This short story first saw light when I read it at a spoken word night I was organising for a while in Leigh on Sea (Essex). The readings mostly consisted of poetry so this stuck out a bit and felt like a somewhat jarring change of pace that required a slightly different kind of listening to that which the audience had become accustomed to. Still, I felt there was some milage in it yet; perhaps it's better heard in the 'inside head' voice anyway. Are you sitting comfortably?
Beat of the Butterfly Wing
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The afternoon sky was as heavy as a wet towel when Sam got out of work, which seemed to fit the mood perfectly. Under appreciated. Endlessly taken for granted. Every effort to make a difference somehow thwarted, each attempt to effect meaningful change, undermined. A lack of resources. A lack of vision. A lack of drive. Despite every good intention ten years ago at the start of a meaningful career, cynicism had started to take root. A strangle hold of brambles around the crocus bulbs of the heart. Fine. Be a box ticker. Get through the days and pay the rent. Why not? ‘Changing the system from within’ seeming like a distant and naïve fantasy. What an ass.
A figure loomed out of the gloom, shambling in the opposite direction, a suspicious glare peering from a bundled woolly scarf. Usually, Sam was the sort of person who could muster even a weak smile to acknowledge a stranger. Today however, even this was a stretch too far. A momentary glance at the floor to avoid eye contact and the stranger was gone, vanished into their own dull day. Sam began to plan dinner, routine providing some daily respite from the frustration of unfulfilled ambitions. Chris felt humiliated. Humiliated and judged. It now seemed even the most apparently open minded and trustworthy of people still assumed an entire encyclopaedia of facts about you based entirely upon your looks and their prejudices before you’d even had a chance to open your mouth. Even the sky seemed to be glaring. Presuming. Threatening. At least it was finally time to scuttle home and escape the stares and implied accusations for a blissful 12 hours. Just one final bus journey to endure, then solitude. A genuine and restorative retreat as opposed to this constant social alienation. How was it possible to feel less lonely when actually alone than when in a room full of colleagues? |
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Suddenly aware of yet another intrusive figure, Chris shrank back into the protective cocoon of unseasonable winter clothing and braced for the probing stare which never even came. A deliberate avoidance of eye contact. Couldn’t even bring themselves to look. Mistrust, suspicion, reinforced. A purposeful stride in defiant feet carried them apart as quickly as possible despite the stranger’s slow, reluctant shamble. Good riddance. Leave me alone.
Chris didn’t bother to sit down at the shelter, the bus was already approaching the stop. On the other side of the road, an eager teen had apparently also noticed this and in haste to catch the number 21, darted quickly towards the traffic island whilst looking into the direction of the opposite flow of traffic. The van driver, suddenly watching the world in the sickeningly enforced slow-motion of impending disaster was clearly unable to stop in time. Chris could see it coming. Stupid kid. Eyes averted to avoid the impact, still the sound was intrusive. Oh great. A traffic jam was inevitable now. At least there was a bench at this bus stop. Fingers resigned to a long wait rummaged in deep pockets for the tangled headphones. The world could still be blocked out; held at bay while Chris began to plan dinner. Too much carbs and sugar, perhaps, but who cares? Some simple physical pleasures never did any harm. Maybe some wine tonight. Curly fries. Cheesecake. Someone else called the ambulance. The police. The family. |
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The afternoon sky was as heavy as a wet towel when Sam got out of work, which seemed to fit the mood perfectly. Underappreciated. Endlessly taken for granted. Every effort to make a difference somehow thwarted, each attempt to effect meaningful change, undermined. A lack of resources. A lack of vision. A lack of drive. Despite every good intention ten years ago at the start of a meaningful career, cynicism had started to take root. A strangle hold of brambles around the crocus bulbs of the heart. Fine. Be a box ticker. Get through the days and pay the rent. Why not? ‘Changing the system from within’ seeming like a distant and naïve fantasy. What an ass.
A figure loomed out of the gloom, shambling in the opposite direction, a suspicious glare peering from a bundled woolly scarf. Despite the prevailing mood, Sam managed a weak smile. A momentary hook of eye contact and the stranger was gone, vanished into their own dull day. Sam began to plan dinner, routine providing some daily respite from the frustration of unfulfilled ambitions. Chris felt humiliated. Humiliated and judged. It now seemed even the most apparently open minded and trustworthy of people still assumed an entire encyclopaedia of facts about you based entirely upon your looks and their prejudices before you’d even had a chance to open your mouth. Even the sky seemed to be glaring. Presuming. Threatening. At least it was finally time to scuttle home and escape the stares and implied accusations for a blissful 12 hours. Just one final bus journey to endure then solitude. A genuine and restorative retreat as opposed to this constant social alienation. How was it possible to feel less lonely when actually alone than when in a room full of colleagues? Suddenly aware of yet another intrusive figure, Chris shrank back into the protective cocoon of unseasonable winter clothing and braced for the probing stare. Fear, mistrust, suspicion… challenged? 
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By a brief, gossamer smile, which flicked a promise across the stranger’s lips and then was gone. A purposeful stride in defiant feet carried them apart despite the other’s slow, reluctant shamble but still the thought remained. Maybe not everyone. Maybe not. Potential reached down in to the most fragile and subconsciously wounded places and like a reassuring hand gave a quick but meaningful squeeze. A tiny spark of warmth. Perhaps there was some humanity left in the cold grey streets after all. A hope so faint as to not even break into conscious thoughts, yet still a barely perceptible lift of mood.
Chris sat down at the shelter out of habit but needn’t have bothered, the bus was already approaching the stop. On the other side of the road, an eager teen had apparently also noticed this and in haste to catch the number 21 darted quickly towards the traffic island whilst looking into the direction of the opposite flow of traffic. The van driver, suddenly watching the world in the sickeningly enforced slow-motion of impending disaster was clearly unable to stop and yet Chris had the advantage of time, having noticed the imminent collision just a second earlier. “HEY! Look OUT!” The last time such a loud or public interjection had forced its way into being through Chris’ lips was beyond memory but it had the desired effect. A screech of brakes. A flurry of shouting from a scared driver. A bruised ego. A sullen glare. A reluctant and embarrassed mumble of “fanks.” They boarded the bus and took their seats. Chris began to plan dinner, too much carbs and sugar usually but still, some simple physical pleasures temporarily soothed a battered heart. Although… maybe… maybe a salad tonight. |
