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Office life



Life working in an office is different. ‘Different to what?’ someone might ask.

And in reply, I’d just say different!

At Least, I can only talk of my own experience …

In part, office-life is made interesting; I’d found, through the travel, the commuting.

The early mornings of Late have been getting lighter, so I’ve been able to enjoy a fine sunrise as I walk to the station, then an equally fine sunset on my way to the station and the train home.

The other morning, for example, there was a red cast to the horizon; and overlaying jet vapour trails across a sky just turning blue.

The station platform was full, to suggest I’d missed the train, or, more likely, the one preceding it had not run. So, I’d stood and smoked, occasionally walking in circles; or stopping by the platforms edge, to peer down the track, for sign of the train.

All the while, I’d listened, to the birdcall; as the sparrows, tits, thrush and blackbird each vied with each other to ensure that their call was the one heard.

Then, it was as the clouds had parted a little and the sky became a little lighter and the noise created by the crows became a short¬ lived cacophony.

And finally, the train arrived and we'd boarded it and although it was already quite full, I had found a seat with my back to the driver, as I prefer to do.

We sit, legs drawn in! Knees tight together.

There is little courtesy to be found at that time of the morning. Yet when it is shown, is often accepted graciously, with a slight smile and a nod of the head albeit the recipient seems genuinely surprised.

I had opened my paper, to read it and so obscure the sound of mobiles, personal headsets, that are anything but; and the sniffles of several cold-ridden commuters.

It is difficult to do though: ahead of me a sniffler, delicately dabbed at her nose with a tattered piece of sodden tissue paper. And I'd wanted to chide her, by saying, 'You shouldn’t be going to the office luv, not sounding like that.' But, I don’t.

But, to my left, another sniffler made very little attempt to ease my irritations and I'd counted to ten, thinking, ‘I'll offer her a tissue in a minute. I swear I will. Again, I didn’t.

Then, next to sniffler number one a woman, smartly dressed, roots in her pockets, to locate her mobile which she begins to play with, with the intensity of a child playing with it’s ‘bestest’ new toy or Christmas morning.

Finally we’ve gone under The Mersey and we’re in Liverpool and James Street, my destination and I’ve already stood and as the doors open up and I’m one of the first out and heading for the stairs and the escalator; whilst some take the first esca1ator, to get to the second, I bound up the steps, taking them two, or three at a time, anxious to beat the crowd behind me.

Then at the lift I’d shown my ticket and entered.

“Move forward please" says the guard and behind me. People do and I breathe in, automatically. Inside, there are yawns, scratching and the occasional smile.

Then, as we leave, no-one looks at the other, each person seemingly intent on just their particular journey to work. And needless to say, it rained, just a fine rain, but it had and obviously, that’d been the one day that week I hadn’t taken the waterproof coat

I pass the monument arid cut through the square surrounding the Queen Elizabeth 2 Courts, heading toward the Waterfront Business Area.

Looking upward for a moment I note that the clouds are still laden~ as it rained that fine rain and the sky became a little lighter and those around me bustling to work, their coat collars pulled upward and I thought, just for a second, of the figures painted by D.S. Lowry; his matchstick figures, all scurrying, just like us; with dark clouds above, their dark mills their workplace, whilst air-conditioned offices are ours.

Introduction:



In the dark days before the new dawn of man, there was a period in his history when two superpowers of that time had warred covertly, for many years.

There were many experiments, to destroy or rent asunder the opposition.

One of the experiments had entailed a project that would have ramifications decades later.



*



The late forties had seen the birth of the prototype super-soldier, whose heightened senses produced abilities previously not seen in mortal man.

Whilst announcing the demise of the project with the end of the second of the great wars, certain parties were altering D.N.A.

There were times though when this had been done without the knowledge of the participants involved.

And, there were results: some were aberrations of nature, true abominations of all that was human; whilst others were an extension, or refinement of homo-sapiens,

The media of the time called these beings homo-superior; and for decades some of these individuals were known as super heroes.

Yet, there had been a long forgotten antecedent to the days of the hero.

There had been a project that had been forgotten, that bore fruit seven decades later, when the sleepers children answered a call, programmed into their genetic code ~ and, one by one they awoke.



