SUBURBIA- a short story

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Jarrad Dickson

SUBURBIA- a short story

Post by Jarrad Dickson » Wed Dec 08, 2004 3:37 pm

Suburbia

Night comes early in January, the village darkening to the placid nature of the constellations. A breezy canopy casted unsure shadows over a street, pulling an old lady towards home.

An aged man named Leo took in this recurring sight, safely perceiving it from the safety of his windowsill. He raised his weary head higher, taking in the full sight of his neighboring suburbia. In front stretched a modest residential area, sitting on the sure foundations of modest salaries. The clean clipped hedges, geometric driveways and dull fading paint were emblems of the society that surrounded him. Usually it would offer him a reassurance of comfort, of security and of progression. Reminding him that his life had achieved and contributed something. His life had been a secure one, full of financial stability and a perfect family home.

However, tonight swarmed like a sea of hostile bees, gnawing at his psyche. He had driven himself to the wall, his preconceived ideas about his attainable goals, security and comfort had flattened and disintegrated. He had reached the bottom, the utterly depressed state of an old man in insecurity. Over the past few weeks he had come to hate this neighborhood, or more importantly this rest home, feeling a need to escape, if only for one night. He hated it for it was slipping beyond his reach, he no longer had what he used to, and was now realizing he never fully had anything at all. This absence was plaguing him with insecurity. Just one night away was what he needed. One night from the talons of advertising, comfort, security and the old attainable goals which now offered him nothing at all. Just one single night.

Wearily he let out a long sigh, drifting with his memories, his regrets and his wishes. Hoping to escape the contracting world around him. Drifting high he finally descended, the glare of the Northern Cross pulling him closer to awareness. Like a child caught in wonder the old man crept even closer to the windowsill, ‘the northern cross looks so wondrous tonight’ he thought with a tear dripping down his wrinkled face. Filled with the enthralling beauty a thought sprang in his mind, ‘the one place around here that stands nearly free from the clutches of rottenness is the downlands, the old abandoned warehouses the homeless people flock too’. Determinedly fixing his mind on this destination he slowly climbed out his windowsill, his aged coordination nearly failing him as his body stretched to make it over onto the grass below. He stepped with silence over the superficial grass, not wanting to wake the other residents in the rest home, then onto the street beyond.

Stepping with determination he casted echoes off the pavement, his dull sounding footsteps matching his increasing heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud. The canopy of foliage casted its shadows again, walking with him till he came to a side street and turned. The side street, the old man noticed held a numerous collection of shops, holding out its marketing glory like sickles in a field. It was a buffet of glamorous clothes and complicated delicacies. He saw his reflection in a shop window, seeing a brown jersey, blue track pants and his most noticeable trait, his human face. His face showed all the signs of aging, wrinkled skin, thinning Grey hair, baggy eyes. A glimpse of weariness also shone through which had only come recently. It was a sign of his increasing insecurity. Looking through the reflection, he saw a numerous collection of televisions on offer, reminding him that there was no escaping from humanity’s reaches. It too covered him like a swarm of hostile bees, enveloping him. Once more escaping the swarm he set his sights again on the homeless area. Stepping through the streets the distance started to decrease, shown by the residential geometry slowly degrading. The streets were becoming deserted in nature, a sea of rubbish, uncleaned housing and unused space becoming commonplace.

Arriving at his destination he stopped and enveloped the full sight. He was standing outside a warehouse, looking up a rickety old bolt held an old sign saying ‘Merril’s Plastics’. The walls of the warehouse were covered in near total decomposed exterior paint, showing its interior of stained wood and iron. The once polished windows now stood either smashed or stained by the dusty wind. The warehouse of ‘Merril’s Plastics’ stood on the sure foundations of concrete.

He remembered a newspaper article in the Dominion several of year’s back; it had been glorifying the area as an economic hive of the city, its main industrial center. Now the typical oppurtunitist saw the area as a collection of fallen angels, once thriving businesses caught in the undertow of stock market plunges. Despite these opinions, looking through a broken window, waiting for his eyes adjust to the darkness, the old man saw an outlay of humans scattered within the corners or shelters of the warehouse. Hoping to find comfort for a night, trying to meet their survival needs of warmth. The faces lit old memories within him, reminding him of forgotten friendships. A particular face looked like his old university friend John, his recollection created an unusual feeling within him, alien to the materialistic cravings he had possessed all his life.

Unable to overcome his fear of entering the warehouse he walked over to a side gully sheltered by a brick wall beside the warehouse. Laying out his blanket near the shelter of an old rubbish compactor, he lay down. He felt so utterly sad right now, though within it all his sadness was a beautiful release from the insecurity that had been plaguing him lately. He was feeling no intention of returning to the rest home; instead, right here in the most despised part of society he was feeling safe. He looked up again, still caught in the Northern Cross’s wonder; slowly it began to capture him in its hypnotic gaze. The reason the Northern Cross was so important to him was that it reminded him of a special moment in his life. His dad had died through his student years and his last conversation with him had been about the constellation. Each time he looked up at it, it served as a reminder of that moment. As time passed his gaze started to widen and he took in the full degree of the stars, each one now standing out to him. They seemed to express each moment of his life, his burdens, his sorrows, and even his cravings. He was now realizing that it didn’t, or hadn’t mattered where he was in life, he was still alive, even amongst what was now making him increasingly insecure. He need not look up at the stars anymore to be in his special moment, for it was all around him. Finally acknowledging this he slowly stood up, leaving the homeless area, as he started walking back to the rest home.

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mephistopheles
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Post by mephistopheles » Thu Dec 09, 2004 12:32 am

Great story Jarrad! Me likes the use of the language.

Cool!

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mephistopheles
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Post by mephistopheles » Tue Dec 21, 2004 12:06 am

I still like it. I guess no one else read it... :shock:
"Here is wisdom. Let he who has understanding calculate the number of the Beast; for his number is that of a man; and his number is 666". Rev:13:18

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Jarrad Dickson

Post by Jarrad Dickson » Wed Dec 22, 2004 6:35 pm

I like your liking it
:shock: :cool: :lol:

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mephistopheles
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Post by mephistopheles » Fri Dec 24, 2004 1:00 am

:mrgreen: :mrgreen:
"Here is wisdom. Let he who has understanding calculate the number of the Beast; for his number is that of a man; and his number is 666". Rev:13:18

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mephistopheles
Clearwater Poet
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Tag line: Hell yes
Location: hell

Re: SUBURBIA- a short story

Post by mephistopheles » Tue Nov 29, 2011 5:19 pm

Me still likes it... lol.
"Here is wisdom. Let he who has understanding calculate the number of the Beast; for his number is that of a man; and his number is 666". Rev:13:18

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