No idea how long I’ve been going, it seems like forever already. And there’s no end in sight. All I can see looking down is darkness. I don’t want to turn around, I bet all I’ll see in that direction is darkness, too. Endless black, matching my mood.
Why am I here again?
Getting paid. I suppose we like money.
Oh yes, I like money. Keep thinking of payday. Keep going.
Do we like money that much, though?
I wonder if I’ll ever reach the bright future they promised me.
Nobody goes near her. She’s a desert island in a sea of commuters.
I admire her bravery. Standing in Government Square wearing that sign – if she’s not brave, she’s mad.
So it’s not I’m not sympathetic to her cause. I wouldn’t risk watching her otherwise. But while I admire her principles, the ways she behaves scares me. She follows her own mind rather than chemically induced, government-prescribed sedation. Why does she seem so unhappy and so angry?
I inspect the pill I didn’t swallow at breakfast and sigh. I hope for greater resolve at lunchtime. Or tomorrow. Or next week.
The queue moves slower than a snail. The youngster in front of me fidgets and jumps from one foot to the other and I’d like to tell him something about respecting my personal space but one doesn’t make a fuss at the post office.
The queue shuffles forward. The youngster takes a half-step back and steps on my foot. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. He doesn’t even turn around to apologise. It’s disgraceful. When the queue moves again, I wait, painfully aware of the glaring that goes on behind my back.
I turn and mumble sorry. There are understanding nods. The relief.
He doesn’t know who he is anymore. He used to be somebody – does that makes him a nobody now?
What gives you the right to behave like this?
Easy: money. Having it is all that matters; money means carte blanche.
Shouldn’t you treat others the way you’d want to be treated?
Everyone used to treat him like royalty; he rewarded it, yet none of his crowd stuck around after he’d lost everything. They follow the money; they ignore him if he’s lucky, call him names if he isn’t.
Who do they think they are?
The lovely Nortina has just started Moral Mondays, a new weekly flash-fiction challenge. Yay, more writing prompts! Click on the picture on the left to find this week’s prompt and join in.
My story this week is more wishful thinking than fable. A girl can dream, right?