect. “I am Mira, of Healing Waters. Blessed be.” He stepped forward to clasp it, meeting her, acknowledging and reciprocating the gesture. “Welcome Mira. I am Ezekiel, of…” He faltered, unsure what to say. The closest association he had was with the produce cart, and his thoughts were hung up on rotting vegetables. She graced him with a dazzling smile. “Of Living Earth.” A smile broke slowly across his face, like the sun rising. “Ezekiel of Living Earth.” He said the words wonderingly, as if testing the truth on his tongue. He gripped her hand a little harder, and green eyes met blue. “You called life back into our city. My life is yours to do with what you will." |
FragmentsThese are further fragments of stories that haven't been completed and aren't part of my main-line journeys. |