*



In a small room, at the end of a corridor, within a labyrinthine basement, two men sat in a room strewn with notebooks; many labelled, TOP SECRET.

The room was dark and they sat over a light: an open folder before them.

“I tell you,” began one of them, “if its true, this’ll blow the lid of all of ‘em!”

So stunned by his find, he was unaware of his colleagues standing behind him, deep in shadow.

He was also oblivious of his colleague gradual metamorphosis, as his face melted to away, to reveal a viscous yellow green mass. There were eyes and a mouth, but no other features: “Oh it is true,” the man in shadows intoned; “There are many like us now. And John, I am sorry it had to be me … I … liked you.”



*



Amidst the darkness a man’s screams would mean something, if anyone were aware of them. There was no-one to hear the death of John Etting, as his scream echoed through the empty corridors.

And no-one would learn of the sleepers, as was intended. They were destined to live their lives in ignorance of what they’d programmed to be.

There would be no knowledge of their bloodlines inheritance either ~ as the manila folder burnt in an old metal olive green waste-bin.



*





Deep Sleep



He was tall for fifteen, and a barefoot Jake Mahers stalked quiet empty streets, with no awareness of his surroundings.

Sleepwalking, Jake had found himself to where he now stood, in a small side street at the side of the Town hall, outside The Moldovan Embassy in Birkenhead.

The building was a legacy of a time that had helped form the young man standing outside it with his eyes fixed on the small brass plaque to the left of the front door.

With vacant eyes, Maher stared transfixed at the inscription, glinting a little from the streetlamp behind him.

His consciousness was asleep, to actions he knew to do, by programmed instinct.

Slowly he raised his arms, palms directed to the heavy, panelled door.

Small vessels appeared to break within the white of his eyes, so that they rapidly suffused with crimson.

His gaze focussed solely on the door; as a low vibration began to fill the air; and his palms began to glow.

Abruptly the darkness of the night was torn apart by twin-focussed beams of white emanating from Jake Mahers hands and directed toward the door, which quickly blackened and began to smoulder.

As the door burst into flame, Jake turned a little, until his gaze rested on the plaque and the intensity of the white beams became more powerful; and, the brass began to melt and run down the brickwork.



*



The next morning Jake Mahers awoke on a bench in Hamilton Square and he looked around, puzzled as to why he wasn’t at home, blissfully unaware of the carnage that he had left behind him at the former Moldovan Embassy.

A bike was leant against railing and locked, key turned in lock streets away from where he was as a cleaner entered the building and found his mess.

Jake heard the scream from where he sat and wondered what might have caused it and briefly, he wondered if like him, they had just awoken from a very, deep sleep.





*

Reflections On The Mere ‘98







It is a warm sunny day and the trees that grow high around the Mere find their existence mirrored in darker hues upon its still water.

The man sits, as he has done recently, on one of two bench seats with a clear view of the mere.

He takes from a jacket pocket a decorated tobacco tin and takes out a ready - roll and lights it.

Lighting up, he closes his eyes momentarily, as he tastes the bitter sweet smoke.

With his third and fourth inhalation, the man allows his mind to wander, until finally he mutters aloud,

“Time factor ... now minus ten ... “ and calmer once more, he opens his eyes fully, his mind at peace,

as he looks at the vista around him, his recent problems receding into nothingness ...

In front of him , the road splits into three: the right turn, a small road leading to the farmhouse of the mere’s owner, who also owned much of the land in the surrounding area; to his left was the road leading to the rest of the greenbelt community and forking from it, the road to town; whilst ahead the road disappears beneath a canopy of trees, as hill rises upward, past a scattering of fine old houses, into a housing estate and the road into the village, then town. Everywhere he looks the man sees trees, of every size, genus and possible variant of green and he is entranced by it all ...

And lowering his field of vision through his glasses he continues his study.

To his left, about twenty - five yards ahead are the white double gates to the old Mill House.

The building is white - washed, with a traditional thatched roof, and though it is a little obscured by the surrounding greenery, its man - made beauty serves as a perfect counterpoint to his view of the natural beauty of the Mere itself.

