My first short story is called "Freeway". I had uploaded a narrated version to YouTube at this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8dAOaB2G18
I do own all of the following short stories
The Freeway
Puff… puff… puff. An aging adult casually blew his life
away with every drag. A cigarette was in hand and a cardboard box contains more
ammunition for later in the other. He coughed (the waste man’s hand did not
even cover his mouth) as he stared through the crack in the alley way. Thick
clumps of mud sat upon his shoes like a grotesque layer of dust. The castaway
barely noticed, it was clearly normal for him. Disgusting. His jeans had so
many holes it began to seem as if it was a pattern. He slung a denim jacket
over a plain white t-shirt, his condition improved the further up his body you
went. His facial hair followed the trend. A goatee was fully formed on his
pointed chin; recently cut. Finally an Orlando City cap sat loosely on his
sweaty head; blocking the sun that loomed over the freeway – spectating each
car as it passed. The gold stitching of the lion had been torn slightly from
the cap; proving its poor condition.
As the mysterious smoker dropped his head to eye level,
he too joined the sun, marvelling at the freeway a few metres away from him, at
the end of the alleyway. Cars zipped back and fore at a thousand miles an hour.
Even with squinting eyes he could not make out which brand was which on the
hypersonic vehicles.
Suddenly another (altogether more awkward) man approached
the smoker. Their clothes, practically identical. A New York City cap being the
only difference. His walk was as if he had no sense of direction; like a new
born baby. He had a minty sent that instantly infected the usually stingy smell
of the alleyway. Nonetheless the smoker could not conclude how a smell like
that could be achieved. His skin looked as bumpy as the pavement below them. Was
he drunk? The smoker assumed so, watching with a bright grin on his face. The first thing to cheer me up for day, he
thought.
The drunken looking man randomly slammed into the smoker
and knocked every cigarette from his pocket onto the flaccid pavement below.
The smoker launched the crazed drunk away from him with an almighty shove. A
rollercoaster of questions hit the smoker instantly. What was this man doing? Was he picking a fight with me after the day I
just had? The smoker retrieved any saveable belongings: phone, keys,
benefits receipt and lastly scratch card.
“Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Carl. May I give you a hand
with your things?” the drunk offered in a light-hearted, sophisticated tone.
The smoker knitted his brows in confusion. He lifted his
arm off of the trash can that he had been resting on before and backed further
into the alley where Carl had just come from.
“Just leave me alone man. I’m havin’ a bad day and you
come over like that,” the smoker snapped.
His face enflamed when he saw the pack of cigarettes
getting moist on the ground, useless.
“Can you help me? I’m slightly lost,” Carl interjected,
his hands flapped about as he spoke.
The smoker chuckled a little in an attempt to reduce the
purple complex that had immersed his face.
“What’s your name?” the deranged man asked after a brief
silence.
“I’m George,” the smoker answered.
Then he tilted Carl towards the freeway and aligned his
feet accordingly so that he was aimed perfectly at the traffic.
“Oh yeah go on then. Just walk straight on Carl,” George
requested sarcastically.
George knew a drunk would not be able to stay that
straight without tipping over. Furthermore as George gripped Carl’s shoulders
with his meaty hands he felt the drunks balance go. George continued to snigger
as he set the tipsy man on his way. The broken toy wandered off in a relatively
straight line at first before George turned away.
He thought it would be morally wrong to witness Carl
fall. Nevertheless, what was the harm in it all? He was not going to die or
anything.
George strutted off in the direction Carl has just come
from; fading further into the darkness. George’s clown-like grin eventually
evaporated. No pun could buy you long term happiness. In fact – nothing could
buy him out of the situation George’s life had spiralled into.
Out of the blue, another man came up to George. All the
same, this guy was sprinting at full speed. His face was pale, but his mood was
not noticeable. George wondered what this maniac wanted. Abruptly this blonde
haired drunk latched both his muscular workman hands onto George’s stick thin
arms. This time George could not pry the man loose.
We stared into each other’s eyes. His face was uplifted
by a vibrant smile so George knew nothing could be wrong. The way he gripped
was as if he had done it on the odd occasion before. The norm.
The out of breath man began to talk, his speech was
patchy as every so often he had to pause for breath “Have you seen a man…
wearing a New York City cap around? He’s my brother. Unfortunately… he’s blind
so ends up losing his way. Sometimes I feel… really sorry for him. We can’t let
him out of our sight, stupidly we left him… outside… for a second and he was
off. Sorry if he caused you any inconvenience.”
George’s face went pale.
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