The open stretch of water was covered on three sides by trees and on it live the ducks, moorhens and the visiting birdlife and it is a quiet idyl away from the world’s ills and thus attracts many visitors of varied types ... that was why he came here.

From the base of the hill, to the turn to his right that led to to the farm, a wall of stone roughly hewn surrounds the mere. There are six concrete bollards after the walls end and the steps and a path leading to a locked gate and fence; where pleasure boats used to be hired from and where fishermen now sit.

When people come, with bread for the ducks that live on the mere, he watches them ...

Today his gaze was drawn to a red sports car, parked across from where he sits, it’s top down.

In front of the car, sitting either side of the last bollard before the steps were two women, their feet dangling but inches from the dark waters surface.

The woman to the right has the build of a slim young man, ‘with curves in all the right places, ‘ he thinks.

Both women wore similar clothing, checked shirts and light blue jeans, cut tight.

The brunette, the bigger of the two wore a blue shirt and her friends is an orange brown in colour.

The lighter built woman has fair hair, wears small gold frame glasses, ‘and looks just like a librarian ... ‘

he muses, watching her smile, her body relaxed toward the brunette, who talks a lot.

From the corner of his eye he watches the pair, as car after car passes, it’s occupants occasionally stopping to feed the ducks bread, or simply admire the view.

He watches couples with young children; he sees the odd lone parent with child, both male and female;

as well as the occasional cyclist and walker stopping to rest awhile before continuing on their journeys.

And all the time he finds his attention is drawn again and again to the two women, watching, as they exchange banter, eating crisps and drinking beer.

A long haired blonde stands but feet away from them, smoking a cigarette and feeding the ducks.

The blonde wears a loose - cotton fabric dress and a light breeze catches at the fabric, billowing the skirt upward to expose an expanse of shapely leg and thigh and for a few moments their attention is not on one another, as they both turn to watch a blonde. Both the women, the fair - haired and the more muscular brunette return their gaze to one another after the momentary flash of skin and they both smile,

‘at a secret that only they know of ... ‘ he wonders, idly.



Then, as time moves on and the temperature becomes less warm, the brunette stands, extending a hand

to assist her companion to rise. ‘They look so in love,‘he considers, as they get in the car.

The brunette looks toward him a second, smiles, then turning to her friend they kiss briefly and suddenly the car is gone.

With little to watch and the sun no longer on his face, the man stands, brushes himself down and starts walking homeward. He walks with purpose, anxious to relate all that he has seen to paper, so he ignores the traffic and the occasional returning commuter.

‘It has been a pleasant sunny day, ‘ he thinks, a meal waiting at home and a story to tell.



* * *



Toward him a young woman strides, small of build, her exposed limbs well - tanned, her long dark hair parted in the middle and tied back in a bushy tail. She is wearing a green tee - shirt and khaki shorts,

in addition to tan ‘walking shoes’ and the small rucksack that she carries on her back.

As they approach each other on the narrow path, he notices her staring, with large, brown, doe - eyes

and as he moves to allow her to pass she says to him, at the end of this beautiful sunny day, directly and

quite charmingly, “Good afternoon. “

His mind races, until finally he finds voice, to return her greeting with “ Er, er ... Good afternoon.”

And once she has passed around him the ageing hippie continues home, still wondering whether the girl's accent was Germanic, or not ...













Fin.

Bus stop



He waits, as he has learnt to wait, patiently.

The young man has learnt the art of waiting, as he travels a lot by bus.



Some ask him ‘why don’t you drive?’ and he smiles enigmatically and says to them:

“I keep death off the roads. I don’t drive...”



He gets the very occasional smile at this, but his response hides a secret.

He thinks he may have epilepsy, although just petit mal; which is why he doesn’t drive … and, also why he doesn’t drive.



So, that is how he learnt to wait and … tell himself stories, whilst waiting for the bus after he had left his friends, who were probably still playing the very latest console game, oblivious to all else and he … begins to let his imagination roam.



As cars pass, each of the respective driver’s feature momentarily in his stories, which he tells to alleviate the sheer mind-numbing torture he found from waiting for a bus.



The young an looks briefly to his left, shifting his weight a little, to stop his feet from going numb and then he looks to his right.

And finally, in the distance, he can see a bus coming.



